'To all that love the far and blue'

To all that love the far and blue:
Whether, from dawn to eve, on foot
The fleeing corners ye pursue,
Nor weary of the vain pursuit;
Or whether down the singing stream,
Paddle in hand, jocund ye shoot,
To splash beside the splashing bream
Or anchor by the willow root:

Or, bolder, from the narrow shore
Put forth, that cedar ark to steer,
Among the seabirds and the roar
Of the great sea, profound and clear;
Or, lastly if in heart ye roam,
Not caring to do else, and hear,
Safe sitting by the fire at home,
Footfalls in Utah or Pamere:

Though long the way, though hard to bear
The sun and rain, the dust and dew;
Though still attainment and despair
Inter the old, despoil the new;
There shall at length, be sure, O friends,
Howe'er ye steer, whate'er ye do -
At length, and at the end of ends,
The golden city come in view.

My favourite thing about this poem is its evocative first line - Robert Louis Stevenson did write wonderful opening lines, as a quick perusal of this list will demonstrate!  I think it would be fair to say that this poem is in his most 'rare and fair romantic strain' (on which see 'In Praise of Story').  The last verse reminds me quite a bit of John Masefield's poem 'The Seekers', which also features a golden city and 'sun and rain, dust and dew' - but this poem is certain where Masefield's is only hopeful.  (Wikipedia tells me that Masefield was a admirer of Stevenson, so perhaps this is a case of direct influence, conscious or unconscious; exploration via Google could not provide me with exact dates for the publication of either poem).

Oh, and I don't know if I have any readers in Utah, but if so, I hope you appreciate it being namechecked here as an archetypal distant, exotic place...

Hostis Herodes impie: 'Thou cruel Herod, thou mortal enemy'

Two years ago I posted a medieval English translation of the Epiphany hymn 'Hostis Herodes impie' by the Franciscan friar William Herebert, and today I have another one to share. This is anonymous, and from the fifteenth century; it appears in British Library, MS. Additional 34193, the manuscript of English hymn translations from which I posted back in Advent.  You can read the text of the hymn and a useful list of later translations here.  This version is a bit more wordy than Herebert's translation, but the first verse is wonderfully dramatic.  I particularly like the lines 'The water clere that erst was cristallyne / As ruby red is changed in to wyne' - crystalline being one of those new-fangled Latinate words which fifteenth-century English poets loved so very much. And there's some interesting enjambment too, especially in the first and third verses.

Thow cruell herode, thow mortall enemye,
Of criste whi art þow ferd? whi dost thow drede
That he wyll put the frome thi regallye?
The hevynly kynge to thyng terrene no nede
May have; he yevyth hevinly mede;
He settyth not be þi mortall Empyre;
What eylyth the ayenst þis lord Conspire?

The kinges iii out of þo orient
In theyr iorney to gydyn and conveye
A ster aperyd, Ryght in the firmament;
Non soo bryght a for that tyme was seye,
So lyght by lyght deyvowtly sekyn they,
And madyn knolege in theyr offerynge
To mortall man, prest and heyvyne kynge.

The lawly lambe of hvmbyll innocence
To be baptized in the Streme fontall,
And purgen vs frome gylt & greet offence
Inclynyd hym; to no synne was he thralle;
Bot vs to wasshe and vs to clensyne all,
That with synne ne schuld be supprisyde,
Of Jon Baptyste in iordan was baptizede.

A novelty gestys for to glade
By power and mervelows myghte diuine
Of verry water verry wynne was made
The water clere that erst was cristallyne
As ruby reed is changed in to wyne;
Thys kyng of myght may byd hys creature
Aftyr hys wyll to changene hys natur.

To the lord that þis day apere,
Be yeuen lawde wyth praysyng and glorie,
In tymes reuolute frome yere to yere;
Thys solempe fest, thys blessyd Epyphany,
Off thyne aperance makyng memory;
We wyrshyp the fadyr of myghtes most,
Criste hys sone and eke the holy gost. Amen.


