Stella celi extirpavit

The Virgin Mary in a fourteenth-century manuscript, BL Royal MS 6 E VII Part 2, f. 479

Back in Advent, I revisited the poems of the 15th-century friar James Ryman in order to write this post. I read a number of Ryman's poems which I hadn't really looked at before, and kept a record of those which interested me with an eye to future blogposts. One struck me as unusual, and I took note of it, though I was pretty sure I would never find a suitable occasion to post it here. But that was Advent, and here we are in Lent - the longest Lent of our lives. And this is a prayer for a time of plague.

The heavenly star so bright and clear,
That fed the Lord of indulgence, [mercy]
Hath put away both far and near
Of ghostly death the pestilence, [the plague of spiritual death]
That our parent wrought by offence:
[May] she cease the stars' war and wrath,
That dimmeth us by sharp stroke of death.

O spouse of Christ, mother of grace,
O benign queen of heaven bliss,
Cause us in bliss to have a place,
Whereof the joy shall never miss,
Where next unto God thy throne is,
And for our sin and our misdeed
Let not Satan ay us possess.

This is Ryman's translation of Stella celi extirpavit, a hymn first recorded in manuscripts from 15th-century England, in the decades after the Black Death. This article, which gives a history of the hymn, provides the following text and translation for the most common version of Stella celi (Ryman's is a little different):

Stella celi extirpavit
que lactavit Dominum
mortis pestem, quam plantavit
primus parens hominum.
Ipsa stella nunc dignetur
sydera compescere;
quorum bella plebem cedunt
dire mortis ulcere.
O gloriosa stella maris,
a peste succurre nobis.
Audi nos: nam Filius tuus
nihil negans te honorat
Salva nos, Jesu, pro quibus
virgo mater te orat.

Star of Heaven,
who nourished the Lord
and rooted up the plague of death
which our first parents planted;
may that star now deign
to hold in check the constellations
whose strife grants the people
the ulcers of a terrible death.
O glorious star of the sea,
save us from the plague.
Hear us: for your Son
who honours you denies you nothing.
Jesus, save us, for whom
the Virgin Mother prays to you.

The hymn addresses Mary, asking that since her child did away with the plague of sin which assailed the soul, her prayers will help to end the plague which attacks the body. The specific historical context is clear: the allusion to 'ulcers of a terrible death' is a direct reference to the swellings which were one of the symptoms of the Black Death.

In keeping with scientific thinking of the time, the hymn sees sickness as originating in the alignment of the stars, and so asks for Mary's help as 'star of heaven' - she is imagined as a good star of peace and life who can restrain the malign stars of war and death. Some of the language also draws on traditional imagery of Mary as healer and nourisher, in focusing for instance on her feeding her child (lactavit Dominum). In the image of her 'uprooting' the plant of death, there's perhaps a suggestion too of the well-established medieval association of Mary with life-giving plants, which figure her as a tree who bears the fruit of life, or a doctor who brings healing herbs. Altogether Mary is presented as all that is wholesome and nourishing, a powerful intercessor and a bringer of health and hope.

This text is widely recorded in late medieval sources, both with and without music. As well as Ryman's version, written down in Canterbury at the end of the 15th century, there are two more English poems based on the hymn, attributed to the Bury St Edmunds poet John Lydgate. Here's one of them (in modern spelling; the Middle English is here):

Thou heavenly queen, of grace our lodestar,
With thy chaste milk plenteous of plesaunce [full of grace]
Gave Jesu suck, puttest away the war
Of pestilence, to appease our grievance,
Our well of mercy, our joy, our sufficence,
Flower of virgins, mother of most price, [greatest value]
Racedist up all surfetis of mischance, [eradicated all sinful excess]
That our forefather planted in Paradise.

Thou same star, of stars none so bright,
Celestial star of beauty most sovereign,
To thee we pray, on us cast down thy sight,
Only of mercy that thou not disdain,
Of infected air the mists to restrain,
That by thy gracious most wholesome influence
We have no cause on hasty death to pleyne, [lament]
Which slayeth the people by sword of pestilence.

Our trust is fully, and our confidence,
Undespaired in our opinion, [belief]
Against all weathers of corrupt pestilence,
By thy request and mediation,
And by thy Son's glorious Passion,
And remembrance of thy joys all,
Against froward airs causing infection,
Defend us, Lady, when we to thee call.

For as Phoebus chaseth mists black,
Toward midmorrow with his beams clear,
And Lucifer biddith sluggy folk awake, [the sun bids sleepy people wake]
In the orient first, when he doth appear,
Right so mayest thou in thy celestial sphere,
O star of stars, star of most excellence,
Maid and mother, by means of thy prayer, [through the intercession of your prayers]
Save all thy servants from stroke of pestilence.

Neither this poem nor Ryman's make reference to ulcers, as the Latin hymn does; their descriptions of the illness and its cause are (perhaps deliberately) more general than the Latin, more applicable to any outbreak of disease. Lydgate speaks of 'froward airs causing infection' and the unhealthy 'mists' which he asks Mary to clear away like the sun at morning. Ryman's version is less scientific, asking instead for deliverance from the force which 'dimmeth us by sharp stroke of death'. The thought that epidemics 'dim' us, i.e. cast a dark shadow over our lives, is particularly poignant. In their astrological and medical thinking, all versions of this hymn come from a medieval world very foreign to us - and yet for once it feels very near.

'Stella celi' in BL Royal Appendix MS. 58

Several early settings of this hymn survive in 15th-century manuscripts. The oldest is the unearthly setting below by John Cooke, a member of Henry V's household chapel, who went with the king to Agincourt in 1415 and seems to have ended his life as a singer at St Paul's Cathedral. His version of Stella celi is preserved in this manuscript.



From later in the century, there's this setting by Walter Lambe, from the Eton Choirbook:



And there are numerous other attestations of the hymn from England, Portugal and elsewhere, including 15th-century evidence that the hymn was in regular use among students at Oxford - sung at the ringing of the curfew bell on Marian feasts and after Compline in Magdalen College chapel. For a full list, see Christopher Macklin, 'Plague, Performance and the Elusive History of the Stella Celi Extirpavit', Early Music History 29 (2010), 1-31, available online here. Macklin proposes a connection between the hymn and the Franciscan order, who 'were intimately involved in caring for the sick during the Black Death and in subsequent epidemics', and as a result suffered catastrophic mortality rates across Europe. These learned origins would fit with the hymn's specifically astrological and medical approach to the understanding of disease.

But it was not only a hymn for friars and students. In the collection of mystery plays from 15th-century East Anglia known as the 'N-town Plays', there's a reference to this hymn in the play about the Adoration of the Shepherds. The Shepherds sing it as they go to Bethlehem to meet the Christ-child, and though the use of Stella celi is only brief (and a bit surprising - why might a prayer against the plague be thought appropriate here?), the scene is so lovely and so loving that I can't resist quoting at length. We begin when the shepherds have just heard the angels sing 'Gloria in excelsis' and, wonderfully, they're struggling to puzzle out the - to them unfamiliar - Latin words. (Again this is in modern spelling; for the Middle English see this page)

Shepherd 1: Ey, ey, this was a wonder note
That was now sung above the sky!
I have that voice full well, I wot —
They sang “Gle, glo, glory."

