A Middle English Life of St Alphege

I have a special fondness for St Ælfheah, Archbishop of Canterbury, who was murdered by Vikings on this day in 1012.  Celebrating the millennial anniversary of his death last year, I posted this account of his death, written by Osbern, a monk at Canterbury, in the late eleventh century, and in the past I've also provided sources which tell the story from the English perspective, the Viking perspective, and the perspective of St Anselm and the Canterbury monks looking back after an interval of sixty years.  I only recently learned that there's also a Middle English life of Ælfheah in the South English Legendary, which adds nothing to our knowledge of Ælfheah (it's too late and derivative for that) but is an interesting addition to the picture of his later veneration at Canterbury and beyond.

It's not very long but gets somewhat monotonous, so I've only posted the end; the whole text can be found here (on Google Books, from Charlotte D’Evelyn and A. J. Mill, eds., The South English Legendary: Corpus Christi College Cambridge MS. 145 and British Museum MS. Harley 2277, with variants from Bodley MS. Ashmole 43 and British Museum MS. Cotton Julius D.ix. EETS o.s. 235 (Oxford, 1956), vol. 1, pp.148-55).

I think my favourite thing about this text - as with much Middle English hagiography - is that it gives a slightly elided form of the saint's name, so that Ælfheah becomes 'Alphe'.  This makes me want to think of him as St Alfie, and forms an addition to my list of familiar saint's names...

It begins by describing his early life, and we pick it up when he becomes Archbishop of Canterbury in 1006.  (A translation of the Middle English follows after the picture below.)

Erche bissop he was ymaked a þousand 3er ri3t
And sixe after þat oure Louerd inis moder was ali3t
And erchebissop of Kanterburi six 3er he was and more
No tonge ne may telle al is wisdom ne his lore.
So þat in þe seueþe 3er þat he þuder com
þe luþer prince of Denmarch gret poer wiþ him nom
And wende hom her into Engelond as hi dude er ilome
For Deneis and men of Engelond selde beoþ ysome.
Þo þis luþer prince and is men to Engelonde come
Hy barnde and robbede al to gronde and heiemen nome.
Þe king Aþeldred was þo king of Engelonde
So simple he was and so milde þat he nolde a3en him stonde
He was seint Edwardes broþer þat is moder wiþ outrage
Let martri for is loue to wynne him þe heritage
And he was ek seint Edwardes fader þat king was suþþe also
þat at Westmustre was ibured and in ssrine ido.
Þe king Aþeldred was so milde and so hard lif nom
Vor is broþer was aslawe for is kynedom
þat he ne tok bote lite 3eme of þe worles prute
þei me sede him of eny were he told þerof lute
Of bataile he nolde noþing do bote huld him euere stille
þeruore hadde þe Denys into Engelond hore wille.
Kyrkel was þe prince ihote þat was þo of Deneis
Hider he come wel sturneliche and bro3te lite peis
Ouer al ware he wende aboute he bro3te al to ssame
His broþer was maister of is ost Edrik was is name
He let is broþer Edrik to Kanterburi vare
And sle and robby þat hy fonde and þe stretes make bare
Ac þe men of Kanterburi somdel were iware
So þat up is owe heued hy bro3te þe meste care
Hi cudde þat hi were of herte and slowe him anon
And to gronde slowe ek al is men þat hi mi3te ofgon
So þat to Kirkel þe prince þe tiþinge sone com
þat his broþer was aslawe gret deol to him [he] nom
þo Kanterburi he wende anon and bisette þene toun faste
Te toun [men] þei hi hardi were somdel were agaste
So þat Kirkil þe luþer prince wan hom attelaste
Hore gynnes and hore stre[n]gþe also sone bineþe he caste
To no3t he brende al þen toun and to gronde þat folk slou
þe erche bissop seint Alphe sori was inou
He wende him forþ wel baldeliche in oure Louerdes name
And bad for þe selymen þat me bro3te to ssame
And propherede is owe lyf forto 3iue for hore
þo þis luþer [men] him hadde inome ioiuol hi were þeruore
Hy nome verst þis holyman and suþþe slou to gronde
His monkes and is oþer men alle þat hy fonde
þe ministre also of Kanterburi hi robbede attelaste
And suþþe hi nome þis holyman and bond him vaste
And ladde him to Grenewich and þere hi hulde him longe
Half a 3er and somdel more in prison swuþe stronge.
þreo mile it is bi este Londone þe toun of Grenewich
So longe he lay in prison þer þat he nas noman illich.
As þis holyman in prison lay as he lange hadde ido
þe Fri ni3t in þe Ester wike þe deuel com him two
Alphe he sede wel þe be[o] to þe ich am iwend
An angel ich am of heuene frame oure Louerd isend
He nis no3t ipaid he sende þe word þat þou in prison be[o]
Ac forto saue Engelond he wole þat þou fle[o]
For holiore þanne seinte Peter þou ne derset þe make no3t
þat wende out of prison as þe angel him hadde ibro3t
And sein Poul bi an cupe wende adoun also
Bi a walle þo þe Giwes to deþe him wolde do
And oure Louerd wende ek out of þe temple in hudels alone
To fleo þe deþ þo þe Giwes hene him wolde wiþ stone
Holiore þanne oure Louerd sulf inot ware þou wost be[o]
þeruore as he þe send word hanne þou most fle[o].
þis holyman iluued him and þat oure Louerd him þuder sende
And wiþ him out of prisone al bini3te wende
So þat þe deuel him ladde uorþ ouer mani a foul slade
Ouer water and ouer oþer þat al he was biwade
Ouer dich and ouer heg and ouer many a voul slo
He harlede þis holyman þat wel feble was þerto
Ac it nas no3t þe verste schame þat he haþ men ido
Nou sorwe and sor him be[o] next fram toppe to þe ho
And as wide him worþe wo as þe sonne ssineþ aday
And ich bidde 3ou for my loue ne seggeþ neuer on nay
He harlede uorþ þis selyman and mid sorwe aboute drou
Attelaste he let him stonde in a grislich water inou
He wende forþ adeuelwei me nuste war he bicom
Nou ssame habbe such a ledere þat eny godman forþ nom.
Þo þe godman it vnder3et þat it þe deuel was
He made sor and deol inou þat hit non ende nas
He wende deope into þe water Louerd he sede alas
þat me ssole in min olde lyue valle so ssenful cas
Louerd wi hastou me forsake more nou þanne biuore
þat ich ssel here al one be[o] in min olde lyf forlore
þis stronge [water] me is biuore and þe gaihol bihinde
And derkhede me is al aboute þat I ne can no wei finde
And he þat is maister of derkhede me haþ here ibro3t
Haue merci of me mi swete Louerd for i necan me helpe no3t.
þe deol þat seint Alphe made no tonge telle ne may
[Ac] oure Louerd þo3te on him 3ute ar it were day
For an angel to him com in oure Louerdes name
þou fol he sede wy wenstou mid him þat doþ þe ssame
þat haþ iheued to þe envie suþþe þou were ibore
And nouþe he þe haþ a ssame ido as he þo3te longe biuore
Ok he naþ þe no3t one of prison ibro3t
Ac haþ þe eke bitraid wiþoute þat þou ne canst þe helpe no3t
To prison go anon a3en and neuere eft out ne fle[o]
For þou sselt for þe loue of God to morwe imartred be[o].
þis godeman ri3t as it was day toward prison drou
His wardeins him hadde er imist and sori were inou
And hadde iso3t him ver and ner and suþþe þo he hom com
Hom nas noþing to biseche to bringe him hard dom
For 3ute al to is oþer wo hi leide him to gronde
And on is feble body made mony harde wonde.
To prison him bere a3en þo he nemi3te him sulf no3t go
And 3ute þere hi dude him more ssame for al is oþer wo
For a gret smoke hy made him þere of stinkinge þinge
And fondede mid al hore mi3te in angwise him bringe
Al þulke day and þulke ni3t in such angwise he lay
Forte day amorwe as in þe Saterday
As it fel in þe Ester wike þer come sein Donston
Fram heuene to þis holyman and grette him uair anon
Alphe he sede oure swete Louerd þe sende gretinge by me
And seiþ þat a noble croune he haþ 3are to þe
Beo studeuast for þis o day ssel be[o] þi day of pine
And suþþe anoþer wiþ ioie inou seel laste wiþoute fine.
As þis tweie holyemen togadere þus speke
þe bendes ware wiþ he was ibonde to no3t anon tobreke
An[d] is wonden hole were him ne bileuede no3t on.
His wardeins þo hi seie þis dradde hom sore echon
Hit was sone wide couþ þat folke faste inou
Forto se[o] þis miracle touward þe prison drou.
Þo þe maistres iseie þat folk so faste þuder eorne
Hi doutede hom þat gret poer a3en hom wolde turne
And nameliche of hore owe felawes þat iseie þis aboute
And þat þe Englisse were so aboue þat was hore meste doute
Hy nome him out of prisone and ladde him toward is deþe
Ac so feble were is fet forbonde þat he mi3te stonde vnneþe
þere fore hi caste him up a best and þoru out þe toun him ladde
þe pouere men iseie þis loude hi wope and gradde
For deol of so god holyman þat so villiche ssolde dei3e
þer was into al þe toun aboute mony a weping ei3e
Hi ladde him forþ wiþoute þe toun and dude him ssame inou
And hende him wiþ harde stones as me seinte Steuene slou
And þo he wa[s] al atte deþe and almest ymartred so
On þat was is god sone more ssame him wolde do
He smot him wiþ an ax inþe heued to gronde
þat he bileuede anon þe lif and deide in a stonde
And in þis manere ymartred was in oure Louerdes name
For þe loue of Engelond þat me bro3te so to ssame...
Nou bidde we oure louerd seint Alphe þat þus bro3te is lyf to ende
þat we mote þoru is bone to þe ioie of heuene wende.

