'All hail, lantern of light!'

The Presentation (BL Egerton 3277, f.114)

Today is Candlemas, the Feast of the Presentation of Christ in the Temple, and the end of the forty-day Christmas season. It takes its English name from the custom of blessing and processing with candles on this day, a practice linked to the words of Simeon on meeting Christ that he is 'a light to lighten the Gentiles'. This is a festival of light and hope, a first shoot of spring.

The name 'Candlemas' dates from the Anglo-Saxon period (the first recorded appearance of the name is in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle's entry on the death of Svein Forkbeard in 1014), and there's plentiful and evocative evidence of the observance of this feast in England from the tenth century onwards. In the past I've posted an Anglo-Saxon sermon for this feast, a Candlemas miracle-story about St Dunstan, Cnut's Candlemas song at Ely, a particularly lovely Middle English Candlemas carol 'The queen of bliss and of beauty', and Margery Kempe's description of her experience of the celebrations of this day - five centuries of Candlemas Days.

The liturgy for this day is particularly dramatic, encouraging the congregation to re-enact the Gospel story by bearing the light of Christ in their hands. The Presentation in the Temple is also represented in medieval drama, in several different versions, so here are a few short extracts, in modernised spelling, from the fifteenth-century N-Town Plays. The full text can be found here, and you might like to compare the treatment of the same subject from the York Corpus Christi Plays. They are both full of beautiful poetry, and they take on greater depth of meaning from their place in the cycle of plays of which they form part: in both cycles, this play follows immediately after one in which the audience has just seen Herod, ranting and raving in the full bluster of tyrannical power, interrogating the Magi as they seek the baby Christ. This angry, violent, unjust ruler believes his power to be supreme, and plots how to secure it by attacking the innocent and the weak. But the next play presents the exact opposite: a simple scene of a meeting between two old people, made frail by years of patient service, a humble man and woman, too poor to afford anything but the simplest offering, and a tiny child, in whom dwells their long-awaited light and hope. In old age and helpless infancy, in faithful poverty and obscurity, in gentle love and tenderness, lies a power greater than any worldly ruler can comprehend.

The play begins with the aged Simeon, expressing his desire to see God before he dies:

I have been priest in Jerusalem here
And taught God's law many a year,
Desiring in all my mind
That the time were coming near
In which God's Son should appear
In earth to take mankind, [human form]
Before I died that I might find
My Saviour with my eyes to see.
But that it is so long behind, [overdue]
It is great distress unto me.

For I wax old and want my might
And begin to fail my sight,
The more I sorrow this tide,
Save only as I tell you right:
God of his grace hath me hight [promised]
That blissful birth to bide.
Wherefore now here beside
To Sancta sanctorum will I go
To pray God to be my guide,
To comfort me after my woe.

He prays, and an angel tells him to go to the temple in Jerusalem, where he will see God's Son. Simeon rejoices:

Ah, I thank thee, Lord of grace,
That hath granted me time and space
To live and bide this.
And I will walk now to the place
Where I may see thy Son's face,
Which is my joy and bliss.
I was never lighter, iwis,
To walk never here before! [I have never been so happy to come here]
For a merry time now is
When God, my Lord, is born.

'Light' here means 'happy, light-hearted', but of course it suggests the 'light' which has come to him. Anna, the prophetess, greets him:

All hail, Simeon! What tidings with you?
Why make ye all this mirth now?
Tell me whither ye fare.

Simeon: Anne, prophetess, if ye knew why
So should ye - I make a vow -
And all manner of men that are,
For God's Son - as I declare -
Is born to buy mankind! [redeem humanity]
Our Saviour is come to end our care!
Therefore have I great mirth to go.
And that is the cause I haste me
Unto the temple, him to see,
And therefore hinder me not, good friend.

Anna: Now blessed be God in Trinity
Since that time is come to be!
And with you will I wend
To see my Saviour ende [gracious]
And worship him also
With all my will and my full mind.
As I am bound, now will I do.

Presentation in the Temple (medieval wall-painting, Chalgrove, Oxfordshire)

They go to the temple, and Mary and Joseph enter with the child and their offering. Simeon prophesies:

In the temple of God, who understood, [let it be understood]
This day shall be offered with mild mood
He who is king of all,
Who shall be scourged and shed his blood,
And after die upon the rood,
Without cause to call; [without deserving it]
For whose Passion there shall befall
Such a sorrow both sharp and smart
That as a sword pierce it shall
Even through his mother's heart.

Anna: Yea, that shall be as I well find,
For redemption of all mankind,
That bliss for to restore
Which hath been lost time out of mind
By our father of our own kind,
Adam and Eve before.

Simeon and Anna greet the child in a beautiful passage of shared verse:

Simeon: All hail, my kindly comforter!
Anna: All hail, mankind's creator!
Simeon: All hail, thou God of might!
Anna: All hail, mankind's saviour!
Simeon: All hail, both king and emperor!
Anna: All hail, as it is right!
Simeon: All hail also Mary bright!
Anna: All hail, salver of sickness!
Simeon: All hail, lantern of light!
Anna: All hail, thou mother of meekness!

Mary: Simeon, I understand and see
That both of my son and me
Ye have knowing clear. [full knowledge]
And also in your company,
My son desires for to be,
And therefore take him here.

You could imagine these last lines as showing not only Mary's intuition of her son's will, but also a sweet bit of stage-business: it's as if the baby is reaching his arms out to Simeon, as babies do, capable of asking to be held long before they can speak. So she passes him over, as mothers do.

BL Egerton 2781, f. 85v

Simeon takes Jesus in his arms:

Welcome, prince without peer!
Welcome, God's own son!
Welcome, my Lord so dear!
Welcome, with me to wone! [dwell]

Then follow English versions of two Latin liturgical texts for Candlemas: the Introit, 'Suscepimus Deus misericordiam tuam' ('We have received thy mercy, O Lord, in the midst of thy temple') and the Nunc Dimittis.

Lord God in majesty
We have received this day of thee,
In midst of thy temple here
Thy great mercy, as we may see.
Therefore thy name of great degree
Be worshipped in all manere [every way]
Over all this world, both far and near,
Even unto the uttermost end;
For now is man out of danger
And rest and peace to all mankind.

Here the direction reads 'Nunc dimittis seruum tuum Domine, et cetera. The psalme songyn every vers, and therqwyl Symeon pleyth with the child and qwhan the psalme is endyd, he seyth:'

Now let me die, Lord, and hence pass,
For I, thy servant in this place,
Have seen my Saviour dear,
Which thou hast ordained before the face
Of all mankind, this time of grace,
Openly to appear;
Thy light is shining clear
For all mankind's salvation.
Mary, take your child now here
And keep him well, this man's salvation.

BL Stowe 12, f. 242v

Joseph hands out candles to Mary, Simeon and Anna, and Mary takes the child to the altar:

Highest Father, God of power,
Your own dear son I offer you here,
As I to your law am sworn.
Receive thy child in glad manner,
For he is the first, this child so dear,
That of his mother is born.
But though I offer him you beforn, [to you]
Good Lord, yet give me him again,
For my comfort were fully lorn [lost]
If we should long asunder be!

