On Crowland

A record of "the first historically attested grave-robbing in England", from the eighth-century Life of St Guthlac:

"There was a mound built of clods of earth which greedy comers to the waste had dug open, in the hope of finding treasure there... and in this Guthlac the man of blessed memory began to dwell, after building a hut over it."

Translated by Bertram Colgrave, Felix’s Life of Saint Guthlac (Cambridge, 1956), pp.93-5.

St Guthlac (b.674) was a nobly-born soldier from the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia, who had repented of his warlike life and become a monk. Seeking a place where he could live as a hermit, he came to the marshy wasteland of the Fens and settled at Crowland (now in Lincolnshire) in 699. He made his hermitage in what was probably an ancient long barrow - though the grave-robbers had been there first.

This cell is traditionally supposed to have been at a site called Anchor Church (or Anchorite) hill, about a quarter of a mile north-east of the site of present-day Crowland Abbey. Until 1866 the site was owned by the Hickling family, whose name may or may not (over the course of 1200 years) be connected to the tribe of Guthlac's ancestors, the Iclingas.


This is what's left of Crowland Abbey now. The poet John Clare, who was born not far away in Helpston, wrote the following rather Gothic sonnet about this glorious ruin:

In sooth, it seems right awful and sublime
To gaze by moonlight on the shattered pile
Of this old Abbey, struggling still with Time,­—
The grey owl hooting from its rents the while;
And tottering stones, as wakened by the sound,
Crumbling from arch and battlement around,
Urging dread echoes from the gloomy aisle,
To sink more silent still. — The very ground
In Desolation’s garment doth appear,
The lapse of age and mystery profound.
We gaze on wrecks of ornamented stones,
On tombs whose sculptures half erased appear,
On rank weeds, battening over human bones,
Till even one’s very shadow seems to fear.


More on Crowland the courteous.

Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight

Today is St Lucy's Day, and after a misty morning the sun is now shining brightly - it doesn't look like deepest winter here at all. Nonetheless, this day belongs to one dark poem for me, perhaps the saddest elegy in English and the most complex of all John Donne's riddling poems.


A Nocturnall Upon St. Lucies Day, Being The Shortest Day

’Tis the yeares midnight, and it is the dayes,
Lucies, who scarce seaven houres herself unmaskes,
The Sunne is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rayes;
The worlds whole sap is sunke:
The generall balme th’ hydroptique earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the beds-feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interr’d; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compar’d with mee, who am their Epitaph.

Study me then, you who shall lovers bee
At the next world, that is, at the next Spring:
For I am every dead thing,
In whom love wrought new Alchimie.
For his art did expresse
A quintessence even from nothingnesse,
From dull privations, and leane emptinesse:
He ruin’d mee, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darknesse, death—things which are not.

All others, from all things, draw all that’s good,
Life, soule, forme, spirit, whence they beeing have;
I, by loves limbecke, am the grave
Of all, that’s nothing. Oft a flood
Have wee two wept, and so
Drownd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow
To be two Chaosses, when we did show
Care to ought else; and often absences
Withdrew our soules, and made us carcasses.

But I am by her death — which word wrongs her —
Of the first nothing, the Elixer grown;
Were I a man, that I were one,
I needs must know; I should preferre,
If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means; Yea plants, yea stones detest,
And love; All, all some properties invest;
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light, and body must be here.

But I am None; nor will my Sunne renew.
You lovers, for whose sake, the lesser Sunne
At this time to the Goat is runne
To fetch new lust, and give it you,
Enjoy your summer all;
Since shee enjoyes her long nights festivall,
Let mee prepare towards her, and let mee call
This houre her Vigill, and her Eve, since this
Bothe the yeares, and the dayes deep midnight is.

A star as bright as day

This is a beautiful example of the lullaby genre, from the 15th century (or most likely earlier). There are several related versions of this poem in various medieval manuscripts; this one is from Bodleian MS. Eng. Poet. e. 1 (dated between 1460-90), as modernised by the Oxford Book of Carols. You can see an image of one page from the manuscript, though not of this carol, here. The editors of the Oxford Book of Carols set the words to a gentle, lilting 16th-century tune, like this:



"This endris night" means "the other night".


This endris night I saw a sight,
A star as bright as day,
And ever among a maiden sung,
Lullay, by by, lullay.

This lovely lady sat and sang,
And to her child did say,
"My son, my brother, father dear,
Why liest thou thus in hay?
My sweetest bird, 'tis thus required,
Though thou be king veray,
But nevertheless I will not cease
To sing By by, lullay."

The child then spake in his talking,
And to his mother did say,
"Yea, I am known as heaven-king
In crib though I be laid.
For angels bright down to me light;
Thou knowest 'tis no nay.
And for that sight thou may'st delight
To sing, By by, lullay."