St Alphege in 15th-century glass from All Souls, Oxford

This extract draws on my favourite part of Osbern's story about Ælfheah's death - the moment when he's lost in the marsh, and cries out: "The prison is behind me, the river is in front of me, shadows are all about me and their creator is at hand".  This is all most likely Osbern's fertile imagination (for how would anyone know what Ælfheah did and said while alone?) but this is one of Osbern's attractive qualities as a writer - he's not the most accurate or scrupulous historian, but he is fully and personally engaged with the story he tells.  (The Middle English poet, I think we can assume, is not).  Osbern deeply loved St Dunstan, and his work on Dunstan is enlivened and made real by the strength of that personal love - even though William of Malmesbury complained that he'd got the square footage of Dunstan's monastic cell wrong.  With St Ælfheah, this tale about the elderly archbishop being led out of prison by the devil, and wandering alone in the dark and shadowy marshes around enemy-occupied Greenwich, gives a remarkably dramatic, almost spine-tingling quality to the story - if being pelted with ox-bones by Vikings wasn't quite dramatic enough for you.


Here's a rough translation of this really rather dreadful poetry (I've corrected the name Kirkel to Þirkel since it's meant for Thorkell the Tall):

Archbishop he was made a thousand years, aright,
And six after our Lord within his mother did alight,
And archbishop of Canterbury six years he was and more;
No tongue may tell all his wisdom or his lore.
Then in the seventh year after he there came
The wicked prince of Denmark with great power he came
And they arrived here in England as they had often done -
For the Danes and men of England have seldom been at one.
When this wicked prince and his men to England came
They burned and robbed all to the ground and noblemen they seized.
The king Atheldred was then king of England;
So simple he was and mild that he would not against them stand.
He was brother to Saint Edward, who his mother with outrage
Had martyred for [Atheldred's] love to win him the heritage.
And he was Saint Edward's father who king was later made,
Who at Westminster was buried and in a shrine was laid.
The king Atheldred was so mild, and had hard troubles in his life
(Because his brother for his kingdom lost his life)
That he took but little thought for the world's affairs:
When he was told of any wars, he gave it little care.
With battle he would have nothing to do, but always kept still
And so the Danes in England had all their will.
Þyrkel was the prince's name who then led the Danes
Hither he came most fiercely and brought but little peace:
Everywhere he went around he brought them all to shame.
His brother was leader of his host - Edrik was his name.
He let his brother Edrik to Canterbury fare
And slay and rob all those they met and the streets make bare,
But the men of Canterbury had been made aware
So that upon the attacker's head they brought the greatest care.
They showed that they were strong of heart and slew him anon
And to the ground slew all his men that they could overcome.
Then to Þirkel the prince the tidings soon were told;
That his brother was slain caused him the greatest dole.
To Canterbury he went at once and besieged the town so fast.
The townsmen, though they hardy were, were somewhat aghast,
So that Þirkil the wicked prince defeated them at last.
Their strategies and their strength all down below he cast.
To nothing he burned up all the town and to ground the people slew.
The archbishop St Alphe was sorry when this he knew;
He went out forth most boldly in our Lord's name
And sought peace for the poor men who had been brought to shame
And offered them his own life to be given in their stead.
When these wicked men had seized him, they were joyful indeed;
They first took this holy man and then they slew to ground
His monks and his other men, all that they found.
The church of Canterbury also they robbed at the last,
And after they took this holy man and bound him fast,
And led him to Greenwich and there they held him long
Half a year and a little more in prison very strong.
Three miles to the east of London the town of Greenwich stands;
So long he lay in prison there, he was no more like a man.