She and Joseph make their offerings, and Mary's last words are as she places the birds upon the altar - a sacrifice which looks ahead to the greater 'offering' Christ will make, of his own life:

Almighty Father, merciful King:
Receive now this little offering,
For it is the first in degree
That your little child so young
Presents today by my showing
To your high majesty.
From his simple poverty,
By his devotion and my good will,
Upon your altar receive of me
Your son's offering, as it is skylle. [fitting]

Some Music for Candlemas

A few things to listen to on the evening of this feast-day.

Introit for Candlemas, BL Egerton 3759, f.72

'Suscepimus Deus, misericordiam tuam in medio templi tui: secundum nomen tuum Deus, ita et laus tua in fines terrae: justitia plena est dextera tua.'



In other words:



'Senex puerum portabat: puer autem senem regebat...'





Kate Rusby sings Robert Herrick's poem 'Candlemas Eve':



'Thus times do shift; each thing his turn does hold;
New things succeed, as former things grow old.'

A few favourite settings of the Nunc Dimittis:









I promise this is my very last post about Candlemas. I am, as you may have gathered from my last few posts, particularly fond of this feast, for reasons which are personal and a little sentimental: they include, for instance, a love for Cnut's Candlemas song at Ely, the subject of a section of my doctoral thesis I was particularly proud of; a real fondness for the medieval texts I've posted and linked to over the past few days; and a sense that on this day one can get especially close to the world of Anglo-Saxon Christianity, of Ælfric and Æthelwold and Dunstan and the rest. But more than anything I associate this day with the Nunc Dimittis, a text which as a student in a college choir I sang many times, in many different forms, week after week, with people who are very dear to me - so it's dear to me too, for that reason.

I also have a special liking for the Nunc Dimittis because I vividly remember the first time I encountered it. It was in my early teens, when I was taken for some reason to Evensong in a little church in the town where I grew up. Although a beautiful (and, I know now, an ancient) church, it's in a deprived area, rundown, with a small and aging congregation. When I went to Evensong there were perhaps four or five people in the congregation, with a few more in the dedicated but raggedy choir. The service, from the Book of Common Prayer, was mostly said or chanted by the congregation in unison. So there I was at thirteen, encountering Evensong for the first time: a near-empty church, the very plainest music, and an elderly church community of the kind which is always supposed to put young people off. But I loved it, odd child that I was - all because of the strangeness and beauty of the language. Although I had had quite an extensive religious education, and had been to a Catholic primary school, I don't think that until that point in my life I had ever heard a beautiful prayer; I'd certainly never encountered religious language that was challenging or difficult. At Evensong I was fascinated by the knotty language of the psalms and the collects, but it was one phrase in the Nunc Dimittis which struck me most of all: a light to lighten the Gentiles. It's such a simple, obvious rhetorical device, and I didn't know then that there's a name for it (polyptoton, in case you're wondering); I didn't know where the phrase came from, or what it meant, or even what Gentiles were (extensive religious education, remember!). I didn't know then what would matter to me now, that it's a poetic device which would work just as well in Old English as in the Tudor English of the Prayer Book - a phrase which an Anglo-Saxon writer could recognise, appreciate, even play with. None of that would have meant anything to me then. I just knew that it was beautiful. Up to that point, religion and beauty of language had seemed to me like quite distinct concepts; beauty was what I found and hungered for in poetry, but it had nothing to do with the simple, mostly banal language in which all religious ideas had been taught to me. I didn't know you could pray beautiful prayers, and I didn't know you could pray for abstract things like 'light'. It was a revelation to me that religious language could be interesting or beautiful, or that there was a place for beauty or complexity in religion at all. It was the first time I learned that prayer could be poetry, and poetry could be prayer.

Margery Kempe at Candlemas

BL Add. 43473, f. 7

The other day I posted a description of a miracle which was said to have taken place during a Candlemas service in Anglo-Saxon England, in a church dedicated to the Virgin Mary at Glastonbury, c.910. As the congregation stood with their candles, the pregnant mother of the future St Dunstan had her candle miraculously kindled by light from heaven, and from her candle light spread to the congregation and all the people of England. That miracle-story, of course, draws a parallel between the infant Christ and the unborn St Dunstan, though like the Biblical narrative it centres on the experience of a woman: Dunstan's mother is cast in the role of Mary, bringing her child to the temple and his light to the world. But the story is told about (and by) a monk, and we know nothing about St Dunstan's mother except her name - Cynethryth. Some five hundred years later, on the other side of England, a laywoman, mystic and mother was able to describe her own experience of taking part in a Candlemas service. Margery Kempe records in her autobiographical Book many visions and meditations in which she enters spiritually into events in the life of Christ and the Virgin, and the Purification is no exception. This is an extract from Kempe's Book, as edited here, ch. 82:

On the Purificacyon Day er ellys Candilmesse Day whan the sayd creatur beheld the pepil wyth her candelys in cherch, hir mende was raveschyd into beholdyng of owr Lady offeryng hyr blisful sone owr Savyowr to the preyst Simeon in the tempyl, as verily to hir gostly undirstondyng as yyf sche had be ther in hir bodily presens for to an offeryd wyth owr Ladys owyn persone. Than was sche so comfortyd be the contemplacyon in hir sowle that sche had in the beholdyng of owr Lord Jhesu Crist and of hys blissyd Modyr, of Simeon the preyste, of Joseph, and of other personys that ther weryn whan owr Lady was purifyid, and of the hevynly songys that hir thowt sche herd whan owr blisful Lord was offeryd up to Symeon that sche myth ful evyl beryn up hir owyn candel to the preyst, as other folke dedyn at the tyme of offeryng, but went waveryng on eche syde as it had ben a dronkyn woman, wepyng and sobbyng so sor that unethe sche myth stondyn on hir feet for the fervowr of lofe and devocyon that God putte in hir sowle thorw hy contemplacyon. And sumtyme sche myth not stondyn but fel downe amonge the pepil and cryid ful lowde, that many man on hir wonderyd and merveylyd what hir eyled, for the fervowr of the spiryt was so meche that the body fayld and myth not endur it. Sche had swech holy thowtys and meditacyons many tymes whan sche saw women ben purifyid of her childeryn. Sche thowt in hir sowle that sche saw owr Lady ben purifiid and had hy contemplacyon in the beheldyng of the women wheche comyn to offeryn wyth the women that weryn purifiid. Hir mende was al drawyn fro the erdly thowtys and erdly syghtys and sett al togedyr in gostly syghtys, whech wer so delectabyl and so devowt that sche myth not in the tyme of fervowr wythstondyn hir wepyng, hir sobbyng, ne hir crying, and therfor suffyrd sche ful mech wonderyng, many a jape and many a scorne.