More readable:


Thou cruel Herod, thou mortal enemy,
Why art thou afraid of Christ? why dost thou dread
That he will put thee from thy royalty? [i.e. royal place]
The heavenly king for earthly thing no need
May have; he giveth heavenly mede; [reward]
He careth not for thy mortal empire;
Why trouble thee against this lord to conspire?

The kings three out of the orient
In their journey to guide and to convey
A star appeared, right in the firmament;
None so bright a path at any time saw they!
So light by light devoutly seek they,
And made acknowledgement in their offering
To mortal man, priest and heavenly king.

The lowly lamb of humble innocence
To be baptised in the stream fontal,
And purge us from guilt & great offence
Inclined himself; to no sin was he thrall;
But us to wash and us to cleanse all,
That we with sin should never be supprisyde, [overcome]
By John Baptist in Jordan he was baptised.

A new deed to inspire a tale,
By power and marvellous might divine
Of true water true wine was made:
The water clear which first was crystalline,
Now ruby red is changed into wine;
This king of power can bid his creature
According to his will to change its nature.

To the lord who this day doth appear,
Be given laud with praise and glory,
In proper time, from year to year;
This solemn feast, this blessed Epiphany,
Of thine appearance making memory; [i.e. recalling]
We worship the Father of mights most, [greatest in power]
Christ his son, and eke the Holy Ghost. Amen.

'Now lords and ladies in rich array, lift up your hearts upon this day'

Be merry, all that be present:
Omnes de Saba venient.

1. Out of the east a star shone bright,
For to show three kinges light,
Who had far travelled by day and night
To seek that Lord that all hath sent.

2. Thereof heard King Herod anon,
That three kings should come through his region,
To seek a child that peer had none,
And after them soon he sent.

3. King Herod cried to them on high,
‘Ye go to seek a child truly;
Go forth and come again me by,
And tell me where that he is lent.’ [laid]

4. Forth they went by the star's gleam,
Till they came to merry Bethlehem;
There they found that sweet barn-teme, [infant]
That since for us his blood hath spent.

5. Balthasar kneeled first adown
And said: 'Hail, King, most of renown!
And of all kings thou bearest the crown;
Therefore with gold I thee present.’

6. Melchoir kneeled down in that stede [place]
And said, ‘Hail, Lord, in thy priesthood!
Receive incense for thy manhood,
I bring it with a good entent.’

7. Jasper kneeled down in that stede
And said, ‘Hail, Lord, in thy knighthood,
I offer thee myrrh to thy Godhead,
For thou art he that all hath sent.’

8. Now lords and ladies in rich array,
Lift up your hearts upon this day,
And ever to God let us pray,
That on the rood was rent.


This carol is from the sixteenth-century manuscript Balliol College, Oxford MS. 354 (the commonplace book of Richard Hill); the burden, 'Omnes de Saba venient' comes from a Versicle in Vespers for the Eve of Epiphany.


Be mery, all that be present:
Omnes de Saba venient.

1. Owt of the est a sterre shon bright,
For to shew thre kinges light,
Which had ferre traveled by day and nyght
To seke that Lord that all hath sent.

2. Thereof hard King Herode anon,
That iii kynges shuld cum thorow his regyon,
To seke a child that pere had non,
And after them sone he sent.

3. Kyng Herode cried to them on hye,
‘Ye go to seke a child truly;
Go forth and cum agayn me by,
And tell me wher that he is lent.’

4. Forth they went by the sterres leme,
Till they com to mery Bethlehem;
There they fond that swet barn-teme,
That sith for vs his blode hath spent.

5. Balthasar kneled first adown
And said: ‘Hayll, Kyng, most of renown!
And of all kynges thou berist the crown;
Therefor with gold I the present.’

6. Melchoir kneled down in that stede
And said, ‘Hayll, Lord, in thy pryesthede!
Receyve encence to thy manhede,
I brynge it with a good entent.’

7. Jasper kneled down in that stede
And said, ‘Hayll, Lord, in thy knyghthede,
I offer the myrre to thy Godhede,
For thow art he that all hath sent.’

