The Time is All Run: An Expectant Carol

Today's Advent carol, which is from the fifteenth century, has an unusual subject: Mary looking forward with joyful expectation, during her pregnancy, to the birth of her child. She imagines herself singing lullabies to the baby and playing with him, and then, later, hearing him teach the Gospel - prophesying a future unknown to her. I don't know of any other carols on this theme, at least not spoken in the voice of the Virgin herself; more common are carols where the infant Christ tells his mother of the death that will befall him, to her surprise and distress (this is a particularly good example of a carol on that theme). This is a more homely, domestic, cheerful kind of scenario - really just a lovely subject all round.

This carol was apparently written to fit the tune of a secular song called "Now must I sing", which has not survived (for the opening, where the narrator wanders alone in the woods and overhears a woman speaking, compare this song of an earlier date). The original secular song might possibly have been about a woman lamenting that she is pregnant, in which case this carol is a nice 'translation' of the theme to a joyful, religious context.


This is in modern spelling with some helpful (I hope) notes; here's the unmodernised version.


Refrain: Nowell, Nowell, Nowell!
Sing we with mirth,
Christ is come well
With us to dwell,
By His most noble birth.

1. Under a tree,
In sporting me
Alone by a wood-side,
I heard a maid
Who sweetly said,
"I am with child this tide."

[As I went out amusing myself, alone near the edge of a wood, under a tree I saw a maiden, who sweetly said, "I am with child at this time."]

2. "Graciously
Conceived have I
The Son of God so sweet;
His gracious will
I put me till,
As mother Him to keep."

["By grace I have conceived the Son of God so sweet; I submitted myself to his gracious will that I should be his mother."]

3. "Both night and day,
I will Him pray,
And hear His laws be taught,
And every dell
His true gospel
In His apostles fraught."

["Both night and day I will beseech him, and hear his laws be taught and every part of his true Gospel entrusted to his disciples."]

4. "This ghostly case
Doth me embrace,
Without despite or mock,
With my darling,
Lullay to sing,
And lovingly Him to rock."

["This holy act tenderly protects me, without shame or mockery, so that I may sing lullabies to my darling and lovingly cradle him."]

5. "Without distress,
In great lightness,
I am both night and day;
This heavenly Fode,
In His childhood,
Shall daily with me play."

["I am without distress, in great lightness (i.e. both lightness of heart and experiencing no discomfort from the 'heaviness' of pregnancy) both night and day. The heavenly infant, in his childhood, shall play with me every day."]

6. "Soon must I sing,
With rejoicing,
For the time is all run,
That I shall child,
All undefiled,
The King of heaven's Son."

["Soon shall I sing with rejoicing, for the time is almost come that I shall give birth, entirely undefiled, to the Son of the King of heaven."]

Nowell, Nowell, Nowell!
Sing we with mirth,
Christ is come well,
With us to dwell,
By His most noble birth.



Pictures from Wickhambreaux, Rochester Cathedral, and Ickham.

A Medieval Love Lament: Now Springes the Spray

A sad little song from c.1300 (for which this picture entitled 'Broken Vows', though entirely unmedieval, seems nonetheless appropriate).


Now springes the spray,
All for love I am so seek
That slepen I ne may.

Als I me rode this endre day
O' my pleyinge,
Seih I whar a litel may
Began to singe:
"The clot him clinge!
Way es him i' love-longinge
Shall libben ay!"

Son I herde that mirye note
Thider I drogh:
I fonde hire in an herber swot
Under a bogh,
With joye enough.
Son I asked, "Thou mirye may
Why singes tou ay?"

Than answerde that maiden swote
Midde wordes fewe
"My lemman me haves bihot
Of love trewe!
He changes anewe.
Yiif I may, it shall him rewe
By this day!"


Translation:

Now the leaves begin to spring,
I am so sick, all because of love,
That I cannot sleep.

As I rode out the other day
To amuse myself,
I saw a young woman
Begin to sing:
"May the earth [of the grave] cling to him!
Alas for the one who in love-longing
Must live for ever!"

As soon as I heard that merry tune
I went in that direction:
I found her in a pretty arbour
Under a bough,
With joy enough. (this is irony: i.e. with no joy at all)
Soon I asked, "You merry maid,
Why are you singing?"

Then answered that maiden sweet
With few words:
"My lover promised to me
True love!
He has changed his mind.
If I can, I shall make him regret it
By this day!"