Shepherd 2: Nay, so mot y the, so was it nowth! [as I may thrive, it wasn't that!]
I have that song full well inum; [I got it right]
In my wit well it is wrought:
It was “Gle, glo, glas, glum."

Shepherd 3: The song methought it was “Glory."
And afterward, he said us to
There is a child born shall be a prince mighty!
For to seek that child, I rede we go. [I advise we go]

Shepherd 1: The prophecy of Boosdras is speedily sped. [swiftly fulfilled]
Now leyke we hence as that light us lead. [let's go where the light is leading us]
Might we see once that bright on bed,
Our bale it would unbind; [it would relieve our trouble]
We should shudder for no shower.
Busk we us hence to Bethlem borough [let's hurry to Bethlehem]
To see that fair fresh flower,
The maid mild in mind.

Shepherd 2: Let us follow with all our might,
With song and mirth we shall us dight [prepare]
And worship with joy that worthy wight,
That Lord is of mankind.
Let us go forth, fast on hie
And honour that babe worthily
With mirth, song and melody.
Have done! This song begin.

Stage direction, in Latin: 'Then the shepherds will sing Stella celi extirpavit as they go to look for the Christ'

Shepherd 1: Hail, flower of flowers, fairest found!
Hail, pearl, peerless primrose of price!
Hail, bloom on bed! We shall be unbound
With thy bloody wounds and works full wise!
Hail, God greatest! I greet thee on ground!
The greedy devil shall groan grisly as a gryse [like a boar]
When thou winnest this world with thy wide wounds
And puttest man to Paradys with plenty of price! [abundance]
To love thee is my delight.
Hail, flower fair and free,
Light from the Trinity!
Hail, blessed may thou be!
Hail, maiden fairest in sight!

Shepherd 2: Hail, flower over flowers found in frith! [in the woods]
Hail, Christ kind in our kith! [sharing in our nature]
Hail, worker of weal to wonen us with! [doer of good, come to dwell with us]
Hail, winner, iwis,
Hail, former and friend, [creator and friend]
Hail, feller of the fiend,
Hail, clad in our kind!
Hail, Prince of Paradise!

Shepherd 3: Hail, lord over lords who lies full low!
Hail, king over kings, thy kindred to know!
Hail, comely knight, the devil to overthrow!
Hail, flower of all!
Hail, worker to win
Bodies bound in sin!
Hail, in a beasts' bin, [manger]
Bestad in a stall. [laid in a stall]

Joseph: Herds on hill [shepherds from the hills]
Be not still, [silent]
But say your will
To many a man:
How God is born
This merry morn —
That is forlorn
Find he can. [he can find the one who is lost - i.e. like the Good Shepherd]

Shepherd 1: We shall tell
By dale and hill
How Harrower of Hell
Was born this night,
Mirths to mell [to speak joy]
And fiends to quell,
That were so fell
Against his right.

[Having paid homage to the baby, they take their departure.]

Shepherd 2: Farewell, babe and bairn of bliss!
Farewell, Lord that lovely is!
Thee to worship, thy feet I kiss.
On knees to thee I fall,
Thee to worship, I fall on knee.
All this world may joy of thee!
Now farewell, Lord of great pousté! [power]
Yea, farewell king of all.

Shepherd 3: Though I be the last that take my leave,
Yet, fair mullynge, take it not at no grieve. [don't be upset, pretty darling]
Now, fair babe, well may thou cheve! [thrive]
Fair child, now have good day.
Farewell, mine own dear darling:
Iwis, thou art a right fair thing!
Farewell, my Lord and my sweeting!
Farewell, born in poor array.

Mary: Now ye herdsmen, well may ye be;
For your homage and your singing
My son shall quit you in heaven see, [reward you in heaven]
And give you all right good ending.

Though at first not even able to recognise the angels' song, the shepherds are very soon inspired to sing themselves in words of eloquent praise, with tender affection for the 'dear darling' and the 'fair flower' his mother. They are so very sweet towards the baby (kissing his feet!), but they also trust him to overthrow the devil and deliver the whole world from pain. Perhaps that's why they sing Stella celi, a hymn which with extraordinary confidence finds its hope for deliverance from sickness not only in the motion of the stars, but in the most everyday act of love: a mother who by feeding her baby saved the world from disaster.

An Advent Carol: O Orient Light

Annunciation (BL Add. 29433, f. 20)

Here's an Advent poem from a collection of carols which was compiled by James Ryman, Franciscan friar of Canterbury, at the very end of the fifteenth century. I've often posted carols from Ryman's extensive collection (his manuscript contains more than 150 carols, all accessible here), and they're suitable for all seasons for the year. Far from being for Christmas alone, medieval carols could be very diverse in their themes, even if you stick, as Ryman does, to sacred rather than secular topics; he does have a good number of Christmas carols, but also includes songs about the Passion, the Virgin Mary, the Trinity, his order's founder St Francis, and general moral themes of death and transience - much more varied than what we would think of as carol fare today. He has carol versions of a number of Latin hymns, such as the Advent hymns Conditor alme siderum and Vox clara, which act as a good example of how these Latin liturgical texts could serve as inspiration for vernacular poetry. And even within his Christmas material, there's considerable variation in tone: some of his carols are light-hearted - the cheeky 'Farewell Advent, Christmas is come!' is a particular highlight - while others are theologically sophisticated ('Behold and see') or poignant and sombre ('Mary hath borne alone').

This one drew my eye for its spirited rhyme scheme - one rhyme per stanza, repeated six times. It's a lively little bit of virtuosity, just for the joy of it. Since the language is pretty straightforward this is in modern spelling; here's a link to the Middle English.

O Christe, rex gentium,
O vita viventium.

O orient light shining most bright,
O son of right, adown thou light [i.e. alight from above]
And by thy might now give us light,
O Christe rex gentium.

O Saviour, most of honour,
Come from thy tower, cease our dolour
Both day and hour waiting succour,
O vita viventium.

O we in pain would, in certain, [i.e. we in pain truly desire]
Thou wouldst refrain, Lord, and restrain
Thine hand again of might and main,
O Christe, rex gentium.

O Jesse root, most sweet and sote, [lovely]
In rind and root most full of bote, [healing]
To us be bote, bound hand and foot,
O vita viventium.

O Assuere, prince without peer,
Come from thy sphere, to us draw near;
Our prayer hear, O Lord most dear,
O Christe, rex gentium.

O corner stone, that makest both one,
Hear our great moan and grant our bone [prayer]
Come down anon, save us each one,
O vita viventium.

O prince of peace, our bond release,
Our woe thou cease, and grant us peace
In bliss endless, that shall not cease,
O Christe, rex gentium.

O king of might and son of right,
O endless light so clear and bright,
Of thee a sight thou us behight, [promised]
O vita viventium.

This poem has no direct source as far as I know. but it seems to be loosely influenced by the O Antiphons, since some of the titles used here for Christ form part of that grouping of texts: Rex Gentium, Oriens, Root of Jesse. The sixth stanza also uses a phrase from the Rex Gentium antiphon, 'cornerstone that makes both one'. The form of the poem, with each verse beginning with an acclamation, 'O...', also echoes the antiphons, though it's an approach Ryman uses quite often elsewhere. In any case, the use of these texts is fairly free; there are several antiphons not alluded to here, they aren't in any particular order, and it took me a while even to spot the connection. There are lots of other things thrown in among them, including other Biblical allusions and a reference to 'Assuere', i.e. the king in the Book of Esther, which medieval Biblical interpreters took to be a story which prefigured the relationship between Mary, God and mankind. An erudite allusion for a carol, you might think, but it crops up pretty often in Ryman's collection!

