The Anglo-Saxon O Antiphons: O Caelorum Domine, Lord of the Heavens

Anglo-Saxon ivory plaque of Christ in Majesty, 11th century (V&A)

Of all the poetry you might read in Advent, the great season of paradox and interpretative possibility, the very best choice may be some of the poetry inspired by the 'O Antiphons'. The last week of Advent has for centuries belonged to these ancient songs of appeal, which are sung each day at Vespers as Christmas draws closer. You can read about the history of the O Antiphons here; these texts are now best known via J. M. Neale's hymn 'O Come, O Come Emmanuel', but they have inspired poets since the earliest days of poetry in English. In the past I've posted several Middle English poems based on these texts - two poems and two carols - as well as the exquisite Anglo-Saxon poetic meditation inspired by the antiphons, which is known today as the Advent Lyrics or as Christ I.

This poem, which survives in the tenth-century Exeter Book, is incomplete (the beginning is lost), but as it stands it consists of twelve sections, each opening with the Old English equivalent of the antiphons' 'O': Eala. Some of these sections correspond with the seven antiphons which are today the best-known, but the first three (O Sapientia, O Adonai, O Radix Jesse) are missing, and there are several additions; diverse medieval practice encompassed a range of further antiphons no longer used today. In past years I've looked in detail at different sections of the poem, which you can find in the following posts:

O rex gentium (lines 1-17)
O clavis David (18-49)
O Jerusalem (51-70)
O virgo virginum (71-103)
O Oriens (104-129)
O Emmanuel (130-163)
O Joseph (164-213)
O rex pacifice (214-274)

Of the twelve there are still four I haven't looked at here, and this year I'll translate and explore two more of them. It's not entirely clear whether the Advent Lyrics are one poem or a sequence of poems, but either way they benefit from being read in stages like this, piece by piece - they are poems which ask you to read them slowly and meditate upon them. Each word, each metaphor, gives forth more meaning the more you dwell upon it. The O Antiphons are reflections on the idea of Christ under his different names and titles, a shifting succession of metaphors which attempt to express something, yet not all, of what he might be: the key, the root, the king, the sun, pure and complete wisdom. I've said in the past that I think the antiphons lend themselves particularly well to Anglo-Saxon poetry because this kind of allusive naming and renaming is exactly how much Old English poetry chooses to explore ideas (usually in the form of what's called 'variation') - it's an incremental, oblique progression of thought, where each name offers a new form of understanding or a different glancing light upon the thing described.

So these are texts rich in metaphor, alive with language and images of profound beauty; and yet they are something more, because in Christ, as nowhere else, metaphor collapses into truth. The antiphons suggest that in some mystical sense what is coming at Christmas is more truly the sun (or root, or king) than the sun itself. It is the external world which is the metaphor, Christ who is the reality. God is a poet who has written the world in metaphors which reveal his truth, his self; and our task - our pleasure - is to learn how to read them.

At the same time, there's something about the antiphons, and the poems inspired by them, which is not solely meditative - they are urgent and immediate and dramatic (in every sense of that word). They are to be sung as if in the voice of the whole church, the whole world, calling out in longing to its Lord. Each is a cry of desire, bearing a startling emotional intensity, and they encourage the reader to dwell with that desire - to feel it, explore it, attempt to understand its source. What is it we long for? What do we hope for, what do we seek? Sometimes the poems articulate what they are asking for - they appeal for light, or for freedom, or for strength - but at other times the desire is left undefined, and perhaps more powerful for being so. The poems do not promise that desire will or can be fulfilled; they long for and ask for fulfillment, but they don't possess it yet. They exist forever in a state of hope and uncertainty, acknowledging the world's great wound of need, and appealing for it to be healed.

Christ in Majesty, from a 10th-century English manuscript (Cambridge, Trinity MS. B 10 4, f. 16v)

So, here's the first of this year's translations: 'O caelorum domine'. This is the antiphon on which the poem is (rather loosely) based:

O caelorum domine,
qui cum patre sempiternus es una cum sancto spiritu,
audi tuos famulos,
veni ad salvandum nos, iam noli tardare.

O Lord of the heavens,
who with the Father and the Holy Spirit eternally lives,
hear your servants,
come to save us, do not delay.

This is so simple - what could be simpler? But look what the Anglo-Saxon poet made of it.

Eala þu halga heofona dryhten,
þu mid fæder þinne gefyrn wære
efenwesende in þam æþelan ham.
Næs ænig þa giet engel geworden,
ne þæs miclan mægenþrymmes nan
ðe in roderum up rice biwitigað,
þeodnes þryðgesteald ond his þegnunga,
þa þu ærest wære mid þone ecan frean
sylf settende þas sidan gesceaft,
brade brytengrundas. Bæm inc is gemæne
heahgæst hleofæst. We þe, hælend Crist,
þurh eaðmedu ealle biddað
þæt þu gehyre hæfta stefne,
þinra niedþiowa, nergende god,
hu we sind geswencte þurh ure sylfra gewill.
Habbað wræcmæcgas wergan gæstas,
hetlen helsceaþa, hearde genyrwad,
gebunden bealorapum. Is seo bot gelong
eall æt þe anum, ece dryhten.
Hreowcearigum help, þæt þin hidercyme
afrefre feasceafte, þeah we fæhþo wið þec
þurh firena lust gefremed hæbben.
Ara nu onbehtum ond usse yrmþa geþenc,
hu we tealtrigað tydran mode,
hwearfiað heanlice. Cym nu, hæleþa cyning,
ne lata to lange. Us is lissa þearf,
þæt þu us ahredde ond us hælogiefe
soðfæst sylle, þæt we siþþan forð
þa sellan þing symle moten
geþeon on þeode, þinne willan.

O holy Lord of the Heavens,
from of old you were with your Father
equal-being in the glorious home.
Not one angel had yet been made,
nor one of the mighty and majestic host
which guards the kingdom in the skies,
the splendour-dwelling of the Prince and his thegns,
when first you were with the eternal Lord
yourself establishing this vast creation,
the wide and spacious lands. One with you both
is the sheltering Spirit. Saviour Christ,
we all pray to you in humility
that you may hear the voice of the hostages,
of your captives, Liberating God,
how we are sore pressed by our own desires.
The cursed spirits, hate-filled hell-foes,
have cruelly confined the exiled race,
bound with bale-ropes. The remedy is
dependent entirely on you alone, eternal Lord.
Help the heart-sore, that your coming here
may comfort the wretched, though we
through our desire for wickedness have made a feud against you.
Have mercy now on your servants and think on our sorrows,
how we stumble on, weak at heart,
wandering hopelessly. Come now, king of men,
do not delay too long! We need kindness,
for you to rescue us and give us the true
grace of salvation, so that we may henceforth
always be able to do the better thing
to thrive among the people: your will.

There's a very sudden shift in this poem which occurs around the halfway point - a vertiginous plummet from heaven down to hell. The first half is all glory, eternity, stability, strength; the second half suffering, sorrow, constriction, frailty. By the swiftness of the transition, the poem enacts the descent it asks for: the entry of Christ, 'Lord of the heavens', into the world of exiles and captives. It reminds me of this image from an Anglo-Saxon Psalter of a gigantic Christ leaning down to pluck his people from the jaws of hell:

This is the kind of disparity of scale the poem evokes, with its contrast between the brade brytengrundas, 'the wide and spacious lands' of his dwelling-place, and the confining (genyrwad, i.e. 'narrowed' ) limits of ours.