Now shrinketh rose and lily-flower

For the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, here's a medieval poem in praise of the Virgin Mary. The opening lines set the poem in autumn or winter, but the poem turns from depicting the transience of earthly life (a familiar theme in medieval poetry, on which see also this poem and this one; and also this and this - I said it was familiar!) to an appeal for salvation which is full of hope. This makes it appropriate for Advent, I think.

The shift from the winter setting, when "the rose and lily wither", to the poem's main subject may seem a little abrupt, but we should probably remember that flower imagery is extremely common in Middle English lyrics to describe both Christ and the Virgin Mary; there's an implicit contrast between the earthly rose and lily, which fade and die, and the heavenly "rose of Sharon, lily of the valley". Mary is the "Lady, flower of alle thing, rosa sine spina", as this carol has it; and in this superb fifteenth-century poem, Christ is the flower which bloomed in Bethlehem, and Mary the branch on which he grew.

I'm going to wait while you go and read that last link, because it's such a very good poem.

Back to 'Now shrinketh rose". This is from MS. Harley 2253, one of the most important manuscript collection of medieval poetry, which dates to the early fourteenth century. You can read about it here and see pictures of it here.

Here's a reading of 'Now shrinketh rose' in Middle English.


Nou skrinketh rose ant lylie-flour,
That whilen ber that suete sauour
In somer, that suete tyde;
Ne is no quene so stark ne stour,
Ne no leuedy so bryht in bour
That ded ne shal by glyde.
Who-se wol fleysch lust forgon
Ant heuene blis abyde,
On Iesu be is thoht anon,
That therled was ys side.

From Petresbourh in o morewenyng,
As y me wende o my pleyghyng,
On mi folie y thohte;
Menen y gon my mournyng
To hire that ber the heuene kyng,
Of merci hire bysohte:
'Ledy, preye thi sone for ous
That ous duere bohte,
Ant shild vs from the lothe hous
That to the fend is wrohte.'

My herte of dedes wes fordred,
Of synne that y haue my fleish fed
Ant folwed al my tyme,
That y not whider I shal be led
When Y lygge on dethes bed,
In ioie ore into pyne.
On o ledy myn hope is,
Moder ant virgyne;
We shulen into heuene blis
Thurh hire medicine.

Betere is hire medycyn
Then eny mede or eny wyn.
Hire erbes smulleth suete;
From Catenas into Dyuelyn
Nis ther non leche so fyn
Oure serewes to bete.
Mon that feleth eni sor,
Ant his folie wol lete,
Withoute gold other eny tresor
He may be sound and sete.

Of penaunce is his plastre al,
Ant euer seruen hire y shal,
Nou ant al my lyue;
Nou is fre that er wes thral
Al thourh that leuedy gent ant smal -
Heried be hyr ioies fiue!
Wher-so eny sek is,
Thider hye blyue;
Thurh hire beoth ybroht to blis
Bo mayden ant wyue.

For he that dude is body on tre,
Of oure sunnes haue piete
That weldes heouene boures!
Wymmon, with thi iolyfte,
Thou thench on Godes shoures!
Thah thou be whyt ant bryth on ble,
Falewen shule thy floures.
Iesu, haue merci of vs,
That al this world honoures.


Translation:

Now wither the rose and lily-flower which once bore a sweet scent, in summer, that sweet season; there is no queen so powerful or mighty, nor any lady so bright in chamber, that death shall not come upon her. He who wishes to forgo bodily lusts and win the joys of heaven, let his thought be ever only on Jesu, whose side was pierced.

From Peterborough one morning, as I went out to amuse myself, I thought upon my folly; I made appeal in my sorrow to her who bore the heavenly king, and beseeched her for mercy: Lady, pray for us to thy Son, who bought us at such a price, and shield us from the hateful house that is prepared for the devil.

My heart was terrified for all the sinful deeds with which I have fostered my flesh, and followed all my life. I do not know where I shall be led when I lie on my death-bed, whether to joy or suffering. In one lady is all my hope, mother and virgin; we may come into heaven's bliss through her medicine.

Better is her medicine than any mead or any wine; her herbs smell sweet. From Caithness to Dublin there is no doctor so good for the healing of our sorrows: the man who feels any grief and wishes to forsake his folly, without gold or any treasure may be made whole and well [by turning to her].

Penance shall be such a man's plaster. I will ever serve her, now and all my life. Now all those who were ever enslaved are free, all because of that lady, beautiful and slender. Praised be her five joys! Wherever there is anyone sick, let them go to her joyfully; through her both maiden and wife are brought to bliss.