As this holy man in prison lay, as he long had done,
On the Friday night in Easter week the devil to him came.
"Alphe," he said, "be thou well! I am come to thee,
An angel I am of heaven, sent by our Lord to thee.
He is not pleased, he sends thee word, that thou in prison should be
And now to save England he wishes you to flee.
For holier than St Peter to be, you should wish it not,
Who came out of prison when the angel him brought;
And St Paul in a basket escaped, too,
Over a wall when the Jews his death wanted to do;
And our Lord went out of the temple in secrecy alone
To flee death, when the Jews said they would him stone.
Holier than our Lord himself it seems you wish to be!
And so, as he has sent you word, from here you now must flee."
This holy man believed him, that our Lord him thither sent,
And with him out of prison at dead of night he went,
So that the devil led him forth through many a foul marsh...

He led far away this blessed man and with sorrow dragged him around,
At last he left him standing in a horrible watery ground.
He went forth on his wicked way, none knows where he might go;
Shame to any guide who treats a good man so!
When the good man realised that it had been the fiend
He made grief and sorrow indeed, without any end.
He went deep into the water; "Lord," he said, "alas!
That I should now, in my old age, fall in a sinful case!
Lord, why hast thou me forsaken, more now than before,
That I should be here all alone, in my old age forlorn!
This strong river is before me, and the gaolhouse behind,
And darkness is all about me, that I no way can find;
And he who is master of darkness has me here brought;
Have mercy on me, my sweet Lord, for help myself I cannot!"
The sorrow that St Alphe made no tongue tell can or may
But our Lord thought yet upon him, before that it was day:
For an angel came to him, in our Lord's name.
"Thou fool," he said, "Why didst thou go with him who dost thou shame?
Who has had envy to thee, ever since that thou wast born
And now has done such shame to thee, as he planned long before...
To prison go at once again and do not from there flee,
For thou shalt, for the love of God, tomorrow martyred be."

[He goes back to the prison, where he is further tortured.]

The next day in the morning, on the Saturday
As it fell in Easter week, St Dunstan came there
From heaven to this holy man and greeted him so fair:
"Alphe," he said, "our sweet Lord sends thee greeting by me,
And says that a noble crown he has prepared for thee.
Be steadfast, for this one day shall be thy day of pain
And then the next day of joy shall last without end."
As these two holy men together thus spoke
The fetters he was bound with, all at once they broke,
And his wounds were healed so that not one remained.

[His captors decide to kill him, afraid he is arousing public sympathy.]

They led him forth outside the town and did to him much shame
And struck him with hard stones, as St Stephen was slain;
And when he was near his death and almost martyred so
One who was his godson more shame would to him do:
He smote him with an axe in the head to the ground.
Thus he left at once this life, and died in a stound [a short while];
And in this manner martyred was in our Lord's name
For the love of England which had been brought to shame.

Some time later his body is recovered and his sanctity proved by miracles, and the Danes are punished for their misdeeds. Except for 'punished for their misdeeds' read 'they won lots of battles, conquered the country, and ruled England successfully for twenty years'. Oops, sorry - that's my love of Cnut coming through... ;) The Life tells of the removal of Alphege's remains to Canterbury (though it doesn't mention Cnut's involvement; compare Osbern's version here), and concludes:

Now pray we to our Lord St Alphe, who thus brought his life to end,
That we may through his prayers to the joy of heaven wend.

'At early morn the day-light springeth'

 

British Library, Stowe 12, f.87

An ernemorwe þe day-li3t spryngeþ,
þe angles in heuene murye syngeþ,
þe world is bliþe and ek glad,
þe uendus of helle beþ sorwuel & mad,
Whanne þe kyng godus sone
þe strengþe of þe deþ hadde ouercome:
Helle dore he brak wiþ his fot,
& out of pyne vs wreches he tok.

This little poem for the dawn of Easter Day is a translation of the first two verses of Aurora lucis rutilat, an Easter hymn attributed to St Ambrose (you can listen to the hymn here). It dates to the early fourteenth century, and comes from a manuscript (Oxford, Merton College, MS. 248) which belonged to John Sheppey, Bishop of Rochester, who died in 1360. His manuscript is a collection of sermons by Sheppey and others, enlivened by short English verses, translations of Latin hymns - I posted another of them, 'Steadfast Cross', here. This is simple enough, but rather lovely: the rhyming couplets work nicely and there's something charming about seeing those all-purpose Middle English words of happiness, 'merry' and 'blithe' and 'glad', applied to something as earth-shaking as the triumph of the Resurrection!

'Ernemorwe', the only apparently difficult word in the poem, is actually just a compound from OE  'ærmorgen', early + morning. The phrase 'þe dayli3t spryngeþ' suggests, of course, not only the dawn of Easter morning but Christ the sun 'springing' from the tomb. A modernised version:

At early morn the daylight springeth,
The angels in heaven merry singeth,
The world is blithe and glad,
The fiends of hell are sorrowful and mad,
Now that the king, God's son,
The strength of death hath overcome:
Hell's door he broke with his foot,
And out of torment us wretches he took.