The first half of the poem is stately and measured, with some elegant negatives:

Næs ænig þa giet engel geworden,
ne þæs miclan mægenþrymmes nan...

Not one angel had yet been made,
nor one of the mighty and majestic host...

There's language of stability and constancy: eternity, of course, and the establishment of the heavens, described as a þryðgesteald, a 'dwelling of glory' (gesteald suggests a fixed dwelling, stable and steadfast.) And we have a reminder too that there was almost no theological concept which Anglo-Saxon translators wouldn't render in English if they could; so notice here efenwesende, 'equal-being', as the Old English for 'consubstantial'!

But the second half is darker and sadder. The last lines are very moving, offering two affecting verbs to characterise what humans do in the world: we stumble and we wander (tealtrigað and hwearfiað). The verb tealtrian suggests tottering, stumbling, unsteady movement, while hwearfian is something more turbulent: 'to turn, change, roll about, revolve, wander'. I particularly associate hwearfian with The Seafarer, where it describes the movement of the soul which flies out of the body to roam restlessly across the earth, 'eager and greedy'. That's an image, and a poem, of ravenous desire - of 'hunger' and 'longing' and 'lust', which drive the speaker out onto the ocean, away from the safe and familiar to an existence which is painful, lonely, but better than the life he has known on land.

In the Advent poem, too, desire is a powerful force. We are in captivity, bound not just by the ropes of devils (bealorapas) but by our own desires: we sind geswencte þurh ure sylfra gewill. By our love of sins (firena lust) mankind has enslaved itself, and placed itself in 'feud' with God. If the O Antiphons take their power in part from the force of their desire for God, this poem suggests what happens when that potent desire is misdirected. The only cure is liss, one of those far-ranging Old English words which means many beautiful things: mercy, favour, grace, gentleness, kindness, joy. Alliteratively speaking, liss often collocates in Anglo-Saxon poetry with life and with love; but here it's with ne lata to lange, a cry of impatience: 'Do not delay too long.'

Herebert's 'Holy moder, that bere Cryst'

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

It's a while since we've had any poetry on this blog, and it seems time to correct that. This year I've been paying particular attention to the works of the early fourteenth-century English poet William Herebert, and especially his sensitive, thoughtful versions of Latin hymns; and since we're in Advent, let's take a look at his version of 'Alma Redemptoris Mater', the Compline antiphon for this season. (For another Middle English poetic response to the same text, see this post.) It's a short text; the Latin is:

Alma Redemptoris Mater, quae pervia caeli
Porta manes, et stella maris, succurre cadenti,
Surgere qui curat, populo: tu quae genuisti,
Natura mirante, tuum sanctum Genitorem
Virgo prius ac posterius, Gabrielis ab ore
Sumens illud Ave, peccatorum miserere.

Listen to it here. This is Herebert's version:

Holy moder, that bere Cryst, buggere of monkunde,
Thou art ȝat of hevene blisse that prest wey ȝyfst and bunde.
Thou sterre of se, rer op the folk that rysing haveth in munde.
In thee thou bere thyn holy fader,
That mayden were after and rather,
Wharof so wondreth kunde.
Of Gabrieles mouthe thou fonge thylke "Ave";
Lesne ous of sunne nouthe, so we bisecheth thee. Amen.

Which is:

Holy mother, who bore Christ, buyer of mankind,
You are gate of heaven's bliss, who gives the near and ready way.
You, star of the sea, raise up the folk who intend to rise.
Within you you bore your holy father,
Who maiden were before and after,
At which nature wonders.
From Gabriel's mouth you received the 'Ave';
Release us from sins now, we beseech you. Amen.

That gives you the sense of Herebert's version, but not the poetry. Herebert is a faithful translator but he always adds something to his sources, and close attention to his choice of language is immensely rewarding. I've been thinking recently about how approaching familiar texts through Old and Middle English translations brings to life certain aspects of religious language which have become, in Modern English, so conventional and familiar as to be almost dead metaphors. There's a perfect example here in Herebert's version of redemptor, which is buggere, to be pronounced (I promise!) as buyer - the sense being that Christ has 'bought back' (i.e. redeemed) mankind from the slavery of sin. It's a fairly common Middle English translation of redemptor, giving an English equivalent rather than adopting, as we do now, the Latin word; redeemer turned up late in English, in the fifteenth century, and Herebert's far from the only one to use buyer or again-buyer. (The Wycliffe Bible says: 'I wot that myn aȝeenbiere liueth, and in the laste dai I am to rise fro the erthe...')

The financial metaphor is there in the Latin redemptor, of course - emptor is buyer, as in 'caveat emptor' - but it's probably not alive to most people today who use the word 'redeemer'. (Though other poets have made use of it; compare, perhaps, 'Redemption' by Herebert's namesake, George Herbert...) But it was alive to Herebert, and must have been to a medieval reader of this poem. Herebert's whole first line is only translating three words of the Latin, the opening phrase of the hymn - alma redemptoris mater - and yet he has space not only for that metaphor but also for aural play on buyer and bear, a similarity of sound which links Mary's action ('bearing') to Christ's action ('buying'), and thus underlines the fundamental link between them which motivates the whole poem: the role that Mary plays in salvation, through her choice to become Christ's entry into the world and her acts of love to mankind.

The hymn imagines Mary as the open door to heaven, a road by which Christ enters the world and by which mankind can travel to joy. Herebert's description of that road is again a little more expansive than the Latin, and he plays with a beautiful ambiguity in his language which is not present (I think) in his source. He says that Mary the 'prest wey ȝyfst and bunde'; I translated this above as 'gives the near and ready way', but it's not quite as simple as that. Both prest and bunde mean something like 'ready, prepared, near at hand', and the sense is that the road to heaven is accessible and open (pervia is the Latin word he's building on). However, both words mean a good deal more than 'open'. Both also connote energy, readiness, and eagerness, and in other Middle English texts are more often used of people than of objects or roads: of an army preparing for battle, a servant promptly attending on his lord, a lover eager to do his lady's bidding - of anyone quick, lively, spirited, attentive, ready to spring into action. They're incredibly life-filled words.

And so, perhaps, they suggest the eager, life-bearing, near-at-hand person in an Advent context: Christ, who stands ready to spring into the world through the gate opened by Mary. Herebert's verb ȝyfst offers more than the Latin, too: Mary 'gives' (not only 'remains') the way to heaven, and of course, she gives Christ to the world. The way in this poem is primarily the road to heaven but Christ, too, is 'the way', and the adjectives used to describe the way here could apply equally well - if not rather better - to him.

Herebert's Christ is always an energetic figure, active, determined, and forceful, brimming with physical as well as spiritual vitality. I talked about this earlier in the year in reference to Herebert's poems for Easter and the Ascension, which have Christ climbing onto the cross and then into the skies, and it's most obvious of all in his poem 'What is he, this lordling, that cometh from the fight?' In that poem he imagines Christ as a young knight coming bloodied from battle, who through his strength and douhtynesse has won a hard struggle against evil. This is the Christ whom the medieval church saw in the young man of the Song of Songs, who comes seeking his beloved:

Look, he comes leaping on the mountains, bounding over the hills. My beloved is like a gazelle, or a young stag. Look, there he stands behind our wall, gazing in at the windows, looking through the lattice. My beloved speaks and says to me, 'Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. For now the winter is past, the rain is over and gone... Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.'