My favourite verse, I think, is about the Root of Jesse:

O Jesse root, most sweet and sote,
In rind and root most full of bote,
To us be bote, bound hand and foot,
O vita viventium.

Modern interpretations of the O Antiphons seem to struggle a bit with the Root of Jesse image, partly because of hesitation about how it should best be rendered in English (you will sometimes hear instead 'Rod of Jesse' or 'Branch of Jesse' or similar variations, which don't all necessarily evoke 'plant'). I wonder if modern writers find it difficult to imagine a plant which is also a symbol of power, which can 'stand as a sign before the nations' and silence kings, as the antiphon imagines it (him) doing. But medieval poets were much more attuned than we are to religious imagery drawn from nature, including a rich and complex iconography of trees, flowers, and plants, and they were utterly familiar with the idea that plants could be healing, that the natural world was medicine to mankind and thus an analogy for Christ's redemptive work.

And so it is in this verse. 'Sweet and sote' is one of those alliterative doublets medieval English poets were very fond of, both in the Anglo-Saxon period and long after (another example which occurs in the third verse here, 'might and main', is still in use today). As is often the case, the meaning of the two words is almost synonymous; both words here basically mean 'sweet', though the first refers more to flavour and the second to fragrance. The Root of Jesse is imagined as a plant which both tastes and smells delectable, giving forth its sweetness like a breath of air. But it's also a plant which can heal, bringing 'bote'. 'Bote' is a very common word in Middle English religious writing, and it has a broad range of meaning, which Ryman is playing with in these lines, to do with remedy, redemption, and repair. In the first case, 'in rind and root most full of bote', it's the healing power of a plant, as if the Root of Jesse is a health-giving herb from which you can chop up the bark and root and make medicine. In the second case, 'to us be bote', it shifts towards the meaning 'redemption, amends', for those who are 'bound hand and foot' in the captivity of sin. The verse is fully alive to the botanical reality of the word but also to the other metaphorical possibilities it offers, all the different kinds of 'salvation' it can encompass.

BL Add. 27697, f. 105v

The singing of the O Antiphons begins (according to medieval English practice) on 16 December, running up to Christmas Eve. I've written quite a lot here about medieval poems inspired by, translating, or meditating on these rich texts, and Ryman's poem is one more to add to the collection. If you'd like to read some others, here's a Middle English poem based on the antiphons which is roughly contemporary with Ryman, from the late fifteenth century, and two carols of a similar date, based on two of the antiphons. And then there's the much longer, more intricate, more sophisticated meditation on these texts by an anonymous Anglo-Saxon poet; for an introduction to that glorious poem start here, and work your way back through the series. I promise, there's nothing better you could be reading in the run-up to Christmas...

'Mary hath borne alone'

Virgin and Child, from a 15th-century Book of Hours (BL Add. 50001, f. 119v)

Mary hath borne alone
The Son of God in throne.

That maiden mild her child did keep
As mothers doth echone, [as all mothers do]
But her dear son full sore did weep
For sinful man alone.

She rocked him and sung 'Lullay',
But ever he made great moan.
'Dear son,' she said, 'tell, I thee pray,
Why dost thy weep alone?'

'Mother,' he said, 'I shall be slain,
Who sin did never none,
And suffer death with woeful pain;
Therefore I weep alone.'

'Lullay,' she said, 'sleep and be still,
And let be all thy moan,
For all thing is at thine own will
In heaven and earth alone.'

'Mother,' he said, 'how should I sleep?
How should I leave my moan?
I have more cause to sob and weep,
Since I shall die alone.'

'Dear son,' she said, 'the king of bliss,
That is so high in throne,
Knoweth that thou didst never amiss,
Why shouldest thou die alone?'

'Mother,' he said, 'only of thee
I took both flesh and bone,
To save mankind and make it free
With my heart blood alone.'

'Dear son,' she said, 'thou art equal
To God, that is in throne,
For man therefore, that is so thrall,
Why shouldest thou die alone?'

'Mother,' he said, 'my father's will
And mine, they be but one;
Therefore by skill I must fulfill [for this reason I must fulfill]
My father's will alone.'

'Dear son,' she said, 'since thou hast take
Of me both flesh and bone,
If it may be, me not forsake
In care and woe alone.'

'For man I must the ransom pay,
The which to hell is gone,
Mother,' he said, 'on Good Friday,
For he may not alone.' [man cannot do this by himself]

'Dear son,' she said unto him tho [then]
'When thou from me art gone,
Then shall I live in care and woe
Without comfort alone.'

'Mother,' he said, 'take thou no thought,
For me make thou no moan;
When I have bought that I have wrought, [when I have redeemed what I created]
Thou shalt not be alone.'

'On the third day, I thee behight, [promise]
After that I am gone,
I will arise by my great might
And comfort thee alone.'

Baby Jesus (BL Add. 50001, f. 95v)

This is a poem from a manuscript of carols which was compiled by the Canterbury friar James Ryman at the end of the fifteenth century. Ryman's manuscript (now CUL MS. Ee 1.12) contains more than 150 carols on a range of topics and in varying moods, from a cheery farewell to Advent fasting to stately songs in praise of the Virgin Mary and sombre songs like this one. In this week's Catholic Herald I've written a short piece about medieval Christmas celebrations, with an emphasis on festivity and fun and all the things people in the Middle Ages did to celebrate the season, and medieval carols give us some lively pictures of that merriment. But amid the jollity there is another strain, which seeks to explore something more serious, sad, and strange. Medieval carols can speak of joy, comfort, liberation - but they can also imagine a tiny baby telling his mother 'I shall die alone.'

At this time of year medieval images of the Nativity are to be found everywhere, and they usually look serene and beautiful - gazing mother, quiet baby, angels adoring. Some medieval Nativity carols are like this too, but others - a surprisingly large number - offer Nativity scenes which are not peaceful but deeply painful and poignant: the baby Jesus shivering in the cold, or crying and screeching, while Mary and Joseph lament their poverty. I wrote about one particularly powerful example in detail here, but I think this one, gentle and dignified and sad, is my favourite example of the theme:

Child, it is a wepyng dale that thou art comen in;
Thy poure cloutes it proven wel, thy bed made in the bynne;
Cold and hunger thou most thoeln, as thou were geten in synne,
And after deyen on the tree for love of all mankynne.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, no wonder thogh thou care,
Thou art comen amonges hem that thy deeth shullen yare.

The central idea in all these poems is that we live in a 'weeping world', a place of many sorrows; this baby faces pain and death in his future because he has come to share that sorrow, to feel the grief that all human beings feel, and to suffer for our sake.

In James Ryman's poem the keyword, repeated again and again, is that poignant alone. The carol plays delicately with the different shades of meaning this word had in Middle English, so it doesn't quite mean the same thing every time it is used here: sometimes it means 'solitary', but it also means 'only', conveying the sense that this child alone, by his death, can save mankind. In response to Mary's confusion about why her child should suffer by his Father's will, alone also emphasises the unity of will between the Father and the Son (they are 'all one'). No wonder poor Mary struggles to understand, and the carol follows several stages of her confusion and her attempts at comfort: if everything in the universe is at her baby's command, she wonders, what can there be to cry about? She knows her child's power, and his nature - that he is God, equal with his Father - but not what that means, or what it will mean for her. His death alone is also his choice alone; her child is God enough to choose his own death, and yet human enough to weep for it.