BL Lansdowne 462, f.50v

Here's Lassus' version of the hymn:

'The whole bright world rejoices now'

The whole bright world rejoices now,
Hilariter, hilariter,
The birds do sing from every bough,
Alleluia, Alleluia.

Then shout beneath the racing skies,
Hilariter, hilariter,
To him who rose that we might rise,
Alleluia, Alleluia.

And all you living things make praise,
Hilariter, hilariter,
He guideth you on all your ways,
Alleluia, Alleluia.

To Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
Hilariter, hilariter,
Our God most high, our joy and boast.
Alleluia, Alleluia.


This is Percy Dearmer's free translation of a German Easter hymn, 'Die ganze Welt, Herr Jesu Christ", which (the Oxford Book of Carols tells me) was first published in 1623. 'Hilariter' means 'joyfully', though the joy in this beautiful hymn is more stately gladness than cheerful romp:



The German words are as follows:

Die ganze Welt, Herr Jesu Christ,
Hilariter, hilariter,
In deiner Urständ fröhlich ist.
Halleluja, Halleluja.

Das himmlisch Heer im Himmel singt,
Hilariter, hilariter,
Die Christenheit auf Erden klingt.
Halleluja, Halleluja.

Jetzt grünet, was nur grünen kann,
Hilariter, hilariter,
Die Bäum zu blühen fangen an.
Halleluja, Halleluja.

Es singen jetzt die Vögel all,
Hilariter, hilariter,
Jetzt singt und klingt die Nachtigall.
Halleluja, Halleluja.

Der Sonnenschein jetzt kommt herein,
Hilariter, hilariter,
Und gibt der Welt ein' neuen Schein.
Halleluja, Halleluja.

Die ganze Welt, Herr Jesu Christ,
Hilariter, hilariter,
In deiner Urständ fröhlich ist.
Halleluja, Halleluja.

A visit to Greyfriars, Canterbury (and a Regina Caeli)

Every Easter I seem to find a new corner of medieval Canterbury which had previously escaped my eye, despite the fact that I've known the city all my life; last year it was St Martin's and the ruins of St Augustine's Abbey, and this week I visited the remains of Greyfriars, hidden away in the heart of the city. Greyfriars was the home of the Franciscans in Canterbury, and in fact it was the first Franciscan house in England, founded in 1224 (two years before St Francis' death).

Only one building of Greyfriars survives, surrounded by a garden, and another part of the site is now a public park. The building is a little tricky to find; I knew exactly where it was, but not how to get to it! I was able to see it from a distance, across the sleepy, weed-filled River Stour:

But when I got closer I found myself in the park, and on the other side of an unbroken wall from the place I was seeking:

That wall baffled me, and I couldn't see how to get around it; climbing it seemed a bad idea! I proceeded to take the very longest way round you possibly could, but eventually I wandered down what looked like a possible lane (there was a sign, but it was politely unassuming) and found myself on the other side of the mysterious wall. It was worth the circuitous route - and Canterbury is the place for pilgrimages, after all.

This bare space of ground was once a great religious house, and a complex of sizeable buildings. The first Franciscans who arrived in England, landing at Dover on September 10, 1224, were a party of nine led by Agnellus of Pisa. They begged their way to Canterbury, where they were put up by the monks of the cathedral priory, and they were eventually given a small piece of land near this site, behind the Poor Priests' Hospital in the centre of the city. An account of their coming was written by the friar Thomas of Eccleston a few decades later, and you can read a translation of it here. It's an interesting text, partly because Thomas talks about each individual member of the group, giving their name, origin and a little detail about each one. So, for instance, he says of William of Esseby, a young man of English birth, that he was notably humble and obedient in nature, and when asked if he would wanted to join the party travelling to England, replied that "he did not know". His superior was puzzled at this answer, until William explained: "his will was not his own but the Minister's, and so whatever the Minister willed, he willed."

Such details bring this quiet place alive. This piece of land, between two branches of the river, is known as Binnewith Island (the name means 'in-between bit', at my best guess), and the one surviving building - which was probably the guesthouse - stands right on top of the river.

It's thoroughly enchanting - there's nothing like a medieval ruin on a bright spring day! We've not had much more than a rumour of spring here yet, but the crocuses and daffodils were out along the riverbank, and ducks were dabbling around underneath the arches ('As if the Magician / Sent ducks on a mission / With news from beyond...')

Against an ancient brick wall, the blossom was beginning to 'spring and spray':

The walls are in a rather tumbledown state, but they're all the more picturesque for that.

To return to the story: four friars of the first party continued on to London, and five remained behind to establish a house in Canterbury; they soon had houses in London, Oxford and Northampton as well as here in Kent. One piece of evidence for the early influence of the Franciscans in Kent is the mid-thirteenth-century wall-painting of St Francis in the church at Doddington, some fifteen miles west of Canterbury. I find that wall-painting fascinating - the idea of the friars telling the story of Francis in this little village, and suggesting, or encouraging, or executing the painting of this brand-new saint, dressed in the habit which was still new and unfamiliar to English eyes, gives a vivid glimpse into what it was like to be present at a particular moment in history.

Over the next few centuries the Franciscans in England included such great scholars ('clerks of Oxford', in fact) as William of Ockham, Roger Bacon, and Duns Scotus. In Oxford the Franciscans were based in the area around St Ebbe's, but beyond the odd street-name there's little evidence of their presence there today. The Greyfriars guidebook observed that few Franciscan buildings in England have survived, because they tended to be simple and in the centre of towns - and thus prime building land, once no longer in use. The Canterbury house was surrendered on 13 December 1538, and over time all but the guesthouse disappeared, used at various times as prison and tea-room.

It's only within the past decade that the guesthouse has been restored to use, and it now contains a small exhibition room and a chapel (Greyfriars originally had a large church of its own, but that was destroyed). The chapel, on the upper floor, is tiny and charming.

The number of lit candles burning away before the altar indicated that a healthy number of pilgrims had found their way here before me.

Through the windows I watched children playing with their father in the garden below, no doubt enjoying their Easter holiday.

The towers of Canterbury Cathedral are not far away:

Greyfriars now belongs to Eastbridge Hospital under the care of the Society of St Francis - the love with which it is looked after is obvious in every aspect, including the excellent guidebook (from which I got most of the information in this post). It's open to visitors from Easter until the end of September, Monday-Saturday, 2-4pm, and I recommend a visit.