As Gregory the Great wrote (and an Anglo-Saxon poet turned into poetry):

Hence it is that Solomon has put into the mouth of the Church the words: 'Behold, He cometh! leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills.' These hills are his lofty and noble achievements. 'Behold, He cometh leaping upon the mountains.'

When He came to redeem us, He came, if I may so say, in leaps. My dearly beloved brethren, would you know what His leaps were? From heaven he leapt into the womb of the Virgin, from the womb into the manger, from the manger on to the Cross, from the Cross into the grave, and from the grave up to heaven.

Lo, how the Truth made manifest in the Flesh did leap for our sakes, that He might draw us to run after Him for this end did He rejoice, as a strong man to run a race.

This isn't the passive, suffering Christ of most medieval poetry about the Crucifixion, nor the grave gentle Jesus of later imaginings; it's something immensely vital, virile and alive, a shape-shifting force of pure energy. Herebert's word prest exactly describes this Christ.

But Christ is only hinted at here; the focus of the hymn is Mary, and her intermediary role. The images of her as 'gate of heaven' and 'star of the sea' are familiar ones, which Herebert also translates in his version of another Marian hymn, 'Ave maris stella'. I'll come back to the 'gate' image in another post this Advent (if I get around to it!) because there's a wonderful Anglo-Saxon poem which does even more, brilliantly, with that image of Mary as the door between the worlds. Here it's only one aspect of her role as mediator. She is implored 'rer op the folk that rysing haveth in munde' ('raise up the folk who want to rise', with a nice alliterative touch), and 'lesne ous of sunne', a more specific petition than the Latin's peccatorum miserere - asking to be 'released' from sin loops back to the opening idea of Christ as 'redeemer'. So the poem comes full circle, and returns to the link between Mary's action and Christ's - the one who bought us and the one who bore him.

The Sun and the Seed-Corn

Following on from this recent post about Anglo-Saxon wisdom literature, here are two extracts from the 'Metres of Boethius', a sequence of Old English poems based on the metrical sections of Boethius' Consolation of Philosophy. This is Metre 3.

Eala, on hu grimmum and hu grundleasum
seaðe swinceð þæt sweorcende mod,
þonne hit þa strongan stormas beatað
weoruldbisgunga, þonne hit winnende
his agen leoht an forlæteð,
and mid uua forgit þone ecan gefean,
ðringð on þa ðiostro ðisse worulde,
sorgum geswenced. Swa is þissum nu
mode gelumpen, nu hit mare ne wat
for gode godes buton gnornunge
fremdre worulde. Him is frofre ðearf.

O, in how fearsome and how fathomless
a mire struggles the darkening mind,
when the stern storms of worldly trouble
beat against it! Then, battling on,
it loses its own light,
and in grief forgets the eternal joy,
driven on into the darkness of this world,
oppressed by sorrow. So now it is
for this mind, now it knows no more
of God's goods but grieving
in an unwelcoming world. It needs comfort.

Here's the section on which this is based; the Old English is briefer and simpler, and somehow more poignant to me for that reason. My translation can't capture how much the sound of the poetry contributes to this picture of a mind growing dark, squelched by sorrow, sinking into a bottomless pit: the sweorcende mod, sorgum geswenced. Say out loud the word gnornunge - couldn't you guess without being told that it means 'grieving, lamenting'?

By contrast, here's the OE Metre 22, for which compare this.

Se þe æfter rihte mid gerece wille
inweardlice æfter spyrian
swa deoplice, þæt hit todrifan ne mæg
monna ænig, ne amerran huru
ænig eorðlic ðincg, he ærest sceal
secan on him selfum þæt he sume hwile
ymbutan hine æror sohte.
Sece þæt siððan on his sefan innan,
and forlæte an, swa he oftost mæge,
ælcne ymbhogan ðy him unnet sie,
and gesamnige, swa he swiðost mæge,
ealle to þæm anum his ingeðonc,
gesecge his mode þæt hit mæg findan
eall on him innan þæt hit oftost nu
ymbutan hit ealneg seceð,
gooda æghwylc. He ongit siððan
yfel and unnet eal þæt he hæfde
on his incofan æror lange
efne swa sweotole swa he on þa sunnan mæg
eagum andweardum on locian,
and he eac ongit his ingeþonc
leohtre and berhtre þonne se leoma sie
sunnan on sumera, þonne swegles gim,
hador heofontungol, hlutrost scineð.
Forðæm þæs lichoman leahtras and hefignes
and þa unþeawas eallunga ne magon
of mode ation monna ænegum
rihtwisnesse, ðeah nu rinca hwæm
þæs lichoman leahtras and hefignes
and unþeawas oft bysigen
monna modsefan, mæst and swiðost
mid þære yflan oforgiotolnesse,
mid gedwolmiste dreorigne sefan
fortihð mod foran monna gehwelces,
þæt hit swa beorhte ne mot blican and scinan
swa hit wolde, gif hit geweald ahte.
þeah bið sum corn sædes gehealden
symle on ðære saule soðfæstnesse,
þenden gadertang wunað gast on lice.
Ðæs sædes corn bið symle aweaht
mid ascunga, eac siððan mid
goodre lare, gif hit growan sceal.
Hu mæg ænig man andsware findan
ðinga æniges, þegen mid gesceade,
þeah hine rinca hwilc rihtwislice
æfter frigne gif he awuht nafað
on his modsefan mycles ne lytles
rihtwisnesse ne geradscipes?
Nis þeah ænig man þætte ealles swa
þæs geradscipes swa bereafod sie
þæt he andsware ænige ne cunne
findan on ferhðe, gif he frugnen bið.
Forðæm hit is riht spell þæt us reahte gio
ald uðwita, ure Platon;
he cwæð þætte æghwilc ungemyndig
rihtwisnesse hine hræðe sceolde
eft gewendan into sinum
modes gemynde; he mæg siððan
on his runcofan rihtwisnesse
findan on ferhte fæste gehydde
mid gedræfnesse dogora gehwilce
modes sines mæst and swiðost,
and mid hefinesse his lichoman,
and mid þæm bisgum þe on breostum styreð
mon on mode mæla gehwylce.