You who rule the bowers of heaven, have pity on our sins, for the sake of him who gave his body on the tree! Women, in your jollity, think on the pains of God: though you may be fair and beautiful to look at, your flowers shall fall. Jesu, whom all this world honours, have mercy on us.


The first and last pictures are from Dorchester Abbey, Oxfordshire; the one in the middle is from the church at Binsey, just outside Oxford.

O Light, of light the fountain-spring

Here's a morning hymn of St Ambrose, whose feast is today, as translated by the editors of Hymns Ancient and Modern (1904).

And some pictures of light.


O splendour of God’s glory bright,
Who bringest forth the light from Light,
O Light, of light the fountain-spring,
O Day, our days illumining;

Come, very Sun of truth and love,
Come in thy radiance from above,
And shed the Holy Spirit's ray
On all we think or do today.


Teach us to work with all our might;
Put Satan's fierce assault to flight;
Turn all to good that seems most ill;
Help us our calling to fulfil.


O joyful be the livelong day,
Our thoughts as pure as morning ray,
Our faith like noonday's glowing height,
Our souls undimmed by shades of night.

All praise to God the Father be,
All praise, eternal Son, to thee,
Whom with the Spirit we adore
For ever and for evermore.


The pictures are all from Hampshire churches: Winchester Cathedral, Christchurch Priory, and St Peter and St Paul, Ringwood.

Vox Clara Ecce Intonat: Newman's 'Hark! a gladsome voice is thrilling'

Time to start posting some Advent hymns, I think. One of the best-known Advent hymns (and one of my favourites) is Edward Caswall's translation of the sixth-century Latin hymn 'Vox clara ecce intonat', 'Hark, a thrilling voice is sounding' (or, more familiar to me though it gets far fewer google hits, 'Hark, a herald voice is calling'). I'm not going to post it, but you can read a translation and analysis of the Latin hymn here; as usual, I confine myself to things I know about, i.e. English, not Latin!

John Henry Newman wrote a translation of this hymn (or rather, of its post-1632 revised form) with the first line 'Hark, a joyful voice is thrilling', which you can also read at that link; it seems to be fairly well-known. Less well-known (at least, unknown to Google) is his version of the hymn in six-line stanzas, which according to this excellent website was published in 1908 in the third edition of the hymn-collection Songs of Syon, ed. George Ratcliffe Woodward.

Woodward is best known today as the author of the words to 'Ding Dong Merrily on High'. Newman's hymn is a little more dignified than that; some of the vocabulary is notably archaic, which may explain why it has fallen out of use (also I guess because six-line stanzas don't fit the familiar tune for this hymn). But I like it for the use of the word gladsome, one of the nicest words in the English language (it means 'causing or showing gladness, cheerfulness, joy'). Not a very precise translation of clara, perhaps, but an attractive one.

So here is Newman's 'Hark! a gladsome voice is thrilling', with some comments.


1. Hark! a gladsome voice is thrilling,
Earth’s dim pathways wildly shaking:
Lo! the ancient fane is filling
With the glow, for day is breaking;
Day is breaking, night-dreams vanish;
Christ is coming, gloom to banish.

[in case you, like me, had never heard fane before - it's an archaic word for 'temple'.]

2. Christ is coming! from thy prison,
Earth-bound spirit, spring with gladness!
Rising with the Star, new risen,
Health to shed on human sadness:
Lo! the Lamb descends from heaven:
Sinners, haste to be forgiven.

3. Yea! to grant a gracious guerdon,
Once again he comes in glory:
Mourners, freighted with your pardon,
His right hand he lifteth o’er ye:
Lord, when doom and death confound us,
Be thine arm of mercy round us.

[guerdon usually means 'reward' or 'recompense', but here it must be intended as 'pardon'. As for freighted, this metaphorical use of the word seems to have fallen out of use now; it means 'weighed down', as with cargo.]

4. To the Father, Son, and Spirit,
Glory, honour, power, be given:
Lord, to thine eternal merit
Praise be sung in earth and heaven:
Voice of Saints in concert blending,
Heard through ages never ending. Amen.