[On Purification Day, also known as Candlemas Day, when the said creature beheld the people with their candles in church, her mind was ravished into a vision of our Lady offering her blessed Son our Saviour to the priest Simeon in the temple, as truly in her spiritual understanding as if she had been there in her bodily presence to make an offering with our Lady herself. Then was she so comforted by the contemplation in her soul which she had in the vision of our Lord Jesu Christ and of his blessed Mother, of Simeon the priest, of Joseph, and of other people who were there when our Lady was purified, and of the heavenly songs it seemed to her that she heard when our blessed Lord was offered up to Simeon, that she could hardly carry up her own candle to the priest, as other people did when the time came to offer them, but went wavering on either side like a drunken woman, weeping and sobbing so sorely that she could hardly stand upright, for the fervour of love and devotion which God put into her soul through high contemplation. And at times she could not stand up, but fell down among the crowd and cried out very loudly, so that many wondered at her and marvelled what was wrong with her, for the fervour of the spirit was so great that the body failed and could not endure it. She had such holy thoughts and meditations many times when she saw women being purified after childbirth. It seemed to her in her soul that she saw our Lady being purified, and experienced high contemplation in beholding the women who came to make an offering with the women who were purified. Her mind was entirely drawn from earthly thoughts and earthly sights and entirely set in spiritual sights, which were so delightful and so devout that in the time of fervour she could not control her weeping, her sobbing, or her crying, and for that she suffered a great deal of wondering, many a joke and many a scorn.]

What's particularly striking to me about this passage is that for Margery Kempe, the mother of fourteen children, a ritual of purification after childbirth was an everyday part of female experience - not something she would only encounter at Candlemas, but the occasion for frequent meditation whenever she saw women being 'churched'. It was not an unfamiliar or alien practice - as it surely is for most congregations today - but something she had experienced herself, something she had in common with Mary and with many other women.

People bringing candles to be blessed at Candlemas (BL Arundel 109, f. 159v)

Margery Kempe was an extraordinary woman in many ways, but here (apart from the 'wavering like a drunken woman', perhaps) she was doing exactly what every ordinary member of the laity was supposed to do at Candlemas: transporting herself into the Biblical story, joining the procession into the temple in spirit and in body, bearing light in her hands. She was doing what St Dunstan's mother Cynethryth had done, and in doing so also received a revelation - though a private vision, not a public miracle. It's worth noting that a longer period of time separates Cynethryth and Margery Kempe than separates Kempe and the Candlemas poem I posted yesterday, which was written during the First World War. From Cynethryth to Margery, from Glastonbury to Lynn, and for many other women and men in many other places, these ceremonies were an important part of ordinary people's lives for so many centuries; it's so strange - not to use any stronger word - that they are no longer.

Candlemas, 1915

This poignant wartime poem, from Candlemas 100 years ago, is by Evelyn Underhill; it's from her Theophanies, published in 1916. (The explanatory note at the beginning is in the book.)

Candlemas, 1915

In Roman Catholic churches on February 2, candles are blessed and distributed to the congregation, and the Nunc Dimittis is sung.

In the past years,
We joyed to play the mystery of old;
Strange poem, and sweet
Conclusion of Incarnate Love that told
How a new light was to the Gentiles brought,
A clean and holy light, to pierce the glooms of thought.
We lit our candles to enray the dim,
Gave each to each the flame that figured him:
Yet, in that distant day, the darkness held no fears.

But now all's changed: we, tempest-driven,
To the great night are given.
Beneath our feet
The puzzled world is reeling to despair,
And on its black horizon there's a glare
That mocks our little light.
Dare we, in such a day,
Through all the drifting cohorts of our dead,
And across fields wherefrom the lovely life has fled,
Carry the torch of faith upon its way,
Fulfil the ancient rite?
As sudden lightning mars
The kindly radiance of eternal stars,
So does the splendour of his fury shame
That small, dear flame.

Yet, when the storm is done,
And ere the promised rising of the sun
Makes all thing new,
There comes a black and stilly hour, when all
The quiet stars shine out perpetual
And every homely lamp that seemed to cease
Burns with young beauty in the empty place,
Because the lights are few.
Then, perchance, one
Raising his anguished face,
His poor grey face, from those swept fields of pain,
And peering in the dark before the day,
Most glad shall greet
Our humble light again.
And say,
"Mine eyes have seen, and I depart in peace."

A Candlemas Miracle: 'a light to lighten the English'

BL Additional 49598, f. 34v

A few years ago I posted an Old English sermon for Candlemas, the Feast of the Presentation of Christ in the Temple, celebrated on February 2. In that sermon, Ælfric describes the practice of blessing candles and carrying them in procession on this day:

Wite gehwa eac þæt geset is on cyrclicum þeawum, þæt we sceolon on ðisum dæge beran ure leoht to cyrcan, and lætan hi ðær bletsian: and we sceolon gan siððan mid þam leohte betwux Godes husum, and singan ðone lofsang ðe þærto geset is. Þeah ðe sume men singan ne cunnon, hi beron þeah-hwæðere þæt leoht on heora handum; forðy on ðissum dæge wæs þæt soðe Leoht Crist geboren to þam temple, seðe us alysde fram þystrum, and us gebrincð to þam ecan leohte, seðe leofað and rixað a butan ende.

'Be it known also to everyone that it is appointed in the custom of the church that on this day we should carry our lights to church, and let them be blessed there: and that we should go afterwards with that light among the houses of God, and sing the hymn which is appointed for that. Though some people cannot sing, they can nevertheless bear the light in their hands; for on this day was the true Light, Christ, borne to the temple, who redeemed us from darkness and will bring us to that eternal light, who lives and rules for ever without end.'

The Benedictional of St Æthelwold, made for the Bishop of Winchester in the second half of the tenth century, contains a text for the blessing of candles (as well as the image of the Presentation at the top of this post):

BL Additional 49598, f. 33

The feast, and the custom, are associated with a story told about one of Anglo-Saxon England's foremost saints - and Æthelwold's close friend - St Dunstan, whose future holiness was said to have been revealed by a prenatal miracle on Candlemas Day in Glastonbury, c.910. The miracle is first mentioned in a series of lections composed for the feast of St Dunstan between 1006 and 1012, but this is the story as told more fully by Osbern of Canterbury in the first post-Conquest Life of Dunstan (freely translated and abridged).

While Dunstan's mother was pregnant with her holy unborn child, the feast of the Purification of the blessed ever-virgin Mary shone forth. People from all the surrounding area flocked to the church dedicated to the Virgin in Glastonbury, to render the service of devotion at this great festival to Christ, the King of Kings. The boy's father Heorstan went with his wife, Cynethryth, to be present with their lighted candles at the Mass. During the service, it began to be read how the child Jesus was brought by his parents to the temple. And suddenly the glory of the Lord appeared in the temple: all the lights were extinguished, and the whole building was plunged into darkness by a thick mist. A cold fear crept through the congregation, their hair stood on end, their knees knocked together; they stood paralysed and stupefied by fear. But - so that all that the Lord intended should be made clear - suddenly a light from heaven blazed forth in the temple, and lit the candle which the pregnant woman bore in her hand. If they had marvelled at the loss of light, now they marvelled still more at its appearance!