He who wishes to search in an ordered way
for the right, inwardly,
so deeply that no man may drive it out,
nor any earthly thing at all
corrupt it, he shall first
seek within himself that which for a time
he had once sought outside himself.
He must seek then in his mind within,
and utterly forsake, as often as he can,
every anxiety which is useless to him,
and gather, as much as he can,
all into one his inner thought;
say to his mind that it can discover
all within itself which it is now so often
always seeking outside itself:
every good. He will then perceive
all the harmful and useless things which he had long kept
within his inner chamber,
just as clearly as he may look upon the sun
with his present eyes;
and he will also perceive his inner thought,
lighter and brighter than the radiance
of the sun in summer, when the jewel of the sky,
serene star of the heavens, shines most brightly.
For the sins and heaviness of the body
and all its bad ways cannot
take from any human mind
reason, although now for every being
the sins and heaviness of the body
and its bad ways often trouble
the mind of man, greatly and cruelly,
with the evil of forgetfulness,
draw a mist of error over the sorrowful spirit,
the mind of every man,
so that it cannot blaze and shine
as brightly as it wants to, if it had the power.
But there will always be
a seed-corn of truth held within the soul
as long as the spirit and body live entwined together.
This seed-corn will always be quickened
by asking, and then by
good teaching, if it is to grow.
How may any man find an answer
for anything, a person with reason,
though a man might ask him about it
properly, if he has nothing
of wisdom or counsel in his mind,
great or small?
There is no man so entirely bereft of reason
that he cannot find any answer
in his mind, if he is questioned.
For it is a true speech which the ancient philosopher,
our Plato, long ago told us:
he said that anyone forgetful of reason
should swiftly turn within his own mind's memory;
in his secret chamber he will find reason,
hidden fast within his mind
amid the turbulence of his spirit
every day, greatly and cruelly,
and amid the heaviness of his body
and amid the cares which in the heart disturb
a man in his mind at all times.

This is complex and intricate and hard to translate - hard for me, and hard for the Anglo-Saxon poet, I would think. But Old English poetry had many ways of talking about the processes of the mind and the memory, and they get a good workout here. This is sophisticated psychological and philosophical reasoning, and it draws on Old English poetic diction as well as on Boethius and 'our Plato': there's a characteristic kenning for the mind, runcofan, 'secret chamber' ('chamber of secrets'?) as well as the usual vocabulary of mod and ferþ and sefa - the mind, spirit, heart, soul. And although the metaphor may be Boethius', the lines about the sun contain two beautifully Anglo-Saxon kennings:

and he eac ongit his ingeþonc
leohtre and berhtre þonne se leoma sie
sunnan on sumera, þonne swegles gim,
hador heofontungol, hlutrost scineð.

and he will also perceive his inner thought,
lighter and brighter than the radiance
of the sun in summer, when the jewel of the sky,
serene star of the heavens, shines most brightly.

Yesterday in Oxford the sun was blazing down, sunnan on sumera at its very brightest, hottest, most all-embracing. Can the mind, sinking in so fearsome and fathomless a mire, really ever learn to be as bright as that?

Wisdom's Court

Alfred the Great, from Wantage

I've recently begun a new Twitter project, called Old English Wisdom. The idea is to tweet proverbs, maxims, and other miniature bits of wisdom and advice from Old English poetry and prose, anything which falls under a very broad definition of 'wisdom'! Old English literature abounds in such pithy statements, ranging from wry proverbs about mead-drinking and money to practical advice about moderate behaviour, from a warrior's code of conduct to profound reflections on how one acquires wisdom and the benefits it can bring. There's almost a limitless amount to tweet, and it seemed to me it might be an interesting way to combine the popular fascination with the Old English language (which never ceases to take me by surprise) with an opportunity to post about some texts which are not as well-known as they deserve to be.

This has involved spending my free time re-acquainting myself with some Old English texts I haven't read in a while. It throws up surprises, not always directly useful for the project, but thought-provoking in other ways; when you go looking for wisdom, you find all kinds of things. This week, for instance, I've been re-reading some of the translations credited to Alfred the Great, who would be the patron saint of Anglo-Saxon wisdom, if it had such a thing. Among all his other achievements as king, Alfred arranged for the translation of - or perhaps even translated himself - a range of religious and philosophical texts into English, many of which have interesting things to say about how wisdom is to be gained and used: they include (among other works) Gregory the Great’s Pastoral Care and Dialogues, Boethius’ Consolation of Philosophy, and Augustine’s Soliloquies. As Alfred's famous Preface to the Pastoral Care explains, he believed that learning in England had gone into serious decline in his own days, and that to restore it would be to repair the 'wealth and the wisdom' of the kingdom both together. 'Consider what punishments came upon us in this world when we neither loved wisdom in any way ourselves, nor passed it on to others,' he says; and his translation project explicitly seeks wisdom as a means of finding a way through such serious worldly troubles as Viking invasion. As a result of all this there's a good bit of myth-making about Alfred's wisdom, and by the end of the Anglo-Saxon period he was already regarded as an image of the wise king, that ever-potent symbol. His very name prepared him to be an expert in ræd ('counsel, advice'), and later in the medieval period he was spuriously credited as the omniscient author of a collection of proverbs, cited in texts like The Owl and the Nightingale as an impeccable authority, England's own Solomon. So I picked him as the face of this Twitter project, as imagined (above) by a statue in Wantage, his birthplace, which offers a very Victorian iteration of the Alfred myth:

So the Alfredian texts were a natural place to go in search of wisdom; and passages which are too long to tweet are probably going to end up on this blog! Here, for instance, is an extract from the Old English translation of Augustine's Soliloquies, which is one of several extended additions to the source (the text is from here, with my translation).

Geðenc nu hweðer awiht mani mann cynges ham sece þær ðær he ðonne on tune byð, oððe hys gemot, oððe hys fird, oððe hweðer ðe ðince þæt hi æalle on anne weig þeder cumen? Ic wene þeah ðæt hi cumen on swiðe manige wegas: sume cumað swiðe feorran and habbað swiðe længe weig and swiðe yfelne and swiðe earfoðferne; sume habbað swiðe langne and swiðe rihtne and swiðe godne; sume habbað swiðne scortne, and þeah wone and nearone and fuulne; sume habbað scordne and smeðne and rihtne, and þeah cumað æalle to anum hlaforde; sume æð, sume uneð, naðer ne hi þeder gelice eaðe cumað, ne hi þer gelice eaðe ne beoð. Sume beoð on maran are and on maran eðnesse þonne sume, sume on læssan, sume ful neah buton, buton þæt an þæt he lufað. Swa hit bið æac be þam wisdome. Ælc þara þe hys wilnað and þe hys geornful byt, he hym mæg cuman to and on hys hyrede wunian and be lybban, þeah hi hym sume near sian, sume fyer; swa-swa ælces cynges hama: beoð sume on bure, sume on healle, sume on odene, sume on carcerne; and lybbað þeah æalle be anes hlafordes are, swa-swa æalle men lybbað under anre sunnan and be hyre leohte geseoð þæt þæt hy geseoð. Sume swiðe scearpe and swiðe swotele lociað; sume unæaðe awiht geseoð; sume beoð stæreblind and nyttiað þeah þare sunnan. Ac swa-swa þeos gesewe sunne ures lichaman æagan onleoht, swa onliht se wisdom ures modes æagan, þæt ys, ure angyt.

Consider now, how many men seek the king's court when he is in town, or at his assembly, or with his army; and do you think that they all come there by the same road? I think, in fact, that they come by many different roads. Some come from afar, and have a very long and very bad and very difficult road. Some have a road which is very long and very direct and very good. Some have a very short road, which is nonetheless dark and narrow and dirty. Some have a short and smooth and direct road. Yet they all come to the same lord, some with ease, some without ease.