For a student of medieval literature, one of the best-known Franciscans of Canterbury is James Ryman, carol collector extraordinaire. Ryman is credited as the author or compiler of a manuscript of English carols and songs (now Cambridge University Library MS. Ee 1.12) which contains more than 170 individual texts, of which a list can be found here. The manuscript was written in 1492, and preserves something like a quarter of all surviving fifteenth-century English carols. I post his carols here quite regularly, under this tag, but it would take a long time to get through them all! The carols in the manuscript were all printed in 1892, in a volume accessible in full online here. Whether he wrote or collected them, Ryman produced a valuable set of poems for posterity to enjoy, and I couldn't help hearing his carols in my head as I wandered round Greyfriars. In the spirit of their founder, the English Franciscans included a good few poets and carollers - apart from Ryman, there's Oxford's William Herebert (often quoted on this blog) and John of Grimestone, whose carol collection includes some exquisite lullaby lyrics (here, here and here).

And so let's close with one of Ryman's carols, a really lovely macaronic version of the Marian antiphon for the Easter season, 'Regina caeli'. Because this is late and straightforward Middle English, I've given it in modern spelling, but the original text is here.

Stella celi, micaris clare;
Regina celi, letare.

O queen of bliss, thy son Jesus,
Quem meruisti portare,
God and man is, we believe thus:
Regina celi, letare.

O lady free, the king of grace,
Quem meruisti portare,
Hath ordained thee a joyful place:
Regina celi, letare.

O spouse most bright, thy son alone,
Quem meruisti portare,
Thy place hath dight next to the throne:
Regina celi, letare.

O mother dear of god and man,
Quem meruisti portare,
Thou art more pure than tongue tell can:
Regina celi, letare.

O mother mild, thy son so good,
Quem meruisti portare,
For man so wild died on the rood:
Regina celi, letare.

O meek of mind, thy son also,
Quem meruisti portare,
Hath brought mankind from pain and woe,
Regina celi, letare.

O virgin pure, as he behight, [promised]
Quem meruisti portare,
He rose, full sure, by his great might:
Regina celi, letare.

O empress, that emperor,
Quem meruisti portare,
In our distress he is succour:
Regina celi, letare.

O heavenly star, the prince of peace,
Quem meruisti portare,
Our ghostly war by thee doth cease:
Regina celi, letare.

For us pray thou to Emmanuel,
Quem meruisti portare,
So that we may in heaven dwell:
Regina celi, letare.

The story of Æthelburh of Kent

Ethelburga in her mother's church at St Martin's, Canterbury

April 5 is the anniversary of the death of Æthelburh, the daughter of Ethelbert, king of Kent, the first Anglo-Saxon king to accept Christianity. Æthelburh played an important role in the history of Anglo-Saxon England, because it was by her marriage to Edwin, king of Northumbria, that the Christian mission brought by St Augustine and his companions from Rome began to spread northwards. This is how Bede tells the story in the Historia Ecclesiastica, Book II:

At this time the nation of the Northumbrians, that is, the nation of the Angles who live on the north side of the river Humber, with their king, Edwin, received the faith through the preaching of Paulinus... The occasion of this nation's embracing the faith was their aforesaid king being allied to the kings of Kent, having taken to wife Ethelburga, otherwise called Tate, daughter to King Ethelbert. He having by his ambassadors asked for her in marriage from her brother Eadbald, who then reigned in Kent, was answered, "It was not lawful to marry a Christian virgin to a pagan husband, lest the faith and the mysteries of the heavenly King should be profaned by her cohabiting with a king who was altogether a stranger to the worship of the true God." This answer being brought to Edwin by his messengers, he promised in no manner to act in opposition to the Christian faith, which the virgin professed; but would give leave to her, and all that went with her, men or women, priests or ministers, to follow their faith and worship after the custom of the Christians. Nor did he deny but that he would embrace the same religion, if, being examined by wise persons, it should be found more holy and more worthy of God.

Hereupon the virgin was promised, and sent to Edwin, and pursuant to what had been agreed on, Paulinus, a man beloved of God, was ordained bishop, to go with her, and by daily exhortations, and celebrating the heavenly mysteries, to confirm her and her company... But his mind was wholly bent upon reducing the nation to which he was sent to the knowledge of truth; according to the words of the apostle, "To espouse her to one husband, that he might present her as a chaste virgin to Christ." Being come into that province, he laboured much, not only to retain those that went with him, by the help of God, that they should not revolt from the faith, but, if he could, to convert some of the pagans to a state of grace by his preaching.

Paulinus was a member of the second mission sent from Rome by Pope Gregory the Great; he was consecrated as Bishop of York in 625 by Justus, fourth Archbishop of Canterbury. When Bede describes Paulinus labouring to make Northumbria a bride for Christ (the allusion is to St Paul in 2 Corinthians 11:2), he draws an implicit parallel with Æthelburh's marriage to Edwin. Æthelburh's father Ethelbert had been drawn towards conversion by his Frankish Christian queen Bertha (and the advantages of political alliance with her Christian nation); clearly it was intended that the process was to be replicated by Æthelburh's marriage.

Since Edwin was something of a hero to Bede, we are in the fortunate position of having a good deal of information about him and his conversion. (Our information is therefore, of course, much influenced by Bede's hero-worship, and should be interpreted accordingly!) Bede has a particularly dramatic story about what happened after Æthelburh's marriage:

The next year there came into the province a certain assassin, called Eumer, sent by the king of the West Saxons, whose name was Cuichelm, in hopes at once to deprive King Edwin of his kingdom and his life. He had a two-edged dagger, dipped in poison, to the end that if the wound were not sufficient to kill the king, it might be performed by the venom. He came to the king on the first day of Easter, at the river Derwent, where then stood the regal city, and being admitted as if to deliver a message from his master, whilst he was in an artful manner delivering his pretended embassy, he started suddenly, and drawing the dagger from under his garment assaulted the king. Lilla, the king's beloved minister, observed this, and having no buckler at hand to secure the king from death, interposed his own body to receive the stroke; but the wretch struck so home, that he wounded the king through the knight's body. Being then attacked on all sides with swords, he in that confusion also slew another soldier, whose name was Forthhere.