Prenatal miracles, in which the holiness of a child is made known to its pregnant mother, are very common in hagiography, but the liturgical context of this miracle makes it particularly apt: this is a miniature Anglo-Saxon version of the presentation in the temple, a greater light kindling a less. The mother bears her child to the church, with her offering; the glory of God is revealed in the sight of the people ('in the midst of thy temple', as the Introit for Candlemas says), and the future of the holy baby is prophetically revealed. As Osbern explains:

And so we have a new John born of a new Elizabeth, we have a Jeremiah of our own time; both were declared to be holy in their mother's womb, one by God, the other by an angel of God. On the day when the Son of God was presented in the temple by his Virgin Mother, truly this child of God was carried to the temple in his mother's womb. 'A light to lighten the Gentiles, and to be the glory of Israel,' St Simeon joyfully proclaimed; and Christ, who is the true light, revealed that a light had risen to lighten the land of the English.

The opening of Osbern's Life of Dunstan (BL Arundel 16, f. 2)

A final note on Anglo-Saxon Candlemas. This is how the Old English Menologium describes the feast:

And þæs embe ane niht
þæt we Marian mæssan healdað,
cyninges modor, forþan heo Crist on þam dæge,
bearn wealdendes, brohte to temple.
Ðænne þæs emb fif niht þæt afered byð
winter of wicum.

And then after one night
we keep the feast of Mary,
mother of the King, because on that day Christ,
the Ruler's child, she brought to the temple.
Then after five nights winter is
carried out of the camps.

According to Anglo-Saxon calendars (as you may remember from this post in November), winter runs from 7 November to 6 February, which means that Candlemas coincides nicely with the beginning of spring: Mary carries Christ to the temple, and winter is carried away (afered). But more on that in a few days' time...

A Candlemas Carol: 'The queen of bliss and of beauty'

The Presentation in the Temple in a 15th-century English Book of Hours (BL Harley 2915, f. 35)

February 2 is Candlemas, the Feast of the Purification, so here's a medieval Candlemas carol.

Revertere, revertere,
The queen of bliss and of beauty.

Behold what life that we run in,
Frail to fall and ever like to sin
Through our enemy's enticing;
Therefore we sing and cry to thee:
Revertere, revertere,
The queen of bliss and of beauty.

Come hither, Lady, fairest flower,
And keep us, Lady, from dolour;
Defend us, Lady, and be our succour,
For we cease not to call to thee:
Revertere, revertere,
The queen of bliss and of beauty.

Turn our life, Lady, to God's lust, [pleasure]
Sin to flee and fleshly lust,
For, after him, in thee we trust
To keep us from adversity.
Revertere, revertere,
The queen of bliss and of beauty.

This holy day of Purification
To the temple thou bare our salvation,
Jesu Christ, thine own sweet Son,
To whom therefore now sing we:
Revertere, revertere,
The queen of bliss and of beauty.

Farewell, Christmas fair and free!
Farewell, New Year's Day with thee!
Farewell, the holy Epiphany!
And to Mary now sing we:
Revertere, revertere,
The queen of bliss and of beauty.

This is an exceptionally elegant and delicate carol - I particularly like verse 2, with each interjected 'Lady'. Candlemas is a feast with several avenues of rich imagery for a poet or a preacher to explore, and unlike, say, Ælfric, who concentrates on the themes of offering and of light ('though some people cannot sing, they can nevertheless bear the light in their hands; for on this day was the true Light, Christ, borne to the temple...'), this poem focuses on the role of Mary, 'Lady, fairest flower', 'queen of bliss' (a title also associated with Candlemas in the medieval carol 'Welcome, Yule'). The imploring refrain 'Revertere' comes from the Song of Songs, 6:13: 'Return, return, O Shulamite; return, return, that we may look upon thee' (revertere, revertere, Sulamitis, revertere, revertere, ut intueamur te). This is a text used on the Feast of the Assumption, but it feels appropriate for Candlemas too: the appeal 'return, turn back' conjures up an image of the lady in movement - as, at the Assumption, moving towards heaven - and Candlemas is a processional kind of feast, about coming to the temple, and generally celebrated with a liturgical procession. (I posted a description of an English liturgical procession at Candlemas, from the tenth century, here.)

The theme 'revertere' also resonates with the idea that at Candlemas we cast a final look back towards Christmas, as we at last bid it farewell. This poem is very different in spirit from the cheery Candlemas carol I posted earlier in January, where Christmas says 'good day!', but it too addresses Christmas, the New Year, the Epiphany, and directs our thoughts back to them: 'turn back, that we may look upon thee' one more time. But there's a glance forward too: the collocation 'bliss and beauty' connotes spring, which is just beginning to peep out in February as the first snowdrops appear. Candlemas is in part a festival of early spring, and its focus on light appeals to the longing for winter to be over, for just a hint of returning life, in the dark time of the year.

The Presentation in a C14th English Book of Hours (BL Egerton 2781, f. 85v)

This carol survives in Bodleian Library MS. Eng. poet. e. I, a fifteenth-century manuscript of English poems and carols which also contains versions of 'This endris night', 'Of a rose, a lovely rose', 'Now is the twelfth day icome', 'Sing we Yule til Candlemas', 'In Bethlehem that fair city', and 'Under a tree, in sporting me'. And that's just (some of) the Christmas carols; see the full list here.

This is the text as edited in Richard Greene, A Selection of English Carols (Oxford, 1962), p. 95.

Revertere, revertere,
The quene of blysse and of beaute.

Behold what lyfe that we ryne ine,
Frayl to fale and ever lyke to syne
Thorow owr enmys entysyng;
Therfor we syng and cry to the:
Revertere, revertere,
The quene of blysse and of beaute.

Come hyder, Lady, fayryst floure,
And kepe us, Lady, from doloure;
Defend us, Lady, and be owr socoure,
For we cease not to cal to the:
Revertere, revertere,
The quene of blysse and of beaute.

Torne owr lyfe, Lady, to Goddys luste,
Syne to fle and fleschly luste,
For aftur hym in the we trust
To kep us frome adversyte.
Revertere, revertere,
The quene of blysse and of beaute.

Thys holy day of Puryfycacyon
To the temple thou bare owr salvacyon,
Jhesu Cryst, thin own swet Sone,
To whome therfor now syng we:
Revertere, revertere,
The quene of blysse and of beaute.

Farwell, Crystmas fayer and fre!
Farwell, Newers Day with the!
Farwell, the holy Epyphane!
And to Mary now syng we:
Revertere, revertere,
The quene of blysse and of beaute.

The remains of a medieval wall-painting of the Presentation (Chalgrove, Oxfordshire)

One or two more depictions of the Presentation which I particularly like - here the child clings to his mother:

(BL Yates Thompson 13, f.98v)

These scenes usually contain Joseph with his offering of birds, but in keeping with the liturgical celebration of the feast, one of the figures is also often shown holding a candle, as in this 14th-century Breviary (made in Norwich):

(BL Stowe 12, f. 242v)

And, very clearly, in this beautiful scene from an early 13th-century English Psalter:

 

(BL Royal 1 D X, f. 2v)

Christmas bids farewell

Feasting in January (BL Royal 2 B VII f. 71v)

If you, like me, are taking down the Christmas decorations today, here's a carol to cheer you on your way. Technically it belongs to the end of the medieval Christmas season, Candlemas (February 2), but by that time Christmas will feel a very long time ago, so I hope you'll forgive me posting it today!

Now have good day, now have good day!
I am Christmas, and now I go my way.