They do not come there with equal ease, nor are they equally at ease when they are there. Some are in great honour and in more comfort than others, some in less, some almost without any, except for the one whom he loves. So too it is with wisdom. Every one who desires it and eagerly asks for it may come to it and dwell in its household and live close to it, but some are nearer to it, some further away. So it is in every king's court: some are in the chamber, some in the hall, some on the threshing-floor, some in the jail-cell; yet they all live there by the favour of one lord, just as all people live under one sun and by its light see all that they see. Some see very sharply and clearly, some can only see anything with great difficulty; some are stark blind, yet still enjoy the sun. And just as the visible sun gives light to the eyes of our body, so wisdom gives light to the eyes of our mind, that is, our understanding.

The speaker here is 'Reason', addressing the Augustine persona, who is (perhaps) the Alfred persona too. The funny thing about Alfred later being mythologised as such a great sage is that if we can locate his voice anywhere in his translations it would be as the learner, not the teacher - he is no Solomon, but a humble, anxious searcher after wisdom, who is not at all sure he will find it. Here Reason offers a very apt metaphor to his royal pupil, and and this is an appropriate passage, of course, for a text sponsored by a king: the king in his court is implicitly, flatteringly, compared to the sun and to wisdom itself. His are (royal 'favour', but in a broad and positive sense) extends like the rays of the sun, throughout his household and his estate from private chamber to jail-cell and beyond. It's worth remembering that the maintenance of good roads was the kind of task a responsible medieval king might take an interest in - as Alfred himself did - and so perhaps all the many roads which lead to his court are also under his jurisdiction, under his are, as much as the people travelling on them. The king's roads are the king's responsibility, and they all lead to the same place.

This extended metaphor, lovely as it is, is perhaps a long roundabout way of expressing an idea we might convey with a simple proverb: 'all roads lead to Rome'. But although there are no proverbs in this passage, it draws on the traditional language of wisdom literature; it provides, for instance, three nice examples of the sum... sum... lists which frequently appear in Old English prose and poetry to illustrate the varying states and conditions of human beings, the many different ways they can live and die. I quoted two examples at the end of my last post, lists of the various gifts of human skill. The most famous instance is perhaps this passage in The Wanderer:

Ongietan sceal gleaw hæle hu gæstlic bið,
þonne ealre þisse worulde wela weste stondeð,
swa nu missenlice geond þisne middangeard
winde biwaune weallas stondaþ,
hrime bihrorene, hryðge þa ederas.
Woriað þa winsalo, waldend licgað
dreame bidrorene, duguþ eal gecrong,
wlonc bi wealle. Sume wig fornom,
ferede in forðwege, sumne fugel oþbær
ofer heanne holm, sumne se hara wulf
deaðe gedælde, sumne dreorighleor
in eorðscræfe eorl gehydde.

The wise hero must perceive how terrible it will be
when all this world's wealth lies waste,
as now in various places throughout this earth
walls stand blown by the wind,
covered with frost, the buildings snow-swept.
The halls decay, the ruler lies
deprived of joys, the troop all dead,
proud by the wall. Some were taken by war,
carried on their way, one the bird bore off
across the deep sea, one the grey wolf
shared with death, one the sad-faced man
buried in an earthy grave.

A list of all the ways people can die - this is the kind of thing which leads to wisdom literature being frequently cited as one of the aspects of medieval culture which modern audiences find especially challenging, or, worse, especially dull! I've heard this said many times, but I'm not sure it's actually true, and it was partly to test this assumption that I began my little Twitter experiment. The internet has fostered a boom in new kinds of wisdom literature, in the form of 'inspirational quotes'. These sayings walk a fine line between the profound and the banal, and as so often happened with medieval wisdom, they are often spuriously attributed to a famous name who can lend the words a bit of cachet (apparently this phenomenon has a name: 'Churchillian Drift'). It's easy to make fun of this, but it does make me wonder about the relationship between medieval wisdom and modern self-help. Most of the hundreds of people who've started following 'Old English Wisdom' in the past three weeks are not academics or medievalists, nor even people with a literary or academic background. What is it they find so attractive about Anglo-Saxon wisdom poetry? What is the appeal of the obvious statement, the truism, when expressed in language which is both familiar and strange (whether that's because it's in Old English, or because it follows the language and rules of poetry)?

In some ways the answer is obvious. Wisdom of this sort is not theoretical, but eminently practical wisdom: it is meant to console you and guide you through life. The preface to the Old English translation of Boethius' Consolation of Philosophy (called in Old English froferboc, 'book of comfort') claims that Alfred translated it amid 'the various and manifold concerns with which he was often busied, both in mind and body'. Boethius' work was immensely popular in the Middle Ages, and it's not hard to understand the appeal of that kind of wisdom in unsettled times to a busy and anxious mind. Of course Boethius is much more profound than Twitter's plethora of 'inspirational quotes', but it's a continuum. People seek those, too, because they want or need inspiration, encouragement, guidance, support; however banal these popular sayings may seem, they represent a kind of search for wisdom. There are many roads to wisdom, and some of them go by very circuitous routes; but þeah cumað æalle to anum hlaforde.

The O Antiphons in Middle English: 'To þe we clepe with alle owre hert and brethe'

14th-century calendar for December, with 'O Sapientia' on the 16th (BL Egerton 3277, f. 6v)

In medieval England, 16th December was the first day of the sequence of texts known as the O Antiphons. (In other parts of the church they began on 17th December, but they lasted eight days, rather than seven, in English tradition.) Every day between now and Christmas Eve, at Vespers, in the early dusk of a midwinter evening, the antiphon would be one of these ancient songs of longing and desire, which address Christ by a series of allusive titles drawn from scriptural tradition and appeal to him: Come. The antiphons cry out to Christ as the embodiment of wisdom, justice, hope, and light - the liberator of captives, the bringer of unity, the sun who will lighten the darkness of this darkest season of the year.

In the last week of Advent, the antiphons served as a daily, insistent reminder that Christmas is growing ever closer - that the arrival so urgently and so long desired was very near at hand. In the Middle Ages, before Advent calendars and Advent wreaths, the antiphons must have served a similar purpose to those traditions as a countdown to Christmas, focusing the mind on the feast that was coming. So memorable was the beginning of these antiphons that it was marked on 16th December in medieval calendars like the one above, almost as if it were a saint's day - an honour not usually accorded to liturgical antiphons! Turn to the calendar for December in the Book of Common Prayer, and you'll find it there too.

The O Antiphons date back to the sixth century, and today they're best known as the basis for the hymn 'O Come, O Come Emmanuel', though many people who sing that well-loved carol might not realise just how ancient its roots are. That hymn is by J. M. Neale, but he wasn't the first, by a long way, to turn the antiphons into English poetry. There are numerous medieval responses to these texts, going back to the earliest days of poetry in English. They were the inspiration for the superb Anglo-Saxon poem known as the 'Advent Lyrics', which may be from the ninth or tenth century - I've written about that version in great detail here. In the past I've also posted some fifteenth-century English carols based on 'O Clavis David' and 'O Radix Jesse'. Today I want to look at two more Middle English interpretations of these antiphons. The first comprises only a four-line version of today's text, 'O Sapientia':

Þu wysdom þat crepedest out of Godes mouþe
þat rechest frame est to west, fram norþ to souþ
þat alle þynges mades throw þy myth
come to tech vs þe wey of flyth.