On that same holy night of Easter Sunday, the queen had brought forth to the king a daughter, called Eanfled. The king, in the presence of Bishop Paulinus, gave thanks to his gods for the birth of his daughter; and the bishop, on the other hand, returned thanks to Christ, and endeavoured to persuade the king, that by his prayers to Him he had obtained that the queen should bring forth the child in safety and without much pain. The king, delighted with his words, promised that if God would grant him life and victory over the king by whom the assassin had been sent, he would cast off his idols and serve Christ; and as a pledge that he would perform his promise, he delivered up that same daughter to Paulinus, to be consecrated to Christ. She was the first baptized of the nation of the Northumbrians, on Whitsunday, with twelve others of her family.

That Easter Sunday was a momentous night for the Northumbrian royal family! Æthelburh and her baby daughter thus played a key role in Edwin's conversion, at least as told by Bede. It's fascinating to imagine Paulinus and the king amicably discussing which of their gods had brought about Æthelburh's safe delivery (did the Anglo-Saxons associate any particular deity with childbirth? We have no idea).

Edwin proceeded to go to war against the West Saxons, and defeated the king who had attempted to assassinate him. On his return, Bede says he hesitated about whether to convert:

He would not immediately and unadvisedly embrace the mysteries of the Christian faith, though he no longer worshipped idols, ever since he made the promise that he would serve Christ; but thought fit first at leisure to be instructed, by the venerable Paulinus, in the knowledge of faith, and to confer with such as he knew to be the wisest of his prime men, to advise what they thought was fittest to be done in that case. And being a man of extraordinary sagacity, he often sat alone by himself a long time, silent as to his tongue, but deliberating in his heart how he should proceed, and which religion he should adhere to.

His thoughtful deliberations, as told by Bede, included one of the most famous pieces of Anglo-Saxon philosophy, the episode in which one of Edwin's counsellors compared the life of man to the flight of a sparrow through a lighted hall:

Another of the king's chief men, approving of his words and exhortations, presently added: "The present life of man, O king, seems to me, in comparison of that time which is unknown to us, like the swift flight of a sparrow through the room wherein you sit at supper in winter, with your commanders and ministers, and a good fire in the midst, whilst the storms of rain and snow prevail abroad. The sparrow, I say, flying in at one door, and immediately out at another, whilst he is within, is safe from the wintry storm; but after a short space of fair weather, he immediately vanishes out of your sight, into the dark winter from which he had emerged. So this life of man appears for a short space, but of what went before, or what is to follow, we are utterly ignorant. If, therefore, this new doctrine contains something more certain, it seems justly to deserve to be followed." The other elders and king's counsellors, by divine inspiration, spoke to the same effect.

Lyminge

Less poetically, Edwin received letters from Pope Boniface IV urging him to convert (which Bede quotes), and Æthelburh too received a letter:

To the illustrious lady his daughter, Queen Ethelburga, Boniface, bishop, servant of the servants of God:

The goodness of our Redeemer has with much providence offered the means of salvation to the human race; which He rescued, by the shedding of his precious blood, from the bonds of captivity to the Devil; so that making his name known in divers ways to the Gentiles, they might acknowledge their Creator by embracing the mystery of the Christian faith, which thing, the mystical purification of your regeneration plainly shows to have been bestowed upon the mind of your highness by God's bounty. Our mind, therefore, has been much rejoiced in the benefit of our Lord's goodness, for that He has vouchsafed, in your conversion, to kindle a spark of the orthodox religion, by which He might the more easily inflame in his love the understanding, not only of your glorious consort, but also of all the nation that is subject to you.

For we have been informed by those, who came to acquaint us with the laudable conversion of our illustrious son, King Eadbald [Æthelburh's brother], that your highness, also, having received the wonderful sacrament of the Christian faith, continually excels in the performance of works pious and acceptable to God. That you likewise carefully refrain from the worship of idols, and the deceits of temples and auguries, and having changed your devotion, are so wholly taken up with the love of your Redeemer, as never to cease lending your assistance for the propagation of the Christian faith. And our fatherly charity having earnestly inquired concerning your illustrious husband, we were given to understand that he still served abominable idols, and would not yield obedience or give ear to the voice of the preachers. This occasioned us no small grief, for that part of your body still remained a stranger to the knowledge of the supreme and undivided Trinity. Whereupon we, in our fatherly care, did not delay to admonish your Christian highness, exhorting you, that, with the help of the Divine inspiration, you will not defer to do that which, both in season and out of season, is required of us; that with the co-operating power of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, your husband also may be added to the number of Christians; to the end that you may thereby enjoy the rights of marriage in the bond of a holy and unblemished union. For it is written, 'They two shall be in one flesh.' How can it be said, that there is unity between you, if he continues a stranger to the brightness of your faith, by the interposition of dark and detestable error?

Wherefore, applying yourself continually to prayer, do not cease to beg of the Divine Mercy the benefit of his illumination; to the end, that those whom the union of carnal affection has made in a manner but one body, may, after death, continue in perpetual union, by the bond of faith. Persist, therefore, illustrious daughter, and to the utmost of your power endeavour to soften the hardness of his heart by insinuating the Divine precepts; making him sensible how noble the mystery is which you have received by believing, and how wonderful is the reward which, by the new birth, you have merited to obtain. Inflame the coldness of his heart by the knowledge of the Holy Ghost, that by the abolition of the cold and pernicious worship of paganism, the heat of Divine faith may enlighten his understanding through your frequent exhortations; that the testimony of the holy Scripture may appear the more conspicuous, fulfilled by you, 'The unbelieving husband shall be saved by the believing wife.' For to this effect you have obtained the mercy of our Lord's goodness, that you may return with increase the fruit of faith, and the benefits entrusted in your hands; for through the assistance of his mercy we do not cease with frequent prayers to beg that you may be able to perform the same...

We have, moreover, sent you the blessing of your protector, St. Peter, the prince of the apostles, that is, a silver looking-glass, and a gilt ivory comb, which we entreat your glory will receive with the same kind affection as it is known to be sent by us.