Here have I dwelt with more and less [i.e. everyone]
From Hallowtide till Candlemas,
And now must I from you hence pass;
Now have good day!

I take my leave of king and knight,
And earl, baron, and lady bright;
To wilderness I must me dight; [I must prepare myself to go into the wilderness]
Now have good day!

And of the good lord of this hall
I take my leave, and of guests all;
Methink I hear Lent doth call;
Now have good day!

And from every worthy officer,
Marshall, panetere and butler,
I take my leave as for this year;
Now have good day!

Another year I trust I shall
Make merry in this hall,
If rest and peace in England may fall;
Now have good day!

But oftentimes I have heard say
That he is loath to part away
Who often biddeth 'Have good day!'
Now have good day!

Now fare ye well, all in fere; [together]
Now fare ye well for all this year;
Yet for my sake make ye good cheer;
Now have good day!

This carol comes from a sixteenth-century manuscript, Balliol MS. 354, which you can see here. It forms a nice counterpart to both 'Farewell Advent, Christmas is come!' and 'Good day, Sir Christmas'; having welcomed Christmas, we must now bid him farewell. Unlike the friars' 'Farewell, Advent', however, it imagines a Christmas in an aristocratic hall, with the lord and his guests and servants. The fourth verse takes particular notice of these 'officers', who had doubtless been working especially hard over the Christmas season: a marshall is the person in charge of seating guests in the hall, etc.; a panetere is the one in charge of the pantry; and the butler the one in charge of the drink!

Feasting (BL Harley 2838 f. 45)

This is the text in Richard Greene, A Selection of English Carols (Oxford, 1962), pp. 96-7.

Now have gud day, now have gud day!
I am Crystmas, and now I go my way.

Here have I dwellyd with more and lasse
From Halowtyde till Candylmas,
And now must I from you hens passe;
Now have gud day!

I take my leve of kyng and knyght,
And erle, baron and lady bryght;
To wildernes I must me dyght;
Now have gud day!

And at the gud lord of this hall
I take my leve, and of gestes all;
Me thynke I here, Lent doth call;
Now have gud day!

And at every worthy offycer,
Merchall, panter and butler,
I take my leve as for this yere;
Now have gud day!

Anoder yere I trust I shall
Make mery in thys hall,
Yf rest and pease in Ynglond may fall;
Now have gud day!

But oftyntymes I have hard say
That he is loth to pert away
That oftyn byddyth 'Have gud day!'
Now have gud day!

Now fare ye well, all in fere;
Now fare ye well for all this yere;
Yet for my sake make ye gud cher;
Now have gud day!

On this day

I recently had cause to be reading the Regularis Concordia, a tenth-century code of regulations for monastic usage which is one of the most important documents of the Anglo-Saxon church.  That doesn't make it sound very interesting, but it is, at least if you like Anglo-Saxon monks as much as I do.  The Regularis Concordia is the product of the movement in the tenth-century English church which is usually called the Benedictine Revival - briefly, a move to reinvigorate and reform monasticism in this country in line with continental practice and the original ideals of St Benedict.  It was led by the people I wrote about recently with reference to Worcester Cathedral - Dunstan, Oswald and Æthelwold.  These were the movers behind the Regularis Concordia, which was issued in 970 after a council between King Edgar and the leading churchmen of the day, and which lays out the vision Æthelwold, Dunstan and Oswald had for monastic practice.

Now, there's no reason you should be interested in this unless you study tenth-century religious movements, and if you do you know it all already.  But the reason I want to post the following extract from the Regularis Concordia is not historical, but literary - an imaginative exercise, you might say.  I've become increasingly aware over the last few years of the value of thinking of the past not just as history to be studied but as a sequence of present moments - in one sense, accessible only to the people who have lived through them, but in some way also accessible by imagining oneself back into that specific, unique historical moment in time and place.  Because of my own interests, I usually think of this in a medieval context; Henry of Huntingdon's reflections on 'this is the year which holds the writer' have stayed with me.  This is one reason why I've been so fascinated this year by Eadmer's biography of St Anselm, which offers precise descriptions of many such moments, from direct observation and at second-hand - one day on the road to Hayes in the summer of 1097, for instance, but there are many more.  This is the point at which a historian or a literary critic begins to get a little suspicious, and says, 'But some of these are literary tropes, or standard narrative motifs; how do we know they really happened?'  To which I have no answer except that I think the stories people tell about themselves, and the things they say about the people they knew, are important in many and various ways whether they really happened or not.

And so to Candlemas, February 2, in some Anglo-Saxon monastery towards the end of the tenth century - let's say, Worcester or Canterbury or Winchester in the year 974. We can think ourselves back into this scene because the Regularis Concordia describes it so exactly (and while this is a rule, i.e. a description of the ideal, I hope we can be confident that even if no one else followed it, Dunstan or Æthelwold at least would have done so themselves!):

On the Purification of St Mary candles shall be set out ready in the church to which the brethren are to go to get their lights. On the way thither they shall walk in silence, occupied with the psalms; and all shall be vested in albs if this is possible and if the weather permits. On entering the church, having prayed awhile, they shall say the antiphon and collect in honour of the saint to whom this same church is dedicated. Then the abbot, vested in stole and cope, shall bless the candles, sprinkling them with holy water and incensing them. When the abbot has received his candle from the doorkeeper, the chanting shall begin and the brethren shall receive and light their candles. During the return procession they shall sing the appointed antiphons until they reach the church doors; then, having sung the antiphon Responsum accepit Simeon, with the collect Erudi quaesumus Domine, they shall enter the church singing the respond Cum inducerunt Puerum. Next they shall say the Lord's prayer, and Tierce shall follow; after which, if the brethren were not vested for the procession, they shall vest for the Mass during which they shall hold their lighted candles in their hands until after the Offertory, when they shall offer them to the priest.

The monastic agreement of the monks and nuns of the English nation, trans. Thomas Symons (London, 1953), p.31.

You can picture the scene: the candles, the chant, the monks in their albs (if the weather permits, in this particular moment - think what the English weather can be like in February!). Perhaps Bishop Æthelwold read from this book, the Benedictional made for him, in which you can see the form for the blessing of candles here. Liturgical time enables us to say that it happens 'on this day', in some sense beyond the literal - on this day was Christ borne to the temple, and on this day the monks of Worcester or Canterbury or Winchester went and got their candles and sang their chants, and on this day Ælfric preached about it. And on this day earlier in the century, perhaps in 909, in a wooden church in Glastonbury, Dunstan's own holiness was revealed while he was yet unborn; on that day the crowd with their lighted candles saw a miracle, a miniature Anglo-Saxon version of the presentation in the temple - a greater light kindling a less.

Seven Stories of St Dunstan, 1: A Candlemas Miracle

Seven days from today is the feast of St Dunstan (d.988), perhaps the greatest Anglo-Saxon Archbishop of Canterbury. At the beginning of the year I did one of those online 'get a patron saint for the year' random generators (this one) and got St Dunstan, which I thought was pretty lucky, considering there's so many hundreds of saints to choose from and only about five sainted medieval Archbishops of Canterbury (pretty much my favourite category of saint). So in preparation for his feast-day I'm going to post a number of stories about St Dunstan which I've run across in the course of my ever-growing obsession with tenth and eleventh-century Canterbury.

