'Arthur, like summer, waits'

On this sunny day, the first of June, here's John Masefield's 'On the Coming of Arthur', from his book of Arthurian poems, Midsummer Night (1928). Masefield was born on 1 June, 1878.

By ways unknown, unseen,
The summer makes things green,
The pastures and the boughs
Wherein birds house.

Summer will come again,
For sick things become sane,
And dead things fat the root
That brings forth fruit.

Arthur, like summer, waits,
For Wit and Will are gates,
Like those the summers pass
To green earth's grass.

Arthur will come like June,
Full meadow and full moon,
With roses up above
As red as love,

And may-bloom down below,
As white as fallen snow,
And no least linnet dumb,
O Arthur, come.

The third line of the second verse of this mesmerising poem puzzled me, so I looked up 'fat' (v) in the OED, and it means 'fertilize, enrich (soil)' - which is appropriate, for what does the Arthurian legend, or any legend like it, teach us but the richness of our soil, 'not any common earth / Water, wood or air...':



(This is the wonderful Sam Lee singing Peter Bellamy's setting of Kipling's poem, 'Puck's Song', from Puck of Pook's Hill. The book, and the song, refer to different points in the history of England but specifically to the area where East Sussex borders Kent - so it mentions the Weald, the ruins of Bayham, the town of Rye, and the site of the Battle of Hastings, of course.)

Some Pictures from St Bartholomew's, Goodnestone

The tiny Norman church of St Bartholomew's, Goodnestone, stands in a field, next to a farm, in the middle of nowhere (or as close as you can get to the middle of nowhere in well-populated Kent).


There are two places in Kent called Goodnestone: one has a picture-perfect estate village, a beautiful and well-used church, a stately home with delightful gardens, and a connection to Jane Austen. This is the other one.


It's near Faversham, in north Kent, on the edge of Graveney Marsh. The advantage of being so far away from everywhere is that the church is largely unchanged since it was built, c.1100; the disadvantage is that it is now disused, though it's cared for by the fine people at the Churches Conservation Trust.

Unchanged means not extended, though you can't really get a sense even from this picture of how tiny it is. I was standing right against the back wall when I took it!


One of the nicest things about it is the stained glass, some of which is by 'the Father of Victorian Stained Glass', Thomas Willement. Willement lived not far away at Davington Priory, on the outskirts of Faversham, which I suppose is how St Bartholomew's got his attention. (Similarly, and not far away, the equally isolated Kingsdown was much beautified by a church designed by Edward Welby Pugin, son of Augustus).


St Bartholomew's made me appreciate once more just how much stained glass, even of indifferent quality, can add to a church. "Colour fulfils where Music has no power", as Kipling puts it, especially in an otherwise plain and simple setting. There was something about the mixture of patterns in these windows that seemed to elevate the whole place; to reify light itself.

Kipling's Recessional

I've recently become interested in Rudyard Kipling and especially in his quasi-hymns, poems written in hymn metre or using traditional phrases as a springboard for his own thoughts. A few weeks ago I encountered his 'Non nobis Domine', and this 'Recessional' is, of course, appropriate for Remembrance Sunday. It was written in 1897, and can be sung to the tune of 'Eternal Father, Strong to Save'.


God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far flung battle line,
beneath whose awful hand we hold
dominion over palm and pine
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
lest we forget, lest we forget.

The tumult and the shouting dies;
the captains and the kings depart:
still stands thine ancient sacrifice,
an humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
lest we forget, lest we forget.

Far called, our navies melt away;
on dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the nations, spare us yet,
lest we forget, lest we forget.

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
wild tongues that have not thee in awe,
such boastings as the Gentiles use,
or lesser breeds without the law
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
lest we forget, lest we forget.

For heathen heart that puts her trust
in reeking tube and iron shard,
all valiant dust that builds on dust,
and guarding, calls not thee to guard,
for frantic boast and foolish word
lest we forget, lest we forget.