Whether or not it was the gifts which tipped the balance (they sound rather nice!), Edwin did eventually agree to accept Christianity, and was baptised at York on Easter Sunday 627. Nearly five hundred years later, when the Anglo-Saxons had been Christians for almost half a millennium, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle quoted the same Biblical verse which the Pope cites to Æthelburh here in reference to St Margaret of Scotland:

Be þam se apostol Paulus, ealra þeoda lareow, cwæð, Saluabitur uir infidelis per mulierem fidelem, sic et mulier infidelis per uirum fidelem et reliqua, þæt is on uran geþeode, Ful oft se ungeleaffulla wer bið gehalgad 7 gehæled þurh þæt rihtwise wif, 7 swa gelice þæt wif þurh geleaffulne wer.

'Of this the Apostle Paul, teacher of all nations, said, "Saluabitur uir infidelis per mulierem fidelem, sic et mulier infidelis per uirum fidelem et reliqua"; that is in our language: "Very often the unbelieving husband is hallowed and saved through the righteous wife, and likewise the wife through the faithful husband".'

Margaret, a member of the English royal family exiled by the Norman Conquest, married Malcolm, king of Scotland, and (in the eyes of the chronicler, at least) brought Christianity to her husband and his northern kingdom, much as Æthelburh had done to Northumbria. The eleventh-century author of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle was probably familiar with Bede's narrative, as most learned Anglo-Saxons would have been, and perhaps he saw a parallel between these two English women - royal daughters and queens, bearers of Christianity to their pagan husbands. From Æthelburh to Margaret, with many others in between, the five centuries of Anglo-Saxon Christianity was powered by some remarkable women.

York Minster, founded by Paulinus

Bede continues:

Afterwards other children of his by Queen Ethelburga were baptized, viz. Ethelhun and his daughter Etheldrith, and another, Wuscfrea, a son; the first two of which were snatched out of this life whilst they were still in their white garments, and buried in the church at York... So great was then the fervour of the faith, as is reported, and the desire of the washing of salvation among the nation of the Northumbrians, that Paulinus at a certain time coming with the king and queen to the royal country-seat, which is called Adgefrin, stayed there with them thirty-six days, fully occupied in catechising and baptizing; during which days, from morning till night, he did nothing else but instruct the people resorting from all villages and places, in Christ's saving word; and when instructed, he washed them with the water of absolution in the river Glen, which is close by.

This is how Bede describes Edwin's reign:

It is reported that there was then such perfect peace in Britain, wheresoever the dominion of King Edwin extended, that, as is still proverbially said, a woman with her newborn babe might walk throughout the island, from sea to sea, without receiving any harm. That king took such care for the good of his nation, that in several places where he had seen clear springs near the highways he caused stakes to be fixed, with brass dishes hanging at them, for the conveniency of travellers; nor durst any man touch them for any other purpose than that for which they were designed, either through the dread they had of the king, or for the affection which they bore him.

This was to be said of many a later king by many a later writer; Bede's view of Edwin became the pattern for descriptions of an archetypal good king. Unfortunately, it was not to last. Edwin was killed in battle in 633, and it turned out that Christianity in Northumbria was not very well-established after all. Queen Æthelburh had to flee back to her family in Kent, accompanied by her children and Paulinus. Paulinus (who according to Bede 'brought with him many rich goods of King Edwin, among which were a large gold cross, and a golden chalice, dedicated to the use of the altar, which are still preserved, and shown in the church of Canterbury') was made Bishop of Rochester, and Æthelburh sent her sons across the sea to King Dagobert I for protection. They died there while still children.

Æthelburh in the crypt at York Minster

As for the fate of Æthelburh herself, for this we have to turn from Bede to another source, known as the Kentish Royal Legend. This tells us:

Æðelburh hatte heora dohtor, oþrum naman Tate. Heo wæs forgyfen Eadwine Norðhymbra cyninge to cwene, & Sanctus Paulinus se bisceop for mid hyre & gefullode þone cyningc & ealle his þeode. And heo þa eft æfter Eadwines dæge gesohte Cantwara byrig. And hyre broðor Eadbald wæs þa Cantwara cyningc. And he hyre þa forgeaf þæt land on Limmingce & heo þa þæt mynster getimbrade & þǽr nu resteð.

'Their daughter [i.e. Ethelbert and Bertha] was named Æthelburh, otherwise called Tate. She was given to Edwin, king of Northumbria, as queen, and St Paulinus the bishop went with her and baptised the king and all his people. After Edwin's time she returned to Canterbury. Her brother Eadbald was then king of Kent, and he gave her land at Lyminge. She built a minster there, and now rests there.'

Æthelburh died around 647, and was commemorated at the minster she had founded. Lyminge is a village in the south of Kent about five miles inland from the port of Folkestone. It has recently undergone extensive archaeological investigation, which you can read about on the project website here. The project has found some fascinating things, including the outline of a royal hall, 'one of the most important Anglo-Saxon buildings yet excavated in Kent', dating to Æthelburh's lifetime. (Think of Edwin and the sparrow!) You can see images of the site and some of the finds in this BBC slideshow. The importance of Lyminge as a royal site helps to explain why King Eadbald gave his sister land there, and further discoveries will doubtless tell us more about Æthelburh and the minster where she ended her eventful life.

Most of the pictures in this post are of the church dedicated to Æthelburh at Lyminge. When I visited in August 2013, the excavation was in progress on the village green:

Above the green on a hill is the church, the site of Ethelburga's minster:

It's a small village and would doubtless be a quiet and peaceful spot, when not being explored by archaeologists! Between green and church is a well - actually the source of the river Nailbourne - known as 'St Ethelburga's well':

The church, which is dedicated to St Mary and St Ethelburga, stands on a slope:

And as a result had to be propped up in the thirteenth century:

The exterior stonework is a beautiful combination of textures, the relic of various phases of building and rebuilding over the past 1400 years:

This wall is the oldest part of the church; the church guide says:

The visible remains of the original Church, erected by Queen Ethelburga soon after she came here in 633, are to the east of the porch. The eastern apse where the altar stood, and the beginnings of the rectangular nave (the north wall of which is continued under the present porch) can be seen clearly. In shape and materials this obviously Saxon Church resembles others in Kent... The Nave and Chancel of the present Church are late Saxon, but some regard the rudimentary string courses in the Chancel as evidence of Roman work. Perhaps the lower walls were originally part of the domestic buildings.