Dunstan in British Library, Royal 10 A XIII, f.2v

1: Dunstan's birth and the Candlemas Miracle

The first biography of Dunstan was written within ten years of his death by someone known only as 'B'; about a century later, two accounts of Dunstan's life were written by the Canterbury monks Osbern and Eadmer. Eadmer begins his Life of Dunstan by describing how Dunstan "came forth into this spacious world all the more nobly because while he was still closely constrained within his mother’s womb it was indicated by a heavenly miracle that through him a brilliant light would arise in the world." This is how:

Dunstan was born around the year 910 (or a little earlier), to parents living near Glastonbury in Somerset. While his mother Cynethrith was pregnant with him, she and his father, Heorstan, went to church to celebrate Candlemas, the Feast of the Purification. As I’ve mentioned before, we have some interesting evidence about how the Anglo-Saxons celebrated Candlemas, and this story seems to confirm it. They were in the church at Glastonbury (which Eadmer notes was made of wood, unusually for Saxon churches) and had taken with them the candles which were to be lit as part of the liturgy for the day.

And now the office of the mass began to be celebrated and the huge crowd which was brilliantly lit up by a great number of candles was intent on praising the Lord in the house of God. Then suddenly all at once, though the sky remained serene, to the amazement of everyone all the candles went out. They all looked at each other and they were struck with great fear because of this unprecedented and strange event. But while they stood there thunderstruck, knowing not what to think for certain about such an event, with their faces turned upwards they beheld a tongue of fire descending from heaven and lighting the candle which Dunstan’s mother held in her hand. So those who earlier had been greatly stunned by their candles going out were now overwhelmed by greater amazement both by the flame shooting from the sky and by the lighting of the candle of the pregnant woman. And then one by one they approached the fire sent down from heaven and from it they regained the light that had been lost.

A particularly excellent miracle! Shortly afterwards, Cynethrith gave birth to a son and he was named Dunstan, which Eadmer interprets in Latin as 'montanus lapis' - Old English dun 'hill, mountain' and stan 'stone'.  (Other etymologies are available...)

Quotations from Eadmer of Canterbury, Lives and Miracles of Saints Oda, Dunstan and Oswald, ed. and trans. Andrew J. Turner and Bernard J. Muir (Oxford, 2006), pp.51,3.

Merry rang the hymn

What I said yesterday about hymns for Candlemas notwithstanding, there is one piece of music which is supremely appropriate: any and all versions of the Nunc Dimittis, the Song of Simeon. For me - as, I imagine, for anyone who has sung time after time through the unchanging form of Choral Evensong - the words of the Nunc Dimittis and the Magnificat are 'graven within my heart' like nothing else.

This, from Gibbons' Second Service, is one of the first settings I learned, and my favourite:




And I'll include this one too, by T. Tertius Noble, not because I like it (though I do, very much) but for the Ely connection:



Today is, after all, the anniversary of The Carol of King Canute, sung (though not really) at Ely on the Feast of the Presentation in the year - let's say 1020. Noble was organist and choirmaster at Ely nearly 900 years later and set an adaptation of the carol to music.

Merie sungen ðe muneches binnen Ely
ða Cnut ching reu ðer by.
Roweþ cnites noer the lant
and here we þes muneches sæng!


O merry rang the hymn
Across the fenlands dim;
O joy the day!
When Cnut the king sailed by,
O row my men, more nigh
And hear that holy cry,
Sing Gloria!

A Candlemas Carol: Infinite Light

If I was going to start writing hymns (by which I mean, if I had any hope I'd be good at writing hymns) my first attempt would be a hymn for Candlemas, because there are so few good ones. Perhaps the only really well-known one is 'Hail to the Lord who comes', which is fine, but that's just one - and then you're just stuck trying to find less specific things on the theme of light. We sang a dreadful hymn at Christ Church Cathedral the other day which had better remain nameless, and 'Shine Jesus Shine' is an oft-suggested option (though I've never had to sing it at Candlemas, thank goodness).

If I've overlooked any good options I would love to be corrected, but it seems there's a bit of a dearth in this area. So in the absence of having written my own Candlemas hymn, I present for your approval this hymn from the Oxford Book of Carols as a potential Candlemas carol. It's called 'Infinite Light' and while it doesn't mention any of what you might consider necessary elements for a hymn about the Presentation in the Temple, it does at least illustrate Simeon's words: 'Mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all peoples: to be a light to lighten the Gentiles, and to be the glory of thy people Israel'.

In the Oxford Book of Carols it's set to a complicated tune from the 'Virgin Unspotted' family of traditional carol tunes, but it could be sung to the better-known and much simpler version of the tune (page 1 and page 2 - known to me as 'A virgin most pure' and regularly sung at carol services to those words). If you want to hear the more demanding tune you can download an mp3 of it from this page.

I should point out, considering what I usually post about, that lots and lots of medieval carols mention Candlemas as the end-point of the Christian season (this site cites some of them) - but none of the kind you could sing in church. There is this exquisite medieval Candlemas carol, but I don't know if it's ever been set to music. Oh, and there is also this, of course...


The greatness of God in his love has been shown,
The light of his life on the nations is thrown:
And that which the Jews and the Greeks did divine
Is come in the fullness of Jesus to shine.

The Light of the World in the darkness has shone,
And grows in our sight as the ages flow on.

He rolls the grim darkness and sorrow away,
And brings all our fears to the light of the day:
The idols are fallen of anger and blood,
And God is revealed as the loving and good.

The Light of the World in the darkness has shone,
And grows in our sight as the ages flow on.

And, though we have sinned like the Prodigal Son,
His love to our succour and welcome will run.
His gospel of pardon, of love and accord,
Will master oppression and shatter the sword:

The Light of the World in the darkness has shone,
And grows in our sight as the ages flow on.

The Light of the World is more clear to our sight
As errors disperse and men see him aright:
In lands long in shadow, his churches arise
And blaze for their neighbours the Way of the Wise.

The Light of the World in the darkness has shone,
And grows in our sight as the ages flow on.

Ælfric on Candlemas: A Twofold Burgeoning of Awe and Love

The Benedictional of St Æthelwold, BL Add. 49598, f.34v

2 February is Candlemas, the Feast of the Presentation of Christ in the Temple; and since we heard from the Anglo-Saxon homilist Ælfric on the subject of Advent and of Christmas, we can look today at his sermon for this feast. Ælfric doesn't call it Candlemas (although that was the Old English name for the day) but he does refer to the blessing of candles, as well as exploring the significance of the feast. The whole sermon is available here. In the extract I've chosen, Ælfric discusses the meaning of the birds which Mary brought to the temple as an offering.

Seo eadige Maria ða geoffrode hire lac Gode mid þam cilde, swa hit on Godes æ geset wæs. Hit wæs swa geset on þære ealdan æ þurh Godes hæse, þæt ða þe mihton ðurhteon sceoldon bringan anes geares lamb mid heora cylde, Gode to lace, and ane culfran, oþþe ane turtlan. Gif þonne hywlc wif to ðam unspedig wære þæt heo ðas ðing begytan ne mihte, þonne sceolde heo bringan twegen culfran-briddas, oððe twa turtlan.