Thou wisdom, who crept out of God's mouth,
Who reaches from east to west, from north to south,
Who all things made through thy might
Come to teach us the way of flight.

The antiphon is O Sapientia, quae ex ore Altissimi prodiisti, attingens a fine usque ad finem, fortiter suaviterque disponens omnia: veni ad docendum nos viam prudentiae ('O Wisdom, proceeding from the mouth of the Most High, reaching from one end to the other, mightily and sweetly ordering all things: come and teach us the way of prudence'). Hear it sung here. 

The English verse survives in a fourteenth-century manuscript of sermons (Worcester, Worcester Cathedral Library F. 126), and is recorded in Siegfried Wenzel, 'Unrecorded Middle-English Verses', Anglia 92 (1974), 55-78 (72). (It's the only one of the O Antiphons to be translated there, but the same manuscript also contains a short English version of the Advent collect which begins 'Stir up, O Lord...', rendered 'Egg our hearts, Lord of might...'!).

It might seem odd to describe Wisdom 'creeping' out of the mouth of God (translating the Latin prodisti), but the word appears a few times in Middle English literature in reference to Christ's entry into the world; it reminds me of the description of the Incarnation in 'In a church where I did kneel':

All the world in woe was wound
Until he crept into our kin, -
A lovely girl he lit within,
The worthiest that ever was.

The word suggests quiet, steady movement, perhaps - something gentle, like a breath. I assume that in the last line 'the way of flight' means something like 'the means of departing from this world', though it doesn't seem like an accurate translation of viam prudentiae. But isn't 'from east to west, from north to south' a beautiful way of rendering a fine usque ad finem, 'from one end to another'?

'O Sapientia' and Capricorn, 13th century (BL Lansdowne 420, f. 6v)

As well as this little verse, there's also a surviving English poetic translation of all eight of the antiphons. It's preserved in BL Harley 45, added in a hand of the late fifteenth century to a slighter earlier manuscript of religious texts. At the time this version of the O Antiphons was added to the manuscript, it seems to have belonged to a woman named Margaret Brent, who was possibly a laywoman from Salisbury. The poem consists of a verse for each antiphon, with the Latin text followed by an English translation and expansion. I won't claim it's great poetry, but several of the verses are lovely; 'O Oriens' and 'O virgo virginem' are my favourites. And it's a testament to the power and popularity of these antiphons, the richness of their imagery and the breadth of their appeal; if you were inclined to think of the antiphons as a solely monastic or clerical interest, the example of the devout laywoman Margaret Brent would suggest otherwise.

Here's the text as it appears in Carleton Brown, Religious Lyrics of the XVth Century (Oxford, 1952), pp. 90-2, and a modernised version follows.

O Sapiencia que ex ore altissimi prodisti Attingens a fine usque ad finem fortiter Suauiter disponensque omnia Veni ad docendum nos viam Prudencie.

O Sapiencia of þe ffader, surmountyng all thyng,
Procedyng from his mowthe his hestis to fulfill,
Alpha and Oo, both end & begynnyng,
ffrom end so to end dost atteyne and tylle,
Disposyng ich werk swetly at his wyll,
We the besiche, lord, with humble reuerence,
Come þu and teche vs þe ways of prudence.

O Adonay et dux domus Israel qui moysi in igne flamme rubi apparuisti & ei in syna legem dedisti veni ad redimendum nos in brachio extento.

O adonaye, chieff duke of Israell,
Which them conduced from thrall captiuite,
Apperyng to Moyses madist hym of counsell
In þe mount of syna, ther shewyng thy maieste,
Tokyst hym thy law in a bushe fire flamme,
We lowly be-sich the, lord omnypotent,
Come and redeme in thy powre most extente.

O Radix Iesse qui stas in signum populorum super quem continebunt reges os suum quem gentes deprecabuntur veni ad liberandum nos iam noli tardare.

O Radix Iesse, most Souerayne and excellent,
Stondyng in godly signe of euery nacion,
Tofore whome all kyngys þer mowthys shalle stent,
Beynge ryghte mywet and styll as any stone,
Shall knele in þi presence & mak deprecacione,
Them to delyuer & vs all in a throwe,
Sprakly, blyssyd lorde, be nott ther-in slowe.

O clauis david & septrum domus Israel, qui aperis & nemo claudit, claudis & nemo aperit, veni & educ uinctum de domo carceris sedentem in tenebris et in umbra mortis.

O clauis dauid, of whom Isaias tolde,
Hote septure & key, to eche look welle mett
Of Israelle – I meane of Iacobus howsholde –
Thowe opynyst lokes whiche no wyghte can shett,
And closist a-geyn þat cannott be vnshett;
Lowse vs, þi presoners, boundene in wrechidnesse,
Off synne shadowed with mortalle derknesse.

O oriens splendour, lucis eterne & sol iusticie, veni et illumina sedentes in tenebris & umbra mortis.

O oriens splendor of euer-lastynge lyghte,
Whos bemys transcende þe commyn clerenesse
Of sonne or mone, for we of very ryghte
The clepe þe bryght sonne of trowth, ryghtwysnesse
With iustice & mercy eche wrong to redresse,
To þe we clepe with alle owre hert & brethe,
To lyght vs þat sytt in þe derknesse of dethe.

O rex gencium & desideratus earum, lapisque angularis, qui facis vtraque unum, veni [et salva] hominem quem de limo formasti.

O rex gencium, whom alle people disire
To honour & love with herty affeccione,
The corner stone þat craftly brow3th nyre
The both testamentis, makyng þem one,
Oold & newe madest lawfully vnyon,
Saue, lord, mankynd, thy most noble creture,
Made of vile erthe to resemble þi fayre figure.

O Emmanuel rex & legifer noster, expectacio gencium & saluator earum, veni ad saluandum nos domine deus noster.

O emanuel, owre souerayne lord & kyng,
In whom we crystene mene trust in especiall,
Geue to thy suggetis grace, by good lykyng
Wele to perfourme þi preceptis legalle,
And saue vs, thy seruauntis, fro myscheff all.
Thus we pray, owre graciouse sauyowre,
Owr lord, owre good, owre louyng redemptore.

O uirgo uirginum, quomodo fiet quia nec primam simile, uisa es nec habere sequentem, filie ierlm quid me admiramini diuinum est misterium hoc quod operata est in me.

O uirgo uirginum, alle pereles in uertu,
Wymmen of ierlm, muse on þis mater,
How þu, a maydyn, art the moder of Ihu.
Natheles, if ony of them þis secretly enquire,
Swet lady, then shortly make to þem þis an-swere:
‘The hye myght of god þis mystery first be-gane.
3e dameseles of Ierlm, why wonder 3e so thane?’

'O Sapientia', noted in a 13th century calendar (BL Royal 1 D X f. 14v)

And in modernised form:

O Sapiencia que ex ore altissimi prodisti Attingens a fine usque ad finem fortiter Suauiter disponensque omnia Veni ad docendum nos viam Prudencie.

O Wisdom of the Father, surmounting all things,
Proceeding from his mouth his behests to fulfill,
Alpha and O, both end and beginning,
From end to end dost attain and till, [extend and reach]
Disposing each work sweetly at his will,
We thee beseech, Lord, with humble reverence,
Come thou and teach us the ways of prudence.