And the Kent Archaeological Society says:

The earliest part of the existing church must date from after the Norman conquest. It was perhaps built c. 1080... The original 7th century church (excavated by Canon Jenkins in the 1860s) was immediately to the south of the present church with the saint[']s body in a north porticus that was later (from the 1080s) covered by the south wall of the present church.

Although the existing church is later than her time, this seems to be the site of Æthelburh's tomb:

Inside, on the other side of the wall, its site is visible in the texture of the stone:

This is Roman brick; I was reminded of similar walls among the ruins of St Augustine's, Canterbury, where Æthelburh's parents are buried.

The unplastered walls give the interior of the church a rugged, unKentish look, to my eye:

On the day I was there, the sun was shining through a very yellow window, which turned the chancel a bright shade of gold.

The reredos is by Sir Ninian Comper; the female saints are the Virgin and St Æthelburh, and the male ones Paulinus and Dunstan:

Æthelburh's community of nuns survived her death for nearly two centuries, but probably abandoned Lyminge in the course of the ninth century; monasteries near the coast were vulnerable to Viking raids, and the nuns seem to have taken refuge in Canterbury, where they were granted land for that purpose in 804. By the tenth century the community seems no longer to have been in existence, and the church had passed into the possession of the Archbishops of Canterbury. First Dunstan (in 965) and then Lanfranc (in the 1080s) rebuilt the church - which explains Dunstan's presence on the reredos. The fate of Æthelburh's relics in all this is not clear, and they may have been taken to Canterbury in the late eleventh century. But although her body may have gone, Æthelburh left many traces here: the church, the well - and whatever remains to be found on the village green.

A Springtide Song of the Redemption: 'Somer is comen and winter gon'

BL Royal 6 E VII f. 232v

Somer is comen & winter gon,
Þis day beginniþ to longe,
& þis foules everichon
Ioye hem wit songe.
So stronge kare me bint,
Al wit ioye þat is funde
In londe,
Al for a child
Þat is so milde
Of honde.

Þat child, þat is so milde & wlong
& eke of grete munde,
Boþe in boskes & in bank
Isout me hauet a-stunde.
Ifunde he hauede me,
For an appel of a tre
Ibunde;
He brac þe bond
Þat was so strong
Wit wunde.

Þat child þat was so wilde & wlong
To me a-lute lowe,
Fram me to giwes he was sold
Ne cuþen hey him nout cnowe.
'Do we' sayden he,
'Naile we him opon a tre
A lowe,
Ac arst we sullen
Scumi him
A þrowe.'

Ihesu is þe childes name,
King of al londe;
Of þe king he meden game
& smiten him wit honde
To fonden him, opon a tre
He yeuen him wundes to & þre
Mid honden,
Of bitter drinck
He senden him
A sonde.

Det he nom ho rode-tre,
Þe life of vs alle,
Ne miitte it nowtt oþer be
Bote we scolden walle
& wallen in helle dep
Nere neuere so swet
Wit alle.
Ne miitte us saui
Castle, tur,
Ne halle.

Mayde & moder þar astod,
Marie ful of grace,
And of here eyen heo let blod
Uallen in þe place.
Þe trace ran of here blod,
Changed here fles & blod
& face.
He was to-drawe,
So dur islawe
In chace.

Det he name, þe suete man,
Wel heye opon þe rode;
He wes hure sunnes euerichon
Mid is swete blode.
Mid flode he lute adun
& brac þe yates of þat prisun
Þat stode,
& ches here
Out þat þere
Were gode.

He ros him ene þe þridde day,
& sette him on is trone;
He wule come a domes-day,
To dem us euerich one.
Grone he may & wepen ay,
Þe man þat deiet wit-oute lay
Alone
Grante ous, crist,
Wit þin uprist
To gone. Amen.

Carleton Brown, ed., English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century (Oxford, 1932), pp. 108-11.

This is one of the earliest Middle English lyrics, which survives only in the thirteenth-century manuscript British Library, MS Egerton 613. It provides an early example of the 'Christ as knight' motif (of which I gave some more examples the other day), and it does so with a teasing misdirection which delays the identification of the knight until late in the poem: 'I am suffering for love,' the speaker says, 'for the sake of a wonderful knight who came and sought me through woods and forests, and rescued me from captivity' - not revealing until the fourth verse that the knight is Christ. The poem does this partly by playing on the different meanings of the word child, which means 'a young man training to be a knight' (think 'Childe Roland to the dark tower came') as well as the modern sense of the word.

The editor of the book where I found this poem entitles it 'A springtide song of the redemption', which is both a lovely and an apt title, for that is what it is. 'Somer' in the first line encompasses both spring and summer as we would think of it, the whole warm season of the year (the famous 'Sumer is icumen in', with its returning cuckoos, similarly seems more fitted for April than for June). Spring is the time in medieval literature when things start to happen - folk long to go on pilgrimages, the dreamer of Piers Plowman goes wandering in search of wonders, cuckoos sing, birds form parliaments, owls debate with nightingales - the list goes on. And it's not surprising that this convention is found in religious verse too: here's a nice example of an Annunciation poem in springtime mode, and think of the 'dew in April' in this famous lyric...

A translation of the poem (the language is pretty tricky, but I did my best!):

Summer is come and winter gone,
The days begin to grow long,
And the birds every one
Make rejoicing with their song.
So strong a sorrow now me binds,
All for the joy that I find
In land,
All for a child
Who is so mild [merciful, gentle]
Of hand.

That child, who is so kind and noble
And of great power,
Both in bushes and in banks
Has sought me for a time.
He found me,
For an apple of a tree
Bound;
He broke the bond
That was so strong
By his wounds.

That child who was so wild and bold
For me humbled himself low,
For me to Jews he was sold;
They would not him know. [acknowledge]
'Let us,' said they,
'Nail him upon a tree
In a lowly place,
But first we shall
Shame him
A while.'

Jesu is that child's name,
King of all lands;
Of the king they made game
And smote him with their hands.
To tempt him, upon a tree
They gave him wounds two and three
By hand;
Of bitