She kept the very fountain at her breast

For the Immaculate Conception, my favourite Marian hymn:


Her Virgin eyes saw God incarnate born,
When she to Bethlem came that happy morn;
How high her raptures then began to swell,
None but her own omniscient Son can tell.

As Eve, when she her fontal sin reviewed,
Wept for herself and all she should include,
Blest Mary with man's Saviour in embrace
Joyed for herself and for all human race.

All saints are by her Son's dear influence blest,
She kept the very fountain at her breast;
The Son adored and nursed by the sweet Maid
A thousandfold of love for love repaid.

Heaven with transcendent joys her entrance graced;
Near to his throne her Son his Mother placed;
And here below, now she's of heaven possessed,
All generations are to call her blest.

Thomas Ken (1637-1711), Bishop of Bath and Wells

A Hymn of St Ambrose

Only very doubtfully ascribed, mind you, but any excuse to post it will do.



Rerum, Deus, tenax vigor,
immotus in te permanens,
lucis diurnae tempora
successibus determinans,

Largire clarum vespere,
quo vita numquam decidat,
sed praemium mortis sacrae
perennis instet gloria.

Praesta, Pater piissime,
Patrique compar Unice,
cum Spiritu Paraclito
regnans per omne saeculum.


And, because I can't choose which I like best, here are two beautiful translations:


O God, the world's sustaining force,
Thyself unmoved, all motion's source,
who, from the morn till evening's ray,
dost through its changes guide the day;

O grant us light at eventide,
that life may unimpaired abide,
and that a holy death may be
the door of immortality.

Almighty Father, hear our cry
through Jesus Christ our Lord most high,
who with the Holy Ghost and thee
doth live and reign eternally.

J.M. Neale and the editors of Hymns Ancient and Modern (1904)


O Strength and Stay upholding all creation,
Who ever dost Thyself unmoved abide;
Yet day by day the light in due gradation
From hour to hour through all its changes guide.

Grant to life’s day a calm unclouded ending,
An eve untouched by shadows of decay,
The brightness of a holy deathbed blending
With dawning glories of the eternal day.

Hear us, O Father, gracious and forgiving,
Through Jesus Christ Thy co-eternal Word,
Who, with the Holy Ghost, by all things living
Now and to endless ages art adored.

J. Ellerton and F. J. A. Hort

As the winter sky darkens...

Sunshine at Canterbury Cathedral. Just because.

Myn Lyking

So I know it's only the second week of Advent and it's a bit early for Christmas music, but this is too beautiful to resist:



This is Gustav Holst's setting of 'Lullay, Myn Lyking'. The carol survives in the precious 15th-century manuscript Sloane 2593, which contains many of the best medieval lyrics and carols, including 'Adam lay ybounden', 'I syng of a mayden', 'A babe is born all of a may' and a particularly special Robin Hood ballad.

Here's the carol in Middle English:

Refrain: Lullay, myn lykyng, my dere sone, myn swetyng,
Lullay, my dere herte, myn owyn dere derlyng.

I saw a fayr maydyn syttyn and synge,
Sche lullyd a lytyl chyld, a swete lordyng.

That eche lord is he that made alle thinge,
Of alle lordis he is lord, of alle kynges kyng.

Ther was mekyl melody at that chyldes berthe,
Alle tho wern in hevene blys thei made mekyl merthe.

Aungelebryt thei song that nyt and seydyn to that chyld,
"Blyssid be thou, and so be sche that is bothe mek and myld".

Prey we now to that chyld, and to his moder dere,
Grawnt hem his blyssyng that now makyn chere.

Lullay, myn lykyng, my dere sone, myn swetyng,
Lullay, my dere herte, myn owyn dere derlyng.

The three endearments lykyng, swetyng and derling all essentially mean 'dear little one''; lykyng means something like 'the thing which is pleasing to me', and so myn lykyng is 'the one I delight in, the one who gives me pleasure'.

A translation:

Lullay, my lovely, my dear son, my sweet one,
Lullay, my dear heart, my own dear darling.

I saw a fair maiden sitting and singing,
She lulled a little child, a sweet little lord.

He is the same Lord who made all things,
Of all lords he is Lord, of all kings King.

There was much melody at that child's birth,
All those who were in heavenly bliss made great rejoicing.

Angels bright sang that night and said to that child,
"Blessed be thou, and so be she who is both meek and mild".

Let us pray now to that child, and to his mother dear,
May he grant his blessing to those who are now celebrating.

In Love For Long

I've been in love for long
With what I cannot tell
And will contrive a song
For the intangible
That has no mould or shape,
From which there's no escape.

It's not even a name,
Yet is all constancy;
Tried or untried the same,
It cannot part from me;
A breath, yet as still
As the established hill.

It is not any thing,
And yet all being is;
Being, being, being,
Its burden and its bliss.
How can I ever prove
What it is I love?

This happy happy love
Is sieged with crying sorrows,
Crushed beneath and above
Between todays and morrows;
A little paradise
Held in the world's vice.

And there it is content
And careless as a child,
And in imprisonment
Flourishes sweet and wild:
In wrong, beyond wrong,
All the world's day long.

This love a moment known
For what I do not know
And in a moment gone
Is like the happy doe
That keeps its perfect laws
Between the tiger's paws
And vindicates its cause.

Edwin Muir

Is there anything more horrible than writing applications for grants? It leaves a taste in the mouth like nasty medicine. It's my understanding that writing grant applications makes up a substantial part of life as an academic these days; just one of many reasons why I don't think I could bear to make academia my career.

Here's a palate-cleansing picture, the sweetest and most innocent symbol of childhood Christmas to me:


A spoonful of honey to make the medicine go down.


(From the 1949 Rupert Christmas album)

A Miracle of St Magnus

This brief story from Orkneyinga saga, the twelfth-century history of the Earls of Orkney, is chiefly of importance to me because it shows that medieval Englishmen were praying to a Norse saint. I can't make up my mind whether, as miracle-stories go, it's slightly odd or rather touching. The St Magnus in question is the martyred earl of Orkney Magnus Erlendsson (d.1116/7).


'In England, there were once two men staking money heavily on a game of dice. One of them had lost a great deal, and at last he staked a cargo-boat and everything else that he had, against all that he had lost. The other man was first to throw and got two sixes. The man we are speaking of thought this looked very bad for him, so he made a vow to St Magnus the Earl asking him not to let him lose all his possessions. Then he threw the dice. One of the dice broke and he got two sixes and an ace, so that he won everything at stake; and some time later he gave a lot of money to St Magnus.'