It's Mary's reaction which makes this poem particularly moving, especially when she begins to comprehend, and asks him not to leave her: 'If it may be, me not forsake / In care and woe alone.' The force of her grief is reminiscent (perhaps deliberately so) of the powerful dialogues between Mary and Christ on the cross, such as 'Stond wel, moder, under rode', where she clings to her son and cannot let him go, though he begs her to let him die. There she learns, her son tells her, a common sorrow: 'What pain they endure who children bear, / What sorrow they have who children lose.' In her grief she gains kinship with all mothers, just as Christ, becoming a crying baby, shares a pain we all have known.

This genre of medieval poem can be painful reading at Christmastime, but it seems more honest and clear-eyed than the sentimentality which often surrounds a modern Christmas; there is no expectation here that everyone is happy and jolly, living the perfect life which really exists only in Christmas adverts and newspaper supplements. In truth many people at Christmas do feel very much alone; this is a season which, precisely because of its expectation of pleasure, draws painful attention to absences in our lives - whether a specific person or place we are missing, or a more general sense of something we wish to have and don't. These poems offer companionship in that sorrow. Their predominant mood is compassion, in its literal sense: Christ has come into this 'weeping world' to suffer with us. This baby grieves for us, and the idea is that we should be moved by these poems to feel compassion for him and for his mother. It's almost impossible not to, just as it's hard to hear a crying baby and not respond to it. These poems seek to provoke a stirring of what Middle English poets called kynd love - the love which is innate to all creatures, a part of our essential nature, which comes ultimately from God and can be trained to lead us back to him. The love between a mother and her baby is the most kynd instinct in the human heart, Julian of Norwich says; and so she explains why God chose to become a child to his mother that he might be a mother to us all:

Our kynd Mother, our gracious Mother, for he would all wholly become our Mother in all things, he took the ground of his work full low and full mildly in the maiden’s womb... Our high God, the sovereign wisdom of all, in this low place he arrayed him and dyte him [prepared himself] full ready in our poor flesh, himself to do the service and the office of motherhood in all things. The mother’s service is nearest, readiest, and surest. Nearest for it is most of kynd, readiest for it is most of love, and surest for it is most of truth. This office might not nor could never be done to the full but by him alone. We know that all our mothers bear us to pain and to dying. And what is that but our very Mother Jesus? He, all love, beareth us to joy and to endless living...

This fair, lovely word mother, it is so sweet and so kynd of itself that it may not verily be said of none nor to none but of him and to him who is very Mother of life and of all... And in this I saw that all our debts that we owe, by God’s bidding, to fatherhood and motherhood is fulfilled in true loving of God, which blessed love Christ worketh in us; and this was shewed in all, and namely in the high plenteous words where he sayeth, I it am that thou lovest.

Miniature Nativity (BL Add. 50001, f. 100v)

'That we may sing without ending'

Virgin and child (Medieval stained glass, Stowting, Kent)

Regular readers of this blog will know that I have a soft spot for medieval carols, which - despite the associations the term may have for many people today - were not confined to the Christmas season. There are carols for all seasons of the year, on subjects sacred and secular, serious and light-hearted, and most things in between. (If you're in the UK you can watch me talking about this subject on the Easter Sunday edition of Songs of Praise, should you wish to...)

There are numerous medieval carols about the Passion of Christ, but not quite so many for the Easter season, for some reason. But here's one carol which seems appropriate for Eastertide. It comes from the collection of carols put together by the Canterbury Franciscan James Ryman in 1492, and it's a macaronic text which takes its Latin lines from the Marian antiphon used in the season of Easter, Regina caeli:

Regina caeli, laetare, alleluia.
Quia quem meruisti portare, alleluia.
Resurrexit, sicut dixit, alleluia.
Ora pro nobis Deum, alleluia.

Queen of heaven, rejoice, alleluia,
For He whom you were merited to bear, alleluia,
Has risen, as he said, alleluia.
Pray for us to God, alleluia.

James Ryman's extensive collection of carols can be read in full online. It contains many carols in praise of the Virgin, and a fair number making use of a 'Regina caeli' refrain - I've posted two examples before here and here. They all cover pretty much the same ground, naturally, but they are variations on a theme - they experiment with different imagery, different ways of integrating Latin and English lines, and so on. Here's a more extensively macaronic example, which is a skillful piece of work. The following carol is not quite so difficult, but I like it for of its clever use of internal rhyme, which nicely echoes the form of the antiphon's rhyming third line (Resurrexit, sicut dixit). The Latin and English play out their own antiphonal structure of verse and response, and they work beautifully together - if you mentally translate the Latin phrases as you read, you'll see that in every verse they fit perfectly with the sense of the English lines, which is not an easy trick to accomplish! It feels like there's something playful about those chiming rhymes, even in a carol which is serious and devotional.

This is in modern spelling for ease for reading, but the Middle English can be found here.

Stella maris, micaris clare:
Regina caeli, laetare.

Behold and see, O lady free,
Quem meruisti portare,
God and man is he, thus believe we,
Regina caeli, laetare.

King Assuere, thy son so dear,
Quem meruisti portare,
In bliss so clear he hath no peer,
Regina caeli, laetare.

Since thy son is the king of bliss,
Quem meruisti portare,
With him and his thou shalt not miss, [shall not fail to be]
Regina caeli, laetare.

That lord so good, with so mild mood, [disposition]
Quem meruisti portare,
Upon the rood shed his heart’s blood,
Regina caeli, laetare.

O lady free, glad mayst thou be,
Quem meruisti portare,
As he told thee, arise did he,
Regina caeli, laetare.

By thy sweet child, so meek and mild,
Quem meruisti portare,
Man, that was wild, is reconciled;
Regina caeli, laetare.

That lord, who wrought all things of nought,
Quem meruisti portare,
Mankind hath bought and to bliss brought;
Regina caeli, laetare.

The heavenly choir that lord so dear,
Quem meruisti portare,
With voices clear laudeth in fere [praises in harmony]
Regina caeli, laetare.

That lord and king to bliss us bring
Quem meruisti portare,
That we may sing without ending:
Regina caeli, laetare.

The reference in the second verse to 'King Assuere' is an allusion to the Biblical story of Esther, who was considered to be a typological figure of Mary as Queen of Heaven - a reminder that Ryman and any reader of his carols could be expected to have a sophisticated understanding of theology and Biblical exegesis.

Ryman's carols don't come with music, sadly, though this one feels more than usually singable. (With voices clear laudeth in fere...) But for some related music, you could do worse than listen to this jolly carol from half a century earlier than Ryman, or Byrd's Regina Caeli, from just over a hundred years later.

Coronation of the Virgin (BL Harley 2838, f. 51v)

'O sinful man, give me thine heart'

The Crucifixion in a 15th-century Book of Hours (BL Sloane 2321, f.111v)

Reuert, reuert, reuert, reuert;
O synfull man, geve me thyn hert.