"Now, sweet son, since thou art a king,
Why art thou laid in stall?
Why dost not order thy bedding
In some great kinges hall?
Methinks 'tis right that king or knight
Should lie in good array.
And then among, it were no wrong
To sing By by, lullay."

"Mary mother, I am thy child,
Though I be laid in stall;
For lords and dukes shall worship me,
And so shall kingès all.
Ye shall well see that kingès three
Shall come on this twelfth day.
For this behest give me thy breast
And sing, By by, lullay."

"Now tell, sweet son, I thee do pray,
Thou art my love and dear —
How should I keep thee to thy pay,
And make thee glad of cheer?
For all thy will I would fulfill—
Thou knowest well, in fay
And for all this I will thee kiss,
And sing, By by, lullay."

"My dear mother, when time it be,
Take thou me up on loft,
And set me then upon thy knee,
And handle me full soft.
And in thy arm thou hold me warm,
And keep me night and day,
And if I weep, and may not sleep,
Thou sing, By by, lullay.

"Now sweet son, since it is come so,
That all is at thy will,
I pray thee grant to me a boon,
If it be right and skill —
That child or man, who will or can
Be merry on my day,
To bliss thou bring — and I shall sing,
Lullay, by by, lullay."

Why weepest thou so sore?

After reading up on 'Myn Lyking' the other day, I got to thinking about these medieval 'lullaby lyrics', in which the speaker watches the Virgin singing a lullaby to the baby Christ. There are a fair number of them, as it seems to have become an increasingly popular genre over the course of the 14th-15th century.

At the same time, English poets and preachers were beginning to make more use of the Pieta image - Mary holding the body of the dead Christ - and the opportunity for poetic contrast between the two is clear. Often the lullabies have the infant Christ speaking about his future death, or make some other reference to it; and this poem makes a really wonderful use of the opposite idea, as Mary recalls Christ's babyhood while embracing his dead body. Some of the poems step a little close to sentimentality for modern taste, but others are very effective. Over the next few weeks, I want to dig out and post about some of the lullabies (the Pieta lyrics will have to wait until Easter!).

But before I do that, I want to post a twist on the genre. This poem is sometimes called the "Adult Lullaby", and has been recorded under that name, but like the vast majority of medieval poems it originally didn't have a title. It's not an adult lullaby; it's addressed to a crying child, but it's profoundly uncomforting. And yet, it is tender and gentle, and very beautiful. Here it is in Middle English, with my translations, and here's a link to a reading of the poem:


Lollai, lollai, litil child, whi wepistou so sore?
Nedis mostou wepe, hit was iyarkid the yore
Euer to lib in sorow, and sich and mourne euere,
As thin eldren did er this while hi aliues wore.
Lollai, lollai, litil child, child lolai, lullow.
Into vncuth world incommen so ertow.

[Lullay, lullay, little child, why do you weep so sadly?  By necessity must you weep: it was prepared for you long ago, that you should ever live in sorrow, and sigh and mourn ever, as your elders did before now, while they were alive.  Lullay, lullay, little child, child lullay, lullow; you have come into an alien world.]

Bestis and thos foules, the fisses in the flode,
And euch schef aliues imakid of bone and blode,
Whan hi commith to the world hi doth ham silf sum gode;
Al bot the wrech brol that is of Adamis blode.
Lollai, lollai, litil child, to kar ertou bemette;
Thou nost noght this worldis wild before the is isette.

[Animals and birds, fishes in the water, and every living creature made of bone and blood - when they come into the world, they do themselves some good, all except the poor wretch who is of Adam's blood.  Lullay, lullay, little child, you are destined to sorrow: you do not know that the world's wilds lie before you!]

Child, if betidith that thou ssalt thriue and the,
Thench thou were ifostred vp thi moder kne.
Euer hab mund in thi hert of thos thinges thre:
Whan thou commist, what thou art and what ssal com of the.
Lollai, lollai, litil child, child lollai, lollai,
With sorow thou com into this world, with sorow ssalt wend awai.

[Child, if it should happen that you should grow and thrive, remember that you were brought up at your mother's knee.  Always recall in your heart these three things: whence you came, what you are, and what shall become of you.  Lullay, lullay, little child, child, lullay, lullow; with sorrow you came into the world, with sorrow you shall leave it.]

Ne tristou to this world, hit is thi ful vo.
The rich he makith pouer, the pore rich also;
Hit turneth wo to wel and ek wel to wo.
Ne trist no man to this world, whil hit turnith so.
Lollai, lollai, litil child, thi fote is in the whele.
Thou nost whoder turne to wo other wele.

[Do not trust to this world, it is entirely your enemy.  It makes the rich poor, and the poor rich also; it turns woe to joy and also joy to woe.  Let no man trust to this world, while it turns so!  Lullay, lullay, little child, your foot is in the wheel; you do not know where it will turn, to woe or joy.]