Þas læssan lac, þæt sind þa fugelas, þe wæron wannspedigra manna lac, wæron for Criste geoffrode. Se Ælmihtiga Godes Sunu wæs swiðe gemyndig ure neoda on eallum ðingum; na þæt an þæt he wolde mann beon for us, ðaða he God wæs, ac eac swylce he wolde beon þearfa for us, ðaða he rice wæs: to ðy þæt he us forgeafe dæl on his rice, and mænsumunge on his godcundnysse. Lamb getacnað unscæððinysse and þa maran godnysse; gif we þonne swa earme beoð þæt we ne magon þa maran godnysse Gode offrian, þonne sceole we him bringan twa turtlan, oþþe twegen culfran-briddas, þæt is twyfealdlic onbryrdnes eges and lufe. On twa wisan bið se man onbryrd: ærest he him ondræt helle wite, and bewepð his synna; syððan he nimð eft lufe to Gode, þonne onginð he to murcnienne, and ðincð him to lang hwænne he beo genumen of ðyses lifes earfoðnyssum, and gebroht to ecere reste.

'The blessed Mary offered her sacrifice to God with the child, as it was appointed in God's law. It was so appointed in the old law, by God's command, that those who could afford it should bring a lamb of one year old with their child, as an offering to God, and a pigeon or a turtle-dove. But if any woman were so poor that she could not obtain those things, then she should bring two young pigeons or two turtle-doves.

This smaller offering was offered for Christ, that is, the birds, which were the offerings of the poor. The Almighty Son of God was very mindful of our needs in all things; not only did he choose to become man for us, though he was God, but he also chose to become needy for us, though he was mighty, so that he might give us a portion in his kingdom and communion with his divinity. A lamb betokens innocence and the greater kind of goodness; but if we are so wretched that we cannot offer to God that greater goodness, then we should bring him two turtle-doves or two young pigeons; that is, a twofold burgeoning of awe and love. A person experiences this burgeoning in two ways: first, he dreads the torments of hell, and mourns for his sins; then afterwards he feels love to God, and he begins to murmur, and it seems to him too long a time until he shall be taken from the afflictions of this life, and brought to eternal rest.'

There's a nice bit of wordplay here: the Old English word I've translated as 'burgeoning' is onbryrdnes, which sounds a little like OE bryd, i.e. 'bird'. I tried to keep the near-pun, but a more literal translation would be 'kindling' or 'inspiration' - he's talking about the feeling which sparks a conversion of the heart towards God. That stirring of love is the smallest and least of offerings, which anyone can give, even if they are not yet capable of greater acts of virtue.

BL Add. 49598, f.34v

Lytel wæs an lamb, oððe twa turtlan, Gode to bringenne; ac he ne sceawað na þæs mannes lac swa swiðe swa he sceawað his heortan. Nis Gode nan neod ure æhta; ealle ðing sindon his, ægðer ge heofen, ge eorðe, and sæ, and ealle ða ðing ðe on him wuniað: ac he forgeaf eorðlice ðing mannum to brice, and bebead him þæt hi sceoldon mid þam eorðlicum ðingum hine oncnawan þe hi ær forgeaf, na for his neode, ac for mancynnes neode. Gif ðu oncnæwst ðinne Drihten mid ðinum æhtum, be ðinre mæðe, hit fremeð þe sylfum to ðam ecan life: gif ðu hine forgitst, hit hearmað þe sylfum and na Gode, and þu ðolast ðære ecan mede.

God gyrnð þa godnysse ðines modes, and na ðinra æhta. Gif ðu hwæt dest Gode to lofe, mid cystigum mode, þonne geswutelast ðu þa godnysse þines modes mid þære dæede; gif þu ðonne nan god don nelt, Gode to wurðmynte, ðonne geswutelast ðu mid þære uncyste ðine yfelnysse, and seo yfelnys þe fordeð wið God.

'A little thing was a lamb, or two turtle-doves, to bring to God; but God does not consider a man's offering so much as he considers his heart. God has no need of our possessions; all things are his, in heaven, and earth, and sea, and all the things which dwell in them, but he gave earthly things to mankind to enjoy, and commanded them that with those earthly things they should acknowledge him who first gave them, not for his need, but for their need. If you acknowledge your Lord with your possessions, according to your ability, it will help you towards eternal life; if you forget him, it harms you, not God, and you will lose your eternal reward.

God desires the goodness of your mind, not of the things you own. If you do anything for the praise of God with a generous spirit, then you show forth the goodness of your mind by that deed; but if you will do no good to honour God, then by that stinginess you show forth your wickedness, and that wickedness will destroy you with God.'

The Presentation (early 13th century, BL Royal 1 D X, f. 2v)

On ðære ealdan æ is gehwær gesett, þæt God het gelomlice þas fugelas offrian on his lace, for ðære getacnunge þe hi getacniað. Nis nu nanum men alyfed þæt he healde þa ealdan æ lichomlice, ac gehealde gehwa hi gastlice. Culfran sind swiðe unscæððige fugelas, and bilewite, and hi lufiað annysse, and fleoð him floccmælum. Do eac swa se cristena man; beo him unsceaðþig, and bilewite, and lufige annysse, and broðorrædene betwux cristenum mannum; þonne geoffrað he gastlice Gode þa culfran-briddas.

Þa turtlan getacniað clænnysse: hi sind swa geworhte, gif hyra oðer oðerne forlyst, þonne ne secð seo cucu næfre hire oðerne gemacan. Gif ðonne se cristena man swa deð for Godes lufon, þonne geoffrað he ða turtlan on þa betstan wisan. Đas twa fugel-cyn ne singað na, swa swa oðre fugelas, ac hi geomeriað, forðan þe hi getacniað haligra manna geomerunge on ðisum life, swa swa Crist cwæð to his apostolum, “Ge beoð geunrotsode on þisum life, ac eower unrotnys bið awend to ecere blisse.” And eft he cwæð, “Eadige beoð þa þe heora synna bewepa, forðan ðe hi beoð gefrefrode.”

'In the old law it is set down in several places that God often said that birds were to be offered to him in sacrifice, because of the symbol which they signify. It is not now permitted for anyone to keep the old law literally, but everyone should keep it spiritually. Pigeons are very gentle and innocent birds, and they love unity, and fly together in flocks. This is just what the Christian ought to do: he should be gentle, and innocent, and love unity and brotherhood among Christian people, and in this way he offers the young pigeons to God in a spiritual sense.

The turtle-doves represent purity: they are made in such a way that if one of them loses the other, the surviving one never seeks another mate for itself. If a Christian acts in this way for the love of God, then he offers the turtle-doves in the best manner. These two kinds of birds do not sing as other birds do, but murmur, because they represent the mourning of holy men in this life, just as Christ said to his apostles: "You will be sorrowful in this life, but your sorrow will be turned to everlasting bliss." And again he said, "Blessed are they who mourn their sins, for they shall be comforted."'