Haue myende how I mankyende haue take
Of a pure mayde, man, for thy sake,
That were moost bonde, moost fre to make:
O synfull man, geve me thyn hert.

Haue myende, thou synfull creature,
I toke baptyme in thy nature
Fro filthe of synne to make the pure:
O synfull man, geve me thyn hert.

Haue myende, man, how I toke the felde
Vpon my bak bering my shelde;
For payne ne dethe I wolde not yelde;
O synfull man, yeve me thyn hert.

Haue myende, I was put on the rode
And for thy sake shedde my hert blode.
Beholde my payne, beholde my moode:
O synfull man, yeve me thyn hert.

Beholde me, hede, hande, foote, and side,
Beholde my woundes fyve so wyde,
Beholde the payne that I abyde:
O synfull man, yeve me thyn hert.

Haue myende, man, how fast I was bounde
For thy sake to a pilloure rounde,
Scorged till my bloode feil to grounde:
O synfull man, yeve me thyn hert.

Haue myende, how I in fourme of bred
Haue left my flesshe and blode to wedde,
To make the quyk, whenne thou art dedde:
O synfull man, yeve me thyn hert.

Haue myende, man, how I haue the wrought,
How with my bloode I haue the bought,
And how to blis I haue the brought;
O synfull man, yeve me thyn hert.

O synfull man, beholde and see,
What I haue done and do for the.
Yf thou wilte be in blis with me,
O synfull man, yeve me thyn hert.

Bothe for my dethe and paynes smert,
That I suffred for thy desert,
I aske no more, man, but thyne hert:
Reuert, reuert, reuert, reuert.

This is another poem from CUL MS. Ee 1.12, which in that manuscript follows the two 'Nolo mortem peccatoris' poems and precedes 'O man, whiche art the erthe take froo'. The speaker is, of course, Christ, and the refrain, 'revert' is perhaps supposed to echo Isaiah 44:22: 'Return to me, for I have redeemed you'.

The Crucifixion in a 15th-century Book of Hours (BL Harley 2915 f. 167v)

Revert, revert, revert, revert;
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Have mind how I mankind have take
Of a pure maid, man, for thy sake,
Those who were most bound, most free to make:
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Have mind, thou sinful creature,
I took baptism in thy nature
From filth of sin to make thee pure:
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Have mind, man, how I took the field
Upon my back bearing my shield;
For pain nor death I would not yield;
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Have mind, I was put on the rood
And for thy sake shed my heart's blood.
Behold my pain, behold my mood: [appearance, manner]
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Behold me, head, hand, foot, and side,
Behold my wounds five so wide,
Behold the pain that I abide:
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Have mind, man, how fast I was bound
For thy sake to a pillar round,
Scourged till my blood fell to ground:
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Have mind how I in form of bread
Have left my flesh and blood to wedde, [as a pledge]
To make thee quick, when thou art dead:
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Have mind, man, how I have thee wrought,
How with my blood I have thee bought,
And how to bliss I have thee brought;
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

O sinful man, behold and see,
What I have done and do for thee.
If thou wilt be in bliss with me,
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Both for my death and pains smart,
That I suffered for thy desert, [for what you deserved]
I ask no more, man, but thine heart:
Revert, revert, revert, revert.

A selection of more Middle English poems about the Passion:

'Stond wel moder under rode'

'Woefully arrayed'

'Lo, lemman sweet'

'I sigh when I sing'

'O man unkind, print in thy mind'

'Suddenly afraid'

'O all women that ever were born'

'Unkind man, give heed to me'

Cold winds and Christ's Passion

'Thou shalt not, man, abyde here ay'

Solomon (BL Royal 1 E IX, f. 163v)

Hec sunt verba prophetica:
Amittes mundi prospera.

O man, whiche art the erthe take froo,
Ayene into erthe thou shalt goo;
The wyse man in his lore seith soo:
Amittes mundi prospera.

Bysshop or emperoure though that thou be,
Kynge, prince or duke of high degree,
Emperesse or quene or lady free,
Amittes mundi prospera.

Though of richesse thou haue thy wille,
Of mete and drinke having thy fille,
When dredefull dethe shall come the tille,
Amittes mundi prospera.

Job seith: 'Good Lorde, of me haue myende,
For why my lyfe is but a wyende:
To erth I shall ayene by kyende.'
Amittes mundi prospera.

Thou shalt not, man, abyde here ay,
But as a floure shalt fade away;
Therfore to the I dare wele say:
Amittes mundi prospera.

Criste graunt vs grace that we come may
To heven blis, that lasteth aye,
Where is no nyght, but ever day
Et infinita prospera.

This text comes from a manuscript of poems and carols (now Cambridge University Library MS. Ee 1.12) which was compiled by a Franciscan friar, James Ryman, in the last decade of the fifteenth century. Carols from Ryman's collection have featured on this blog several times before, most recently 'Behold and see', and I've been intending to post this one for a little while, as appropriate for this season of Lent. After watching the service for the reburial of Richard III this morning, it feels even more apt. The poem draws on Lenten texts - the 'wise man' of the first verse is Solomon, in an allusion to Ecclesiastes 3:20, and the reference to Job comes from Job 7:7 - but its theme is almost ubiquitous in medieval literature; some of my favourite expressions of it can be found under this tag. James Ryman was compiling his manuscript at Greyfriars in Canterbury c.1492, some seven years after his brother Franciscans had given Richard III his first burial in Leicester; but no fifteenth-century reader of this poem would have needed civil wars or bloody battles to remind them that earthly power is fleeting, and that worldly prosperity passes away from kings and commoners alike.

Hec sunt verba prophetica:
Amittes mundi prospera.

O man, which art the earth taken fro, [from]
Again into earth thou shalt go;
The wise man in his lore saith so:
Amittes mundi prospera.

Bishop or emperor though thou be,
King, prince, or duke of high degree,
Empress or queen or lady free,
Amittes mundi prospera.

Though of riches thou have thy will,
Of meat and drink having thy fill,
When fearsome death shall come thee till, [to]
Amittes mundi prospera.

Job saith: 'Good Lord, of me have mind,
For my life is but a wind;
To earth I shall again by kynde.' [according to my nature]
Amittes mundi prospera.

Thou shalt not, man, abide here aye,
But as a flower shalt fade away;
Therefore to thee I dare well say:
Amittes mundi prospera.

Christ grant us grace that we come may
To heaven's bliss, that lasteth aye,
Where is no night, but ever day
Et infinita prospera.

Job in prosperity and wretchedness (BL Royal 1 E IX, f. 136v)

The sermon given at today's reinterment was, as is entirely fitting, a sermon for the twenty-first century - focusing on 'harmony in place of conflict', 'mutual respect and honour', 'the “we” society rather than the “me” society'. It's interesting to speculate what a fifteenth-century preacher would have said if called upon to preach on the same occasion. The situation might have seemed to offer almost too obvious a moral lesson, a memento mori nearly too good to be true: a king who strove so hard to gain and keep power, reduced in the end to nothing more than a skeleton in a grave. I wonder if our hypothetical medieval preacher, looking out over all today's civic pomp and pageantry, would have talked about the vanity of earthly ambition and the emptiness of worldly power - if his sermon would have sounded like Ryman's poem, or 'Earth upon earth':

Erthe oute of erthe is wondirly wroghte,
Erthe has geten one erthe a dignite of noghte,
Erthe appon erthe hase sett alle his thoghte
How that erthe upon erthe may be heghe broghte.