8. Now lords and ladys in riche aray,
Lyfte vp your hartes vpon this day,
And ever to God lett vs pray,
That on the rode was rent.

King Herod and the Cock

I've posted before about some of the fascinating legends about the childhood of Christ which from the early days of Christianity have existed side-by-side with the Biblical narratives - and here's an Epiphany-themed one. This is a carol about the visit of the Magi to Herod, which features a miracle story also found in medieval legend: a roasted bird on the dinner-table comes back to life to crow, proving the truth of the wise men's story.

Resurrecting cooked animals is an unexpected but not uncommon power among medieval holy people; compare St Werburgh of Chester and her goose, and, well, Thor...

'King Herod and the Cock' was collected by Cecil Sharp from a lady called Mrs Ellen Plumb, at Armscote in Worcestershire, on 13 April 1911.  Isn't it extraordinary to think of this ancient carol still being sung on the eve of the First World War?  In the video below, it's sung by Belshazzar's Feast (beginning at 1:20):



1. There was a star in David's land,
So bright it did appear
Into King Herod's chamber,
And brightly it shined there.

2. The Wise Men soon espied it,
And told the king on high
A princely babe was born that night,
No king could e'er destroy.

3. 'If this be true,' King Herod said,
'As thou hast told to me,
This roasted cock that lies in the dish
Shall crow full fences three.'

4. O the cock soon thrustened and feathered well,
By the work of God's own hand,
And he did crow full fences three
In the dish where he did stand.

'My hill was further'

This season, towards Epiphany, makes me think about poems of journeying and pilgrimage, such as John Masefield's 'The Seekers', or Rupert Brooke's 'The Song of the Pilgrims'. So this is George Herbert's poem 'The Pilgrimage'.


I travell'd on, seeing the hill, where lay
My expectation.
A long it was and weary way.
The gloomy cave of Desperation
I left on th'one, and on the other side
The rock of Pride.

And so I came to Phansies medow strow'd
With many a flower:
Fair would I here have made abode,
But I was quicken'd by my houre.
So to Cares cops I came, and there got through
With much ado.

That led me to the wilde of Passion, which
Some call the wold;
A wasted place, but sometimes rich.
Here I was robb'd of all my gold,
Save one good Angell, which a friend had ti'd
Close to my side.

At length I got unto the gladsome hill,
Where lay my hope,
Where lay my heart; and climbing still,
When I had gain'd the brow and top,
A lake of brackish waters on the ground
Was all I found.

With that abash'd and struck with many a sting
Of swarming fears,
I fell, and cry'd, Alas my King;
Can both the way and end be tears?
Yet taking heart I rose, and then perceiv'd
I was deceiv'd:

My hill was further: so I flung away,
Yet heard a crie
Just as I went, None goes that way
And lives: If that be all, said I,
After so foul a journey death is fair,
And but a chair.

Twelve Days of Carols, 10: The Anselm Carol

I appear to have fallen down rather badly on my planned twelve days of carols, but let's just move swiftly on and pretend we haven't noticed. This carol is by James Ryman, a Franciscan who lived in Canterbury in the late fifteenth century; he wrote a number of carols, including 'Farewell Advent'. That's a light-hearted, playful carol; today's is more learned, but this Christmas season I've come to appreciate just how interesting it is that no subject seems to have been thought too solemn or too arcane to be made into a carol (cf. the O Antiphons).


Ecce quod natura
mutat sua iura:
Virgo parit pura
Dei filium.

Behold and see how that nature
Changeth her law: a maiden pure
Shall bear a child (thus saith scripture),
Jesus, our Saviour.

Behold, the fleece of Gideon
Waxed wet, that no dew fell upon;
Behold, the rod of Aaron
Unmoisted bore a flower.

The prophet Isaiah saith thus:
"A maid shall bear a child to us
Whose name shall be called Jesus,
Our help and our succour.

A rod shall grow out of Jesse root
Whereof a flower shall ascend full sweet."
This flower is Christ, our health and bote,
This rod, Mary, his bower.