Each man's holiest hour, And all the lit confusion of our days

This is Rudyard Kipling's sonnet 'Chartres Windows', with pictures of windows from Doddington, Kent. They might not be Chartres (I've never been) but they're pretty good.


Colour fulfils where Music has no power:
By each man's light the unjudging glass betrays
All men's surrender, each man's holiest hour
And all the lit confusion of our days-
Purfled with iron, traced in dusk and fire,
Challenging ordered Time who, at the last,
Shall bring it, grozed and leaded and wedged fast,
To the cold stone that curbs or crowns desire.
Yet on the pavement that all feet have trod-
Even as the Spirit, in her deeps and heights,
Turns only, and that voiceless, to her God-
There falls no tincture from those anguished lights.
And Heaven's one light, behind them, striking through
Blazons what each man dreamed no other knew.


(purfled is a strange word. Apparently it means 'decorated with an ornamental border'.)

Kipling's 'The Land'

This is another Kipling poem which came to my attention through the A Folk Song A Day project, where the Peter Bellamy arrangement was brilliantly sung (in its entirety!) a few weeks ago by Jon Boden. Like 'Puck's Song', this poem illustrates Kipling's interest in the continuity of the English landscape through two thousand years of history, with the nice addition here of the continuity of English people, too. I know someone just like Hobden!

The only thing I don't understand about this poem is why Kipling chose 'Ogier the Dane' to be his archetypal Saxon settler - Ogier the Dane was a romance hero belonging to the Charlemagne legend, and not Saxon (or even Danish) at all; he didn't have any connections to Sussex, where this poem is set. You might have expected someone like Hengist and Horsa, the legendary founders of Kent - Ogier is out by about three centuries. It's a strange choice! But the use of William of Warenne, the first post-Conquest lord of Sussex, makes up for it. I wonder if William, when he wasn't being outsmarted by Hereward the Wake, really did ride round rainy Sussex fields with his baliff...


The Land

When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,
In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,
He called to him Hobdenius--a Briton of the Clay,
Saying: 'What about that River-piece for layin' in to hay?'

And the aged Hobden answered: 'I remember as a lad
My father told your father that she wanted dreenin' bad.
An' the more that you neeglect her the less you'll get her clean.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd dreen.'

So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style.
Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,
And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show,
We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.

Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,
And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main
And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.

Well could Ogier work his war-boat--well could Ogier wield his brand--
Much he knew of foaming waters--not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood.
Saying: 'What about that River-bit, she doesn't look no good?'

And that aged Hobden answered: ''Tain't for me to interfere,
But I've known that bit o' meadow now for five and fifty year.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but I've proved it time on time,
If you want to change her nature you have got to give her lime!'

Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours' solemn walk,
And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.
And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in't;
Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.

Ogier died. His sons grew English. Anglo-Saxon was their name,
Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;
For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,
And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.

But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy Autumn night
And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.
So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds:
'Hob, what about that River-bit--the Brook's got up no bounds?'

And that aged Hobden answered: ''Tain't my business to advise,
But ye might ha' known 'twould happen from the way the valley lies.
When ye can't hold back the water you must try and save the sile.
Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd spile!'

They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-trees
And planks of elms behind 'em and immortal oaken knees.
And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away
You can see their faithful fragments iron-hard in iron clay.

* * * * *

Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the River-field,
Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed,
Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirs
All sorts of powers and profits which--are neither mine nor theirs.

I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.
I can fish--but Hobden tickles. I can shoot--but Hobden wires.
I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege,
Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a hedge.

Shall I dog his morning progress o'er the track-betraying dew?
Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew?
Confiscate his evening faggot into which the conies ran,
And summons him to judgment? I would sooner summons Pan.

His dead are in the churchyard--thirty generations laid.
Their names went down in Domesday Book when Domesday Book was made.
And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line
Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.

Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies,
Would I lose his large sound council, miss his keen amending eyes.
He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,
And if flagrantly a poacher--'tain't for me to interfere.

'Hob, what about that River-bit?' I turn to him again
With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.
'Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but'--and so he takes command.
For whoever pays the taxes old Mus' Hobden owns the land.