Erthe upon erthe wolde be a kinge
Bot how erthe to erthe sall, thinkes he no thinge.
When erthe bredes erthe and his rentes home bringe
Thane shall erthe of erthe have full harde parting.

An Advent Carol: Behold and see

The Annunciation, with prophets in the border (BL Sloane 2321, f. 41)

Ecce quod natura
mutat sua iura:
Virgo parit pura
Dei filium.

Beholde and see how that nature
Chaungith here lawe: a mayden pure
Shalle bere a chielde (thus seith scripture),
Jhesus, oure savyour.

Beholde, the flease of Gedeon
Wexed wete, that no dewe fel on;
Beholde, the yerde of Aaron
Unmoysted bare a floure.

The prophete Isay seith thus:
"A mayde shall bere a childe to us
Whose name shall be called Jhesus,
Oure helpe and our socour.

"A yerde shall goo oute of Jesse rote
Wherof a floure shall ascende full soote."
This floure is Crist, oure helth and boote,
This yerde, Mary, his boure.

Seynt Mathew seith in the gospell,
"A mayde shall bere Emanuell,
That is to sey, God with us to dwell,
That lovely paramour."

Forsoth, to us is borne a chielde;
A sonne is yeven to us full myelde
Of virgyne Marie undefielde
To cease oure grete langoure.

This is the stone cutte of the hille,
Criste borne of Marie us untille
Without synne in thought, dede, and wille
To save us fro dolour.

This chielde shall be the Prince of Peas,
Whose kingdome shall ever encrease,
Wherof the peas shall nevir ceas
But encreace day and houre.

Seint Anselme seith, "So Criste did pas
Thurgh Marie myelde, as his wille was,
As the sonne beame goth thurgh the glas,
That mayde full of honoure."

Richard Greene, The Early English Carols (Oxford, 1962), 67.

This is a carol from the manuscript of the Canterbury Franciscan James Ryman (Cambridge University Library MS. Ee 1.12), source of so many interesting fifteenth-century English carols. Its refrain is taken from the Latin Christmas hymn 'Ecce novum gaudium', but this is not a translation; only the first verse is really based on the hymn. The rest draws on traditional imagery of the incarnation - the Virgin as the fleece of Gideon and the miraculously flowering rod of Aaron - and on texts much used in Advent, such as the prophecies of Isaiah. Although simple in its language, it's a beautiful carol, weaving a wealth of images rich in poetry and meaning into its short English lines. And for once, it can be translated without losing any of that beauty:

See how nature
changes her laws:
a pure virgin bears
the son of God.

Behold and see how that nature
Changeth her law: a maiden pure
Shall bear a child, thus saith scripture:
Jesus, our Saviour.

Behold, the fleece of Gideon
Waxed wet, that no dew fell upon;
Behold, the rod of Aaron
Unmoistened bore a flower.

The prophet Isaiah saith thus:
"A maid shall bear a child to us
Whose name shall be called Jesus,
Our help and our succour.

A rod shall grow out of Jesse root
Whereof a flower shall ascend full sweet."
This flower is Christ, our health and bote, [redemption]
This rod Mary, his bower.

Saint Matthew saith in the gospel,
"A maid shall bear Emmanuel,
That is to say, God with us to dwell,
That lovely paramour."

Forsooth, to us is born a child;
A son is given to us full mild,
Of virgin Mary undefiled
To ease our great langour.

This is the stone cut of the hill,
Christ born of Mary us until, [unto]
Without sin in thought, deed, and will
To save us from dolour.

This child shall be the Prince of Peace,
Whose kingdom shall ever increase,
Whereof the peace shall never cease
But increase day and hour.

Saint Anselm saith, "So Christ did pass
Through Mary mild, as his will was,
As the sunbeam goeth through the glass,
That maid full of honour."

Perhaps the carol's simple language only enhances its beauty, conveying complex theological ideas without obscuring them; it becomes transparent, you might say. The image in the last verse, of Christ entering the world through Mary like the sunbeam passing through the glass, is a very common simile in medieval literature, and one that I'm fond of (compare this carol, and this poem). The attribution to St Anselm is not strictly accurate, in that the image doesn't appear in his works, but it was 'a simile much used in the school of Anselm', according to R. W. Southern. For the practice of citing a learned authority in a carol, compare the reference to St Ambrose in 'This world wondreth'.

The sun shining through the glass in the chapel where Anselm is buried, Canterbury Cathedral, December 2012

I can't find any recordings of the English carol, but here's the Latin hymn 'Ecce novum gaudium':

A Song for St Francis, 2

St Francis (England, 14th or 15th century; BL Royal 16 E XII f.152)

A few years ago I posted a fifteenth-century carol to St Francis of Assisi by John Audelay, 'Saint Francis, to thee I say, / Save thy brethren both night and day'. I'm always interested in vernacular medieval tributes to saints; non-medievalists are often surprised that such things exist at all, let alone that they survive in such large numbers, so it's good to give them a bit of exposure - and in the case of St Francis vernacular songs always seem particularly appropriate. Between John of Grimestone, William Herebert, Audelay and James Ryman, Franciscan friars number among some of the very best writers and collectors of Middle English poems, songs and carols.

So here are two poems addressed to St Francis, from the end of the fifteenth century, which come from the big manuscript collection of poems and carols made by the friar James Ryman. Ryman was based in Canterbury at the first Franciscan house founded in England, which had been established in 1224, two years before St Francis' death. Ryman's collection includes one long poem to St Francis, as well as these two short ones (the text is taken from Julius Zupitza, 'Die Gedichte des Franziskaners Jacob Ryman', Archiv für das Studium der neueren Sprachen und Literaturen 89 (1892), 167-338 (237-8 and 283), which can be read online here).

Hayle, holy fader of the high cuntrey,
Of frere mynours the beawtie and light,
Of a iust man the rightful wey,
Of goode maners the rule moost right:
By thy vertu and goostely myght,
Out of this lyfe when we shull wende,
To blisse lede us, that hath noon ende.

That is:

Hail, holy father of the high country,
Of Friars Minor the beauty and light,
Of a just man the rightful way,
Of good manners [i.e. conduct] the rule most right;
By thy virtue and ghostly might,
Out of this life when we shall wend
To bliss lead us that hath no end.

One of the earliest depictions of St Francis in England, painted c.1250

(Doddington, Kent)

The other piece is a translation of a Latin sequence for St Francis, 'Laetabundus Francisco', and all the Latin phrases here come from that sequence.

Laetabundus Francisco decantet clerus, alleluia.