Saint Matthew saith in the gospel,
"A maid shall bear Emmanuel,
That is to say, God with us to dwell,
That lovely paramour."

Forsooth, to us is born a child;
A son is given to us full mild,
Of virgin Mary undefiled
To ease our great langour.

This is the stone cut of the hill,
Christ born of Mary us until, [unto]
Without sin in thought, deed, and will
To save us from dolour.

This child shall be the Prince of Peace,
Whose kingdom shall ever increase,
Whereof the peace shall never cease
But increase day and hour.

Saint Anselm saith, "So Christ did pass
Through Mary mild, as his will was,
As the sun-beam goeth through the glass,
That maid full of honour."

Ecce quod natura
mutat sua iura:
Virgo parit pura
Dei filium.


The Latin refrain is from a hymn, Ecce quod natura, but the verses aren't based on the hymn but on very common ideas and imagery about the incarnation - the Virgin as the fleece of Gideon and rod of Aaron, and the root of Jesse, of course. The image in the last verse, of Christ as the sunbeam passing through the glass, is also a very common simile, and one that I love (compare this carol, and this poem, and I posted about the idea in romance here), so I was delighted to see it attributed here to my beloved St Anselm. The attribution is not strictly accurate, in that the image doesn't appear in Anselm's works, but it was 'a simile much used in the school of Anselm', according to R. W. Southern; in the Middle Ages Anselm's name was strongly associated with arguments for the Immaculate Conception and the sinlessness of the Virgin (although mostly because of works wrongly attributed to him rather than his own writings, and particularly a treatise which was actually written by his English biographer Eadmer. The Immaculate Conception was in some ways a particularly Anglo-Saxon feast, celebrated in English monasteries before the Norman Conquest and subsequently suppressed for several generations; it was Eadmer's treatise and a Saxon abbot (Æthelsige) who were partly responsible for reinstating it.  You can read about it all at the Catholic Encyclopedia article.)

And so I can't help thinking of this as the 'Anselm Carol', though it really isn't at all.

The sun shining through the glass in the chapel where Anselm is buried, Canterbury Cathedral, December 2012

This is the unmodernised version of the carol, as found in Cambridge University Library MS. Ee 1.12, via Richard Greene, The Early English Carols, no.66:

Ecce quod natura
mutat sua iura:
Virgo parit pura
Dei filium.

Beholde and see how that nature
Chaungith here lawe: a mayden pure
Shalle bere a chielde (thus seith scripture),
Jhesus, oure savyour.

Beholde, the flease of Gedeon
Wexed wete, that no dewe fel on;
Beholde, the yerde of Aaron
Unmoysted bare a floure.

The prophete Isay seith thus:
"A mayde shall bere a childe to us
Whose name shall be called Jhesus,
Oure helpe and our socour.

"A yerde shall goo oute of Jesse rote
Wherof a floure shall ascende full soote."
This floure is Crist, oure helth and boote,
This yerde, Mary, his boure.

Seynt Mathew seith in the gospell,
"A mayde shall bere Emanuell,
That is to sey, God with us to dwell,
That lovely paramour."

Forsoth, to us is borne a chielde;
A sonne is yeven to us full myelde
Of virgyne Marie undefielde
To cease oure grete langoure.

This is the stone cutte of the hille,
Criste borne of Marie us untille
Without synne in thought, dede, and wille
To save us fro dolour.

This chielde shall be the Prince of Peas,
Whose kingdome shall ever encrease,
Wherof the peas shall nevir ceas
But encreace day and houre.

Seint Anselme seith, "So Criste did pas
Thurgh Marie myelde, as his wille was,
As the sonne beame goth thurgh the glas,
That mayde full of honoure."

Twelve Days of Carols, 6: Be Merry, and the Old Year

Be merry, be merry,
I pray you every one.

A principal point of charity
It is so merry for to be
In Him that is but one.
Be merry.

He that is but one in bliss
To us hath sent his Son, iwis,
To save us from our foes.
Be merry.

Mary, for your Son's sake,
Save them all that merry make
And the longest hold it on.
Be merry.