Child, thou ert a pilgrim in wikidnis ibor,
Thou wandrest in this fals world, thou loke the bifor.
Deth ssal com with a blast vte of a well dim horre
Adamis kin dun to cast, him silf hath ido befor.
Lollai, lollai, litil child, so wo the worth Adam
In the lond of paradis, throgh wikidnes of Satan.

[Child, you are a pilgrim born in wickedness, and you wander in this false world; look before you!  Death will come suddenly with a blast 'out of a well dim horre', to cast down Adam's kin, as he has often done before.  Lullay, lullay, little child, Adam made this woe for you, in the land of Paradise, through the wickedness of Satan.]

Child, thou nert a pilgrim bot an vncuthe gist,
Thi dawes beth itold, thi iurneis beth icast;
Whoder thou salt wend north or est,
Deth the sal betide with bitter bale in brest.
Lollai, lollai, litil child, this wo Adam the wroght,
Whan he of the appil ete and Eue hit him betacht.

[Child, you are not a pilgrim but an unknown guest: your days are counted, your journeys are cast.  Wherever you may go, to the north or east, death will come to you with bitter sorrow at your heart.  Lullay, lullay, little child, Adam wrought this woe for you, when he ate the apple and Eve gave it to him.]



The meaning of 'out of a well dim horre' is not at all clear, and so I haven't tried to translate it.

Er, no

Overheard in Oxford:

Blackwells Theology Department, Friday, 4pm. Two young women, apparently students (hopefully not of theology).

First Girl (seeing a book): Oh, Thomas Merton. I've always wondered if that's who Merton College is named after.
Second Girl: Yeah, maybe...


Sigh.

Merton College
Thomas Merton

Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew

A poem by the very lovely Rupert Brooke.


The Great Lover

I have been so great a lover: filled my days
So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise,
The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,
Desire illimitable, and still content,
And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,
For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear
Our hearts at random down the dark of life.
Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife
Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,
My night shall be remembered for a star
That outshone all the suns of all men's days.
Shall I not crown them with immortal praise
Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me
High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see
The inenarrable godhead of delight?
Love is a flame; -- we have beaconed the world's night.
A city: -- and we have built it, these and I.
An emperor: -- we have taught the world to die.
So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,
And the high cause of Love's magnificence,
And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names
Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames,
And set them as a banner, that men may know,
To dare the generations, burn, and blow
Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming. . . .

These I have loved:
White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,
Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;
Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
The benison of hot water; furs to touch;
The good smell of old clothes; and other such --
The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
About dead leaves and last year's ferns. . . .
Dear names,
And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames;
Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;
Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing;
Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,
Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;
Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam
That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;
And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;
And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;
And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass; --
All these have been my loves. And these shall pass,
Whatever passes not, in the great hour,
Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power
To hold them with me through the gate of Death.
They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,
Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust
And sacramented covenant to the dust.
---- Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,
And give what's left of love again, and make
New friends, now strangers. . . .
But the best I've known,
Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown
About the winds of the world, and fades from brains
Of living men, and dies.
Nothing remains.

O dear my loves, O faithless, once again
This one last gift I give: that after men
Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed,
Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved."

Accidental Delights of the Scholarly Life

All that's left of Ramsey Abbey - the gatehouse

I just experienced one of those exciting coincidences which sometimes happens as you trawl through academic research. Today I learned for the first time (and this is probably something I should have known before, but we'll let that pass) that in 1068 William the Conqueror sent an embassy to King Sweyn of Denmark, seeking peace. As the nephew of Cnut, Sweyn had a claim to the English throne which was arguably stronger than William's; he was shortly to make good on this by sending a fleet to challenge William, though he was ultimately unsuccessful. Anyway, the interesting point to me (as someone who studies Scandinavian influence in medieval England) is that William took Sweyn's claims seriously enough to seek to make peace with him and forestall an invasion.

This was intriguing enough for my purposes; the Danes were still a real political force in England. Now, I was also interested in the fact that the leader of William's embassy was Æthelsige, abbot of Ramsey. Ramsey (which is now in Cambridgeshire, but at this time, before Cambridge existed, was in Huntingdonshire) was an abbey with strong Scandinavian connections, situated in the former Danelaw. Did William, I wondered, pick Æthelsige because he knew something about the Danes - maybe because he spoke their language? Ramsey is one of those obscure but fascinating Fenland abbeys I spend my time trying to make sense of; they seem to have cultivated a distinctive literary culture which was strongly linked to Denmark and Norway.

But then (and here's the coincidence), guess what happened to Æthelsige on the way back from Denmark? His ship got caught in stormy seas, and he made a promise that if he was saved he would establish the Feast of the Conception of the Virgin Mary in his monastery at Ramsey. That was, according to the Catholic Encyclopedia, the beginning of the feast in Norman England.

And you know what today is?