O Adonay et dux domus Israel qui moysi in igne flamme rubi apparuisti & ei in syna legem dedisti veni ad redimendum nos in brachio extento.

O Adonai, chief duke of Israel,
Who them didst lead from thrall captivity,
Appearing to Moses, madest him of counsel [made him wise]
In the Mount of Sinai, there showing thy majesty,
Revealed to him thy law in a bush of fiery flame,
We lowly beseech thee, Lord omnipotent,
Come and redeem with thy power's greatest extent.

O Radix Iesse qui stas in signum populorum super quem continebunt reges os suum quem gentes deprecabuntur veni ad liberandum nos iam noli tardare.

O Root of Jesse, most sovereign and excellent,
Standing as a holy sign to every nation,
Before whom all kings their mouths shall stent, [close]
Being right mute and still as any stone,
Shall kneel in thy presence and make deprecation, [pray]
Them to deliver and us all in a throwe, [very soon]
Swiftly, blessed Lord, be not therein slow.

O clauis david & septrum domus Israel, qui aperis & nemo claudit, claudis & nemo aperit, veni & educ uinctum de domo carceris sedentem in tenebris et in umbra mortis.

O Key of David, of whom Isaiah told,
Called sceptre and key, to every lock well fit
Of Israel – I mean of Jacob’s household –
Thou openest locks which no creature can shut,
And closest again what cannot be unshut;
Loose us, thy prisoners, bound in wretchedness
Of sin, shadowed with mortal darkness.

O oriens splendor, lucis eterne & sol iusticie, veni et illumina sedentes in tenebris & umbra mortis.

O Daystar, splendour of everlasting light,
Whose beams transcend the common clearness
Of sun or moon, for we of very right
Thee call the bright sun of truth, righteousness,
With justice and mercy each wrong to redress,
To thee we call with all our heart and breath,
To light us who sit in the darkness of death.

O rex gencium & desideratus earum, lapisque angularis, qui facis vtraque unum, veni [et salva] hominem quem de limo formasti.

O King of the Nations, whom all people desire
To honour and love with hearty affection,
The corner-stone that skilfully brought nigher [i.e. nearer]
The two testaments, making them one,
Old and new made lawfully union,
Save, Lord, mankind, thy most noble creature,
Made of vile earth to resemble thy fair figure.

O Emmanuel rex & legifer noster, expectacio gencium & saluator earum, veni ad saluandum nos domine deus noster.

O Emmanuel, our sovereign lord and king,
In whom we Christian men trust above all,
Give to thy subjects grace, with good lykyng [desire, delight]
Well to perform thy precepts legal,
And save us, thy servants, from mischief all.
Thus we pray, our gracious Saviour,
Our Lord, our God, our loving Redeemer.

O uirgo uirginum, quomodo fiet quia nec primam simile, uisa es nec habere sequentem, filie ierlm quid me admiramini diuinum est misterium hoc quod operata est in me.

O Virgin of Virgins, all peerless in virtue,
Women of Jerusalem muse on this matter:
How thou, a maiden, art the mother of Jesu.
Nonetheless, if any of them this secretly enquire,
Sweet lady, then shortly make to them this answer:
'The high might of God this mystery first began.
Ye damsels of Jerusalem, why wonder ye so then?'

The first of the O Antiphons, in a 14th-century Breviary (BL Stowe 12, f. 13v)

'Com, Shuppere, Holy Gost'

BL Arundel 157, f.12v

Com, Shuppere, Holy Gost, ofsech oure thouhtes;
Ful wyth grace of hevene heortes that thou wrouhtest.

Thou, that art cleped forspekere and gyft from God ysend,
Welle of lyf, fur, charite, and gostlych oynement,

Thou gyfst the sevene gyftes, thou finger of Godes honde,
Thou makest tonge of fleshe speke leodene of uche londe.

Tend lyht in oure wyttes, in oure heortes love,
Ther oure body is leothewok gyf strengthe from above.

Shyld ous from the feonde, and gyf ous gryth anon,
That we wyten ous from sunne thorou the lodesmon.

Of the Fader and the Sone thou gyf ous knoulechinge,
To leve that of bothe thou ever be lovinge.

Wele to the Fader and to the Sone, that from deth aros,
And also to the Holy Gost ay be worshipe and los.

This is a translation of Veni, Creator Spiritus by the Franciscan William Herebert (d.1333). I posted it some years ago here along with some other translations of the hymn, but I thought I'd give it its own post today. It could be rendered thus:

Come, Creator, Holy Ghost, search our thoughts;
Fill with grace of heaven the hearts which thou hast wrought.

Thou who art called For-speaker and gift from God sent,
Well of life, fire, charity, and spiritual ointment,

Thou givest the seven gifts, thou finger of God's hand,
Thou makest tongues of flesh speak languages of every land.

Kindle light in our wits, in our hearts love,
Where our body is weak, give strength from above.

Shield us from the fiend, and give us peace anon,
That we may keep ourselves from sin through the Guardian.

Of the Father and the Son give us knowledge,
To believe that thou ever art of both praising.

Glory to the Father and to the Son, who from death arose,
And to the Holy Ghost also be ever worship and praise.

One of the pleasures of reading Herebert's translations is how familiar the vocabulary is; that's one of the reasons I like blogging about them, because to me they give a clearer sense than almost any other texts of the line of continuity in English religious writing beginning in the Anglo-Saxon period, and running in some ways up to the present day. There's only a few words here which present any difficulties to a speaker of Modern English: the occasional rare word like leothewok (which means 'pliant in body, weak') and words now obsolete like leodene 'languages', gryth 'peace', los 'praise'. Otherwise there's the odd poetic touch like lodesmon, which is translating Latin ductore and means 'leader, guardian' but also 'steersman, pilot of a ship', and Shuppere, 'Creator' - descended from one of the first words many people learn when studying Old English, 'scyppend'. There's actually an Old English gloss of this hymn which begins Cum, þu scyppend gast - not very different from Herebert.

BL Lansdowne 383, f.14

In fact Herebert, writing seven centuries ago, seems hardly less far away than the world in which this version of the hymn was recorded:

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)

A Morning Hymn: 'Now the day's star in his heavenly sphere'

Now the deys sterre in hys hevynly spere,
ffresche as febus, a peryth in owr syght,
Whos bryghtnes gladeth all owre emyspere,
Chasyng a wey the darknes of þe nyght;
Prey we þe lord of mercy and of myght
That he vs kepe frome synne and all noysaunce
Thys dey, and haue us in hys gouernance.

And þat he wyll owr tunge rule & restrayne,
Gydyng hyt so þis dey by temporance,
That non offence we do wyth wurdes veyne,
Cawsyng debat ne Stryff or perturbance;
And of owr syght he have þe governance,
That worldly thyng wyche we be hold and see,
Ne styr us nott to caduk vanite.

Thyntralys of owr hert be clene and pure,
By meditacione contemplatyff,
Soo þat noo cowardie us disensure
A yenst þe flesch whan we debat and stryve
To valour heer, and downe heer pryd to drive;
We may her kepen vndir subiugate
In meyt and drynk yff we be moderate.

And erly makene we owr preyer
That whan þe dey shall nighene with hys lyght,
Causing the nyght wyth drawene and dispare,
Be abstinence we ben in clennes dyght,
That we may syng vnetyll owr lord a ryght
Ympnes and song and laude & glorie,
Wyche is þe dey lastyng eternally.

I awoke this morning to a fiery red dawn, an occurrence to be treasured in the midst of cloudy October, and it made me think of this poem. It's a translation of the sixth-century hymn 'Iam lucis orto sidere', used in the morning Office. I can never get enough of morning and evening hymns, which elevate and sanctify the cycle of the day and night, and encourage us to be mindful of the passing of time. The poetic language of dawn and sunrise is also worth paying attention to. I was recently teaching my students the Old English word dægred, 'dawn', literally 'day-reddening', which survived into Middle English and provided one English version of the name of the Office of Lauds: daired-sang, 'dawn song' (for 'song' as 'office', cf. 'Evensong', the medieval English name for Vespers).  The origin of our word 'dawn' is in the Old English verb dagian, 'to become day'; in a world of electric light, where we can make day happen at the flick of a switch, it can be startling to be reminded by etymology that 'dawning' is a process of becoming, a gradual growth of light.

Old English also has a word for the period just before dawn, uht, and so another name for one of the morning Offices was uhtsang, 'song before dawn' (it can refer either to Nocturns or Matins). In poetic compounds, this gives us the wonderful Old English word for a feeling of dread before the dawn, uhtcearu, 'morning care' - it seems to refer to the anxiety of lying awake in the early morning, waiting to get up, and worrying over what the day will bring.  In Beowulf, a dragon is an uhtfloga, a creature which flies before dawn; something to worry about, indeed.

As for day, the Middle English dictionary entry for compounds with dai makes evocative reading: 'day's eye' (the sun), 'day-gleam' (dawn), 'day-rim' (the rays of dawn), 'day-star', of course, and 'dayspring', a word which is so familiar from religious contexts that it's easy to forget its origin as a Middle English poetic compound.

Here's a modernised version of the Middle English poem, which comes from British Library, MS. Additional 34193:


Now the day's star in his heavenly sphere,
Fresh as Phoebus, appeareth in our sight,
Whose brightness gladdeth all our hemisphere,
Chasing away the darkness of the night;
Pray we the Lord of mercy and of might
That he us keep from sin and all noisaunce [trouble, distress]
This day, and have us in his governance.

And that he will our tongue rule and restrain,
Guiding it so this day by temperance,
That no offence we do with wordes vain,
Causing debate nor strife nor perturbance;
And of our sight he have the governance,
That worldly things which we behold and see
May stir us not to caduk vanity. [transitory, fleeting vanity]

The entrails of our heart be clean and pure,
By meditation contemplative,
So that no cowardice us disensure [unsettle, deprive of assurance]
Against the flesh when we debate and strive
For valour here, and down its pride to drive;
We may our flesh keep subjugate
In meat and drink if we be moderate.

And early maken we our prayer
That when the day shall draw nigh with his light,
Causing the night to withdraw and disappear,
By abstinence we be in cleanness dight, [we may be made pure by abstinence]
That we may sing unto our Lord aright
Hymns and songs and laud and glory,
Who is the day lasting eternally.

A Morning Hymn: The Bird of Bliss

British Library, Harley 2813 f. 442v

The gladsome bird, the day's messenger,
Singing with musical harmony,
Sayeth in his song the day begins to clear,
And biddeth us address ourselves and hie
Towards the life, the life that shall not die;
This is the voice right of the bird of bliss
Singing to us that the day coming is.

This biddeth this heavenly pursuivant:
That we should all from slumbering arise,
And that we should been wholly attendant
To please God devoutly with service;
Righteous and chaste and eke in sober wise, [also in a sober manner]
The light of grace is drawing to us near
Of our darkness the clouds away to clear.


The text as printed in Frank Allen Patterson, ‘Hymnal from MS. Additional 34193 British Museum’, in Medieval Studies in Memory of Gertrude Schoepperle Loomis (New York: Columbia University Press, 1927), pp.443-488:

The gladsom Byrd, þe deys mesanger,
Synggyng with musicall armonye,
Sayth in hys song þe dey gynnyth to clere,
And byddyth vs Adressone us and hye
Toward þe lyff, þe lyf þat schall not dye;
Thys is ye voyce ryght of þe byrd of blys
Syngynge tyll vs þat þe dey cummyng is.

Thys byddyth þis heyvynly pursyuant,
That we schuld all from slomoryng Aryse,
And þat we schuld bene holly attendaunt
To plesen godd deuotly with seruice;
Ryghtwos and chast and eke in sobre wyse,
The lyght of grace is drawyng tyll vs nere
Of owr derknes þe clowdes for to clere.


This is a translation of the first two verses of a morning hymn by Prudentius, 'Ales diei nuntius'. It comes from a fifteenth-century manuscript of English hymn translations of which I have previously posted an Advent hymn, another morning hymn, and a hymn to the Holy Ghost. The whole manuscript is full of delights, and this is no exception. There are three things about this hymn which I particularly love:

1) the word 'gladsome', possibly my favourite word in the English language

2) the word 'pursuivant', a royal messenger or herald, perhaps familiar to those of you who know Malory, or his loyal Victorian imitators like William Morris; it's the language of the court and of literary romance, and thus a splendid example of a translator adapting a Latin hymn to the imaginative world of his own culture.

3) the fact that it reminds me of the wonderful Middle English proverbial phrase 'as glad as a bird when the day dawns', which I wrote about here. I almost wonder if this phrase, or at least this idea, was in the translator's mind as he worked - his happy bird with its 'musical harmony' is more suggestive of a dawn chorus than Prudentius' crowing cock. It's such a vivid simile, a striking way to express exuberant joy. I've been more than usually aware of the dawn chorus this summer; a tree near my bedroom window is a veritable choir-stall, and birdsong has seemed to be everywhere, even in the city - not only in April do 'smale foweles maken melodye, that slepen al the nyght with open ye'. In past years I've hardly taken notice of it, but what a remarkable thing it is, if you take a moment to think about it: if you were reading a novel about a fantasy world in which little winged creatures flitted around in the trees, singing and chirping, each different and with their own distinctive song, you'd think it a delightful invention. And there they are, all the time, not caring if you listen to them or not. It's one of those things for which 'we need nothing but open eyes to be ravished like the cherubims' - or open ears, in this case.

Here's the loveliest manuscript illustration I've found recently, this bluetit from BL, Royal 3 D VI:

This thirteenth-century English manuscript contains several very naturalistic birds (take a look at this stork!), and I find them mesmerising. They seem to have been drawn from nature, which means that the little bird this artist saw - and heard - died seven hundred years ago; and yet here he is. Isn't he a gladsome bird indeed, a bird of bliss? I could look at this picture all day.

And here's some bird-like harmony to start the day:



Last week I was at a concert in Canterbury Cathedral which featured 'The Lark Ascending'. A young violinist was playing the solo, and as those last trilling notes died away into the darkness of the nave there was a silence of the kind where no one wants to breathe; then after a few heartbeats it was broken by the cathedral bell, high above us, tolling the hour.