For they who make merry here
And gladness, and in very good cheer,
To bliss then may they come!
Be merry.

Be merry, be merry,
I pray you every one.


I can't decide if this carol, from a fifteenth-century manuscript which belonged to a Cambridge undergraduate called William Hampshire, is a piece of cheerful nonsense or something more subtle about spiritual joy and a moral duty to be glad and grateful. Either way, it's a good carol for New Year's Eve, when everyone is merry for no reason at all except the movement of the clock.

For some reason I have an innate aversion to New Year celebrations; it makes me anxious somehow, as if by celebrating the passage of time so extravagantly you're tempting fate for the year to come. I don't know why this should be. I'm the kind of person who is constantly aware of time, measured in hours and seasons and centuries, and every day throughout the year marks an anniversary or a memory or a feast, and that doesn't worry me at all - in fact I like it. But something about saying goodbye to a year you know, and welcoming a year you don't know, triggers the superstitious side of me to worry about what this year will bring. A year is a long time; the distance between January 2013 and January 2014 seems much more impossible to bridge than the five centuries which separate me from William Hampshire and his carol.

I can't begin to imagine where I might be then. It's always easier to think about the past than about the future, but contemplating this past year doesn't bring much pleasure; there have been some very happy moments, but the overall impression is one of failure. I won't rehearse the details, since there's no reason they should be of interest to anyone but myself - but what a catalogue of weakness and stupidity! Silly mistakes, interspersed with illness and bouts of depression, professional failure, and increasing isolation and loneliness. Is there much chance 2013 will be better? I honestly don't see how. In church on Christmas Eve, while everyone was singing merrily and mindlessly about God's promises of love for mankind - promises to which their happy faces bore witness but which, for me, have become meaningless words - I looked round at all the families, busy and successful, the only people that church has a place for, and all I could do was hide in a dark corner and cry. 'What is the matter is I, I say; why should such a one be here?' Those are the people God loves and wants, as experience and my fellow-Christians are constantly reminding me - useful people, who can achieve things, and who don't muddy the waters with fear and doubt and self-awareness.

So the birth of a new year is only something to celebrate in that it means this year is over. I have things to be grateful for, chiefly my wonderful family, but nothing good of my own making; what can I make that's worthwhile, for myself or anyone else? I can see how the spark of hope and creativity I was born with gets less and less every year, as I become more and more aware of how ill-equipped I am to make anything of it, and of how little anyone wants it in any case. This is a huge, ugly, shallow world, and I am shy, awkward and weak; whatever I produce, many hundreds of people can do more effectively, or rather, more noisily, which is the same thing. To be successful in this world (even in academia, and in the church, as I have learned this year in particular), the only way is to be loud and confident and forthright, self-promoting, certain even when you don't know the facts, ready to fudge the truth if it doesn't fit into a Tweet. What place is there for me in such a world? Academia wants people who can 'be dynamic leaders in the field' and make money; the church wants people who can win arguments. I can't do either. Confidence is everything, and I have none; nor do I have that mysterious power by which people make themselves likeable or lovable to other human beings - and what on earth can you do without that? All I have is the fact that when I love something - or someone - I want to study it and understand it as far as my mind can carry me, and then I want to share my love and my knowledge with other people; but when people don't want either love or knowledge from me, I'm stuck.

So, that's my state of mind this Old Year's Day; be merry, indeed...


The Old Year's gone away
To nothingness and night:
We cannot find him all the day
Nor hear him in the night:
He left no footstep, mark or place
In either shade or sun:
The last year he'd a neighbour's face,
In this he's known by none.

All nothing everywhere:
Mists we on mornings see
Have more of substance when they're here
And more of form than he.
He was a friend by every fire,
In every cot and hall--
A guest to every heart's desire,
And now he's nought at all.

Old papers thrown away,
Old garments cast aside,
The talk of yesterday,
Are things identified;
But time once torn away
No voices can recall:
The eve of New Year's Day
Left the Old Year lost to all.


- John Clare