1. Now gladly shall the clergy singe
To seint Fraunceys, this hevenly thinge,
Alleluia;

2. Whome Criste hath fixte, that lover true,
Hert, hande and foote transfourmed new,
Res miranda.

3. His myende in his flesshe did appere,
And in new wyse he shone full clere,
Sol de stella.

4. This man, the whiche this wyse did floure,
Taught birdes with voice God to honoure
Semper clara.

5. And, as Crist hath taught, poverte
In wille, dede and thought kepe did he
Pari forma.

6. He wolde, nouther in wille nor dede,
That his doughter dere shulde possede
Hec corrupta.

7. Now he joieth above in blisse,
With tokenes newe shynyng he is
Valle nostra.

8. Eyen with light by hym renewed,
A chielde with tunge he hath endewed
Carne sumpta.

9. Sume having speche, sume lyfe agayn,
Heresy by hym is knowen full playne
Esse ceca.

10. Dume, blynde and lame taking comforte
Divers kingdomes knowing reporte
Hec predicta.

11. The sawdons fraude he did despise,
And yet hym hurt hath in no wise
Gens misera.

12. His woundes sheweth gyftes newe
Geven of Criste borne of Marie true,
Puerpera.

Francis preaching to the birds (England, 14th century; BL Yates Thompson 13, f.181v)

A Regina Caeli

BL Egerton 2781 f.20v

The Marian antiphon for the Easter season (which we are still in for a while longer) is the Regina Caeli, so here's a medieval carol which takes that text as its starting-point. It comes from the fifteenth-century manuscript of carols collected by the Canterbury friar James Ryman, which includes a number of carols inspired by this text (I posted another one last year). The text is:

Regina caeli, laetare, alleluia.
Quia quem meruisti portare, alleluia.
Resurrexit, sicut dixit, alleluia.
Ora pro nobis Deum, alleluia.

Queen of heaven, rejoice, alleluia,
For He whom you merited to bear, alleluia,
Has risen, as he said, alleluia.
Pray for us to God, alleluia.

This song has a lilting and melodious chant, with all the sweet simplicity of a lullaby. Listen to it here. Ryman's carol borrows just the first two lines and meditates upon them, inverting them to form a macaronic refrain which weaves its way through the poem.

The text comes from here, and my translation follows.

1. O emperesse, the emperoure,
Quem meruisti portare,
Of heven and erthe hath made the floure:
Regina celi, letare.

2. O quene of grace, the king of blisse,
Quem meruisti portare,
Hath made thy sete next vnto his:
Regina celi, letare.

3. O princesse pure, the prince of peas,
Quem meruisti portare,
Euer thy ioye he doth encreas:
Regina celi, letare.

4. O lady fre, the lorde of alle,
Quem meruisti portare,
Hath made man free, that was moost thralle:
Regina celi, letare.

5. O swete moder, thy son Ihesus,
Quem meruisti portare,
He rose ayene, that died for vs:
Regina celi, letare.

6. O mayden myelde, thy son so dere,
Quem meruisti portare,
Hath crowned the in blis so clere:
Regina celi, letare.

7. O spowse of Criest, oure sauyoure,
Quem meruisti portare,
Heven and erthe the doth honoure:
Regina celi, letare.

8. O Marie, of thy sonne aske this,
Quem meruisti portare,
That we may dwelle with hym and his:
Regina celi, letare.

 

British Library, Harley 2915, f.40

Here's a translation:

1. O empress, the emperor,
Whom you merited to bear,
Of heaven and earth hath made thee the flower:
Queen of heaven, rejoice.

2. O queen of grace, the king of bliss,
Whom you merited to bear,
Hath made thy seat next unto his:
Queen of heaven, rejoice.

3. O princess pure, the prince of peace,
Whom you merited to bear,
Ever thy joy he doth increase:
Queen of heaven, rejoice.

4. O lady free, the lord of all,
Whom you merited to bear,
Hath made man free, who was most in thrall: [i.e. imprisoned]
Queen of heaven, rejoice.

5. O sweet mother, thy son Jesus,
Whom you merited to bear,
He rose again, who died for us:
Queen of heaven, rejoice.

6. O maiden mild, thy son so dear,
Whom you merited to bear,
Hath crowned thee in bliss so clear:
Queen of heaven, rejoice.

7. O spouse of Christ, our Saviour,
Whom you merited to bear,
Heaven and earth do thee honour:
Queen of heaven, rejoice.

8. O Mary, of thy son ask this,
Whom you merited to bear,
That we may dwell with him and his:
Queen of heaven, rejoice.

This is a finely balanced poem, elegantly constructed. Each verse in turn presents us with a pair of evenly matched titles: emperor and empress, king and queen, prince and princess, lord and lady, mother and son. Notice how perfectly the Latin and English lines fit together: every first line offers an address to Mary and then a title for Christ to which the relative pronoun of the refrain, quem, can refer. In every verse the first three lines provide a cause of joy which leads up to the fourth line's exhortation, lætare - as if to say 'and so for that reason, be glad'. And you hardly notice how well it works, because the effect is so lovely.

Conditor alme siderum: Holy maker of sterres bright

Creation of the stars, BL Royal E IX, f. 3v

Among the Office Hymns for Advent is 'Conditor Alme Siderum', best known in translation today as 'Creator of the stars of night'. Intended to be sung in the evening, as the early dusk of a winter night descends, this hymn praises God as the creator of the stars - those stars which seem to shine so much more brightly in a cold and frosty sky. It draws a parallel between the darkness which envelops us each day and a yet deeper darkness, 'the world's evening hour', which Christ, bright as the sun, illuminates by his entry into the world.

This hymn dates back to the seventh century, and in the medieval church was used at Vespers. Here's the hymn sung in Latin:



And in English by Ely Cathedral Choir:

Creator of the stars of night,

Thy people’s everlasting light,

O Jesu, Saviour of us all,

Hear thou thy servants when they call.

Thou, grieving at the bitter cry

Of all creation doomed to die,

Didst come to save our ruined race

With healing gifts of heavenly grace.

Thou camest, Bridegroom of the bride,

As drew the world to evening-tide;

Proceeding from a virgin shrine,

The Son of Man, yet Lord divine.

At thy great name exalted now

All knees must bend, all hearts must bow;

And things in heaven and earth shall own

That thou art Lord and King alone.

To thee, O holy One, we pray

our judge in that tremendous day,

preserve us, while we dwell below,

from every onslaught of the foe.

All praise, eternal Son, to thee,

whose advent sets thy people free,

whom with the Father we adore,

and Spirit blest, for evermore.

The best-known translation today is from the 19th century, but the hymn was first rendered into English about 800 years before that. In an Anglo-Saxon hymnal from 11th-century Canterbury, the Latin hymn is accompanied by a version in English, not a poetic translation but a full word-by-word gloss. It begins 'Eala, ðu halga scyppend tungla' ('hail, thou holy creator of the stars') and contains some recognisable vocabulary, most notably in the third verse, where the hymn alludes to Psalm 18: Christ, like the sun, comes forth 'as a bridegroom coming out of the bridal chamber'. In Old English, this is 'brydguma of brydbure', 'bridegroom from bridal bower'.

Two years ago I posted a medieval English translation of this hymn written in the early fourteenth century by the Franciscan friar William Herebert. Herebert is an excellent translator and his version of the hymn is a lovely one; the opening phrase which renders God as 'holy wright' of the stars (starwright?) particularly sticks in the mind. In this post I want to look at two more Middle English translations of this hymn, from the end of the fifteenth century. This is by another Franciscan, James Ryman:

Holy maker of sterres bright,
Of feithefull men eternall light,
Crist, that ayene mankynde hast bought,
Here oure prayers of buxum thought.

Having rewth this worlde shulde be spilte
Thurgh the perell of dedly gilte,
Thou savedest fro grete doloure
To the gilty geving socoure.

This worlde drawing nyghe vnto nyght,
As spowse of bowre, thou came out right
Fro the clausure moost clenly dight
Of moder Mary, virgyne bright.

To whose grete myght, as it is right,
On knees boweth euery wight:
Alle heuenly and erthily thinge
Knowlege them meke to thy beknyng.

O holy lorde, we beseche the,
Of alle this worlde that iuge shall be,
Terme of oure lyfe defende vs froo
The darte of the fals fende, oure foo.

Lawde and honoure, ioye and vertue
To god and to his sonne Ihesue,
Also vnto the holigoost,
Bothe thre and one, of myghtis moost.

James Ryman was a master of carols: he left to posterity a manuscript containing no fewer than 170 (!) English carols and songs on all kinds of religious topics (the text is all online here). The carol form is deliberately simple and clear in its vocabulary, and this hardly needs glossing - but just in case, here's a literal version:

Holy maker of stars bright,
Of faithful men eternal light,
Christ, who again mankind hast bought, [bought again = redeemed]
Hear our prayers of humble thought.

Having pity that this world should be spilte [destroyed]
Through the peril of deadly guilt,
Thou savedest it from great dolour
To the guilty giving succour.

This world drawing nigh unto night,
As spouse from bower, thou came aright
From the enclosure most cleanly dight [made]
Of mother Mary, virgin bright.

To whose great might, as it is right,
On knees boweth every wight:
All heavenly and earthly thing
Acknowledge themselves meek at thy beckoning. [command]

O holy Lord, we beseech thee,
Of all this world who Judge shall be,
Throughout our life defend us fro [from]
The dart of the false fiend, our foe.

Laud and honour, joy and virtue [power]
To God and to his Son Jesu,
And unto the Holy Ghost,
Both three and one, of mights most.

Most of the poems in Ryman's collection bear some relationship to a particular Latin text, but they vary quite a bit in how close that relationship is; often the English poem has only the loosest connection with the hymn it quotes. This, however, is a faithful translation - perhaps because it would be difficult to improve on the beauty of the original, with its stars and chambers and bridegrooms and the world's 'evening hour'. I like the run of rhymes in verses 3-4, seven rhymes on 'ight' in just six lines (or eight, if you count 'nigh'); and 'drawing nigh unto night' finds an appropriately alliterative English echo of the Latin's 'vergente... vespere'. In verse 3 this translation also preserves the hymn's quotation of Psalm 18 more precisely than the most common modern translation does: 'as spouse from bower' is the psalm and hymn's 'uti sponsus de thalamo'. 'In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun, which cometh forth as a bridegroom out of his chamber, and rejoiceth as a giant to run his course...'

 

Creation of the stars, BL Royal 6 E VI, f. 1

The sun of the psalm becomes in the hymn Christ, the Son - a piece of sacred wordplay not of course available to the Latin hymnographer, but one which writers have exploited to great effect since the earliest days of vernacular Christian writing in English. (See, for instance, the Anglo-Saxon poem based on 'O Oriens', which makes much of wordplay on the sun, the Son, the stars and the planets in an Advent context.) It's not surprising that this pun should also have occurred to the anonymous author of our second translation of 'Conditor Alme Siderum':

O first fownder and hevenly creature
Off sterrys shynynge in þe sperys hye,
Everlastynge lyght, gydyng frome errovre,
Cryst þat lyst reydeme vs all and bye,
Enclyne tyll vs thyne earys of mercye,
Yeue gracyows audience tyll vs all,
Whyche aye for mercy to þe clepe and calle.

Thorough condolent pete in þi mercy pyght
Yenste force of dethe thys world embandownyng,
Provydyng remyde be þi grace and myght,
Slomboryng in synne and dedly langwysshyng,
Thys worlde frome deth to lyffe reconsylyng,
To gylty sawlys pleyne pardone and remidye,
Sealyng thy self the Chartyre off mercy.

Thys world envyryng toward hys end and fyne,
Endarkyd by synne approchyng his evenyng,
O sonne of grace that lyst one vs to shynne,
And os a spowse frome hys chambyr goyng,
ffrome all damage owr frealte rauysshynge,
Passyng by þe clere cloysytre consecrate
Off mary modyr virgyn immaculate.

To whos myghty power and nowimparaile,
All creaturys owyth humble obeissaunce,
Off heyvyns hygh thow hast þe governayle,
T[h]ys world, also, is thoro þi pyssance,
The fendys also fell for all þeyr bobance
Mote the obey, it may no nother be;
Thus euery thyng for lord most knowlege the.

We prey the, lorde of mercy and grace,
Whane thow shalt come & ben owr hygh justice,
ffor gette owr gylt, for yeue hus owr trespace;
lett nott þe fende reioice hys Entirprise;
Hys dedly dart thy mercy do venquyse;
That dredfull dey, gud lord, vs all conserufe
ffrome thy mercy that we ne flyte ne swerve.

Laud, honor & thankes reuerente,
Endles joy, glorye Emperialle
Be yeue to the fadyr omnipotente,
And to þe sone in godhede peregale,
And to the holy spyryte celestiall
More then men mey wrytyn or discerne
By tymes now and infinite eterne.

This is from the manuscript of hymn translations British Library, MS. Additional 34193, from which I've posted several pieces before. They are paraphrases and expansions more than strict translations, and very different in style from Ryman's simple carol diction:

O first Founder and heavenly Creator
Of stars shining in the spheres on high,
Everlasting light, guiding from error,
Christ, who would redeem us all and buy,
Incline to us thine ears of mercy,
Give gracious audience unto us all,
Who aye for mercy to thee clepe and call.

Through condoling pity in thy mercy pight
Against force of death this world embandownyng, [against the force of the death which had this world in thrall]
Providing remedy by thy grace and might,
Slumbering in sin and deathly languishing,
This world from death to life reconciling,
To guilty souls clear pardon and remedy,
Sealing thyself the charter of mercy.

This world revolving toward his end and fin, [close]
Endarkened by sin, approaching his evening,
O son of grace that pleased on us to shine,
And as a spouse from his chamber going,
From all damage our frailty ravishing, [carrying off]
Passing through the clear cloister consecrate
Of Mary mother virgin immaculate.

To whose mighty power and nonpareil,
All creatures owe their humble obeisance,
Of heavens high thou hast the governance,
This world, also, is through thy puissance,
The fiends who fell, for all their bobance, [pride]
Must thee obey, it may none other be;
Thus every thing for lord must acknowledge thee.

We pray thee, Lord of mercy and grace,
When thou shalt come and be our high justice,
Forget our guilt, forgive us our trespass.
Let not the fiend rejoice in his enterprise;
His deadly dart thy mercy vanquish;
On that dread day, good Lord, us all preserve
From thy mercy that we not fly nor swerve.

Laud, honour and thanks most reverent,
Endless joy, glory imperial
Be given to the Father omnipotent,
And to the Son in Godhead peregale, [fully equal]
And to the Holy Spirit celestial
More than men may write or discern
By times now and infinite eterne.

To me this version, with its stately Latinate diction, loses something of the hymn's concise power, but that's just a matter of taste. It's always interesting to see how differently two contemporary medieval translators could render the same text, and it's also worth bearing in mind that these translations are nearer to us in time (being just over 500 years old) than they were to their Latin source, which was written in the seventh century. This was an ancient hymn for them too, and part of their Advent as it is part of ours.

Christ the bridegroom coming forth from his chamber, in an illustration of Psalm 18 (BL Harley 603, f. 10v)