Doves (BL Add. 49598, f.34v)

Seo eadige Maria, and Ioseph, ðæs cildes fostor-fæder, gecyrdon to þære byrig Nazareth mid þam cilde; “and þæt cild weox, and wæs gestrangod, and mid wisdome afylled, and Godes gifu wæs on him wunigende." He weox and wæs gestrangod on þære menniscnysse, and he ne behofode nanes wæstmes ne nanre strangunge on þære godcundnysse. He æt, and dranc, and slep, and weox on gearum, and wæs þeah-hwaeðere eal his lif butan synnum. He nære na man geðuht, gif he mannes life ne lyfode. He wæs mid wisdome afylled, forþan ðe he is himsylf wisdom, and on him wunað eal gefyllednys þære godcundnysse: lichomlice Godes gifu wunude on him...

Wite gehwa eac þæt geset is on cyrclicum þeawum, þæt we sceolon on ðisum dæge beran ure leoht to cyrcan, and lætan hi ðær bletsian: and we sceolon gan siððan mid þam leohte betwux Godes husum, and singan ðone lofsang ðe þærto geset is. Þeah ðe sume men singan ne cunnon, hi beron þeah-hwæðere þæt leoht on heora handum; forðy on ðissum dæge wæs þæt soðe Leoht Crist geboren to þam temple, seðe us alysde fram þystrum, and us gebrincð to þam ecan leohte, seðe leofað and rixað a butan ende. Amen.

'The blessed Mary, and Joseph, the child's foster-father, returned to the city of Nazareth with the child; "and the child grew, and was strengthened, and filled with wisdom, and God's grace was dwelling within him." He grew and was strengthened in human nature, but he needed no growth and no strengthening in his divine nature. He ate, and drank, and slept, and grew in years, and nevertheless lived all his life without sin. He would not have seemed a man, if he had not lived the life of a man. He was filled with wisdom, because he is himself wisdom, and in him dwells the whole fullness of divinity: God's grace dwelt bodily within him...

Be it known also to everyone that it is appointed in the custom of the church that on this day we should carry our lights to church, and let them be blessed there: and that we should go afterwards with that light among the houses of God, and sing the hymn which is appointed for that. Though some people cannot sing, they can nevertheless bear the light in their hands; for on this day was the true Light, Christ, borne to the temple, who redeemed us from darkness and will bring us to that eternal light, who lives and rules for ever without end. Amen.'

Blessing for candles in the Benedictional of St Æthelwold (BL Add. 49598, f. 33)

Candlemas and The Carol of King Cnut

This post features a combination of two favourite themes of this blog: Christmas carols, and King Cnut. But it also celebrates Candlemas. Let me explain.

A few weeks ago I posted about a story of Cnut's visit to Ely Abbey, where the king had to follow a peasant across the ice in a cart when the fens proved impassable by boat. According to the twelfth-century history of the abbey, Cnut was in the habit of visiting Ely to celebrate the Feast of the Purification, aka Candlemas, aka today. If you will go visiting Fenland abbeys in February, you get weather problems - but sometimes Cnut actually made it to Ely. And on one occasion he wrote a song about it! Well, not really. I mean, he probably didn't write it. But there is a song, and it's one of the earliest songs in Middle English, and there's a lovely story about it.

Here's the story:

"King Cnut was making his way to Ely by boat, accompanied by Emma, his queen, and the nobles of the kingdom, desiring to celebrate solemnly there, in accordance with custom, the Purification of St Mary, starting from which date the abbots of Ely are accustomed to hold, in their turn, their position of service in the royal court. When they were approaching the land, the king rose up in the middle of his men and directed the boatmen to make for the little port at full speed, and then ordered them to pull the boat forward more slowly as it came in. As he turned his eyes towards the church which stood out at a distance, situated as it was at the top of a rocky eminence, he heard the sound of sweet music echoing on all sides, and, with ears alert, began to drink in the melody more fully the closer he approached. For he realised that it was the monks singing psalms in the monastery and chanting clearly the Divine Hours. He urged the others who were present in the boats to come round about him and sing, joining him in jubilation. Expressing with his own mouth his joyfulness of heart, he composed aloud a song in English the beginning of which runs as follows:

Merie sungen ðe muneches binnen Ely
ða Cnut ching reu ðer by.
Roweþ cnites noer the lant
and here we þes muneches sæng.

[Merry sang the monks in Ely
When Cnut the king rowed by;
'Row, men, near the land
And let us hear these monks sing.']

This and the remaining parts that follow are up to this day sung publicly by choirs and remembered in proverbs. The king, while tossing this around [in his mind], did not rest from singing piously and decorously in concert with the venerable confraternity, until he reached land."

Liber Eliensis: A History of the Isle of Ely from the Seventh to the Twelfth Century, trans. Janet Fairweather (Woodbridge, 2005) pp.181-2.

I love this story. Scandinavian kings are always composing verses in the Icelandic sagas - so if Harald Hardrada could compose skaldic verse just before the battle of Stamford Bridge (Harold Godwineson, too), why couldn't the multi-talented Cnut compose a little song in honour of his favourite monks, overflowing with joy at the beauty of their chanting? I wish he had, but sadly, he didn't. It probably dates closer to the time the Liber Eliensis was written (the late twelfth century) than to Cnut's lifetime (this visit would have taken place in the 1020s) but it's still:

a) a very early Middle English poem
b) a sweet little song in its own right
c) associated with Cnut

And since that happened at Candlemas I choose to think of 2 February additionally as 'Cnut Day' or 'The Anniversary of the First Middle English Carol' or whatever you like.

I can't remember where I got this picture so I apologise for not knowing the source - but it makes me laugh every time I look at it...

As you can see, it isn't a Christmas carol (or really a religious song at all), but a 19th-century Dean of Ely, Charles William Stubbs, decided to turn it into one. Thus he wrote 'The Carol of King Cnut', which was set to music first by T. Tertius Noble (see below) and again by Benjamin Britten as part of his 'Christ's Nativity' carol series. In honour of the last day of the Christmas season, then, enjoy a last carol, courtesy of Ely, Dean Stubbs, and King Cnut:

O merry rang the hymn
Across the fenlands dim;
O joy the day!
When Cnut the king sailed by,
O row my men, more nigh
And hear that holy cry,
Sing Gloria!

From Ely Minster then
Rang out across the fen
O Gloria!
The good monks' merry song
That rolled its aisles among,
And echoed far and long :
Sing joy the day!

It was the Christmas morn
Whereon the child was born
(O joy the day!)
On lily banks among
Where fragrant flowers do throng
For maiden posies sprung?
Ah nay! ah nay!

It was the winter cold
Whereon the tale was told
(O joy the day!)
What hap did then befall
To men and women all
From that poor cattle stall,
O Gloria!

The shepherds in a row
Knelt by the cradle low,
O joy the day!
And told the angel song
They heard, their sheep among,
When all the heavenly throng
Sang gloria!

Glory to God on high,
Who bringeth men anigh,
O Gloria!
And war's black death did ban,
And peace on earth began
And Christ the Word made man!
Sing joy the day!

Sing joy, my masters, sing,
And let the welkin ring,
O Gloria!
And Nowell! Nowell! cry
The Child is King most High
O sovran victory!
Sing joy the day!

You can listen to Benjamin Britten's lively setting of 'The Carol of King Cnut' here.