This strikes me as a more self-consciously poetic translation than the others, which are comparatively straightforward. The rhyme scheme is a demanding one and the lines are heavy (almost freighted) with alliteration, especially on that central word 'gladsome': we have glow, gloom, gladness, glory (twice), grant, gracious, and guerdon. That's a lot for four verses! And that's not all: there's fane is filling, doom and death, spirit spring, Christ is coming, Lo, the Lamb, and the double alliteration in health to shed on human sadness. This, together with the repetition of day is breaking in lines 4-5 and Christ is coming between verses 1 and 2 (and the repetition-with-variation in rising with the Star, new risen), creates, I think, a sense of urgency, as if the lines are pressing on and tumbling over themselves in expectation - just the right mood for Advent, and that insistent calling voice.

This hymn deserves to be better known - especially at a time when we are all still acquainting ourselves with the newly-Blessed John Henry Newman.

The Fruit of this World is Falling: An Anglo-Saxon Sermon for Advent

An apocalyptic scene on the Lindisfarne stone

There's some interesting writing about Advent from the Anglo-Saxon period: perhaps this is not surprising, since Advent is an opportunity to reflect not only on the coming of Christ but on the end of the world, and one of the most popular themes in Old English poetry and prose is the ultimate fate of all earthly things. In the later medieval period, the trend in English writing about Christmas is often to focus on the mystery of the Incarnation, and all the poetic richness that can be found in the interaction of the divine and the domestic, the heavenly and the homely worlds; I'm thinking especially of the carols and the mystery plays. But (to speak broadly), it was the cosmic implications of the Incarnation and the Second Coming which really excited the imagination of the Anglo-Saxons.

And so here is an extract from a homily for the Second Sunday of Advent which was written by Ælfric, perhaps the most skilful (and certainly the most prolific) writer of Old English prose. He lived in the second part of the tenth century (c.955-c.1010), when the close of the first millennium meant that thoughts of the end of the world were much on the mind.  This an extract from a longer homily, which you can read online in Old and Modern English here.  The Gospel for the Second Sunday of Advent was (and still is, in some churches) taken from Luke 21:25-33, which talks about the signs of the end of the world. Ælfric begins by discussing these signs, and tells his listeners that although they have seen some of the signs in their own times (wars, earthquakes, famines), others have not happened yet (unusual movements of the stars, the darkening of the sun and moon). But nonetheless, he says, the world will end one day. And then he says:


O, let not any believer who wishes to see God grieve for the world's end! They should grieve for the destruction of the world who have planted the root of their heart in the love of it, who do not seek the life to come, nor even believe in it; but truly, we, who know of all the joys of our heavenly homeland, should with one mind be hastening there. We ought to wish that we may swiftly travel there, and come there by the short way, because this world is afflicted with many sorrows, and made wretched by many evils.

What is this deathly life but a journey? Consider what it would be like to grow weary labouring on with a journey, and yet not to wish for the journey to end. The Lord said, "Behold this fig-tree, and all other trees: when they sprout leaves, then you know that summer draws near. So in the same way, when you see the aforementioned signs, then you may know that the kingdom of God draws near." Truly, by these words it is shown that the fruit of this world is falling. It grows so that it may fall; it sprouts up so that it may destroy with pestilence what had previously sprouted.

This world is like a man grown old. In youth the body is thriving, with a powerful chest, with strong and healthy limbs; but in old age this man's height is bowed down, his neck grows slack, his face is wrinkled, his limbs all made weak. His breast is oppressed with sighs, and between words his breath fails him; though sickness may not afflict him, yet very often health is like a sickness to him. So it is with this world. In the beginning it was thriving as in its youth, growing in bodily health, getting fat on the abundance of plenty, with a long time to live and dwelling in lasting peace. But now it is oppressed by old age, as if by its frequent troubles it is afflicted unto death.

My brothers, do not love this world, which you see cannot last long! The apostle said of this, "Do not love the world, nor anything that lives in it, because whoever loves the world does not have the love of God in him." The kingdom of God is well likened to the summertime: for then the clouds of our sorrow will pass away, and life's days will shine with the brightness of the eternal sun...

The wise man said that the great day of God is near at hand, and incredibly swift. Even if it were still a thousand years until that day comes, it would not be any slower, because the end comes swift and quick, and when it is ended it will be as if it had never existed. And even though it were a long time until that day - which it is not - nonetheless our time will not be long, and at our ending it will be judged whether we shall await the common doom in peace or in suffering. Let us therefore make use of the time which God has given us, and merit eternal life with him who lives and reigns for ever, world without end. Amen.

The Last Judgement, British Library, Stowe 944, f. 7

Here's the Old English:

Ne gewurðe hit la, þæt ænig geleafful, seðe gewilnað God to geseonne, þæt he heofige for middangeardes hryrum... Þa sceolon heofian for middangeardes toworpennysse, þa ðe heora heortan wyrtruman on his lufe aplantodon, þa ðe þæt towearde lif ne secað, ne his furðon ne gelyfað: we soðlice, ðe þæs heofonlican eðles gefean eallunga oncneowon, sceolon anmodlice to ðam onettan. Us is to gewiscenne þæt we hrædlice to ðam faron, and þurh ðone scyrtran weg becumon, forðan ðe ðes middangeard is mid menigfealdum unrotnyssum geðread, and mid ðwyrnyssum geangsumod.

Hwæt is ðis deadlice lif buton weg? Understandað nu hwilc sy on weges geswince to ateorigenne, and ðeah nelle þone weg geendigan. Drihten cwæð, "Behealdað þas fictreowa and ealle oðre treowa: þonne hi spryttað, ðonne wite ge þæt hit sumorlæhð. Swa eac ge magon witan, ðonne ge ðas foresædan tacna geseoð, þæt Godes rice genealæhð." Soðlice mid þisum wordum is geswutelod þæt ðises middangeardes wæstm is hryre. To ðam he wext þæt he fealle; to ðy he sprytt þæt he mid cwyldum fornyme swa hwæt swa he ær sprytte. Þes middangeard is ðam ealdigendan menn gelic: on ingoðe bið se lichama þeonde on strangum breoste, on fullum limum and halum; witodlice on ealdlicum gearum bið þæs mannes wæstm gebiged, his swura aslacod, his neb gerifod, and his lima ealle gewæhte; his breost bið mid sicetungum geðread, and betwux wordum his orðung ateorað; þeah ðe him adl on ne sitte, þeah forwel oft his hæl him bið adl. Swa is ðisum middangearde: æt fruman he wæs ðeonde swylce on geogoðhade, he wæs on lichamlicere hælðe growende, and on speda genihtsumnysse fætt, langsum on life, stille on langsumere sibbe; ac he is nu mid ylde ofsett, swylce mid gelomlæcendum hefigtymnyssum to deaðe geðread.

Mine gebroðra, ne lufige ge þisne middangeard þe ge geseoð þæt lange wunian ne mæg. Be ðisum cwæð se apostol, "Ne lufige ge middangeard, ne ða ðing ðe him on wuniað, forðan swa hwa swa middangeard lufað, næfð he Godes lufe on him." Wel is Godes rice sumerlicere tide wiðmeten, forði ðonne gewitað þa genipu ure dreorignysse, and lifes dagas ðurh beorhtnysse þære ecan sunnan scinað...

Se witega cwæð, þæt se miccla Godes dæg is swiðe gehende, and þearle swyft. Þeah ðe gyt wære oðer þusend geara to ðam dæge, nære hit langsum; forðan swa hwæt swa geendað, þæt bið sceort and hræd, and bið swilce hit næfre ne gewurde, þonne hit geendod bið. Hwæt þeah hit langsum wære to ðam dæge, swa hit nis, þeah ne bið ure tima langsum, and on ure geendunge us bið gedemed, hwæðer we on reste oþþe on wite ðone gemænelican dom anbidian sceolon. Uton forði brucan þæs fyrstes ðe us God forgeaf, and geearnian þæt ece lif mid him seðe leofað and rixað in ealra worulda woruld. Amen.

Dorchester Windows

To brighten up the beginning of December, here's some pretty windows from Dorchester Abbey, Oxfordshire. Dorchester-on-Thames is a tiny (very beautiful) village now, but in the Anglo-Saxon period it was the seat of a bishop whose diocese extended over a large part of central England. The see was moved to Lincoln in 1071, but an abbey was built on the site of the Saxon cathedral; post-Reformation, the abbey became the parish church of the village. The result is that Dorchester has a glorious church completely out of proportion to its size. The church has many interesting features, of which the windows are perhaps the least remarkable; but I like these pictures, all the same.

These pictures were taken on three different occasions: bright summer's day...


(that's a restored medieval wall painting there, by the way)

and a rainy spring day...


and an early evening in autumn.

I may be the only person in the world who likes pictures like this one. I could just look at it for ever.


More colourful, and perhaps more attractive to normal people:








Birinus is the missionary who converted the Saxons in these parts c.635. We have him to thank for all this.


This is the great east window:


But this kind of window is still my favourite:

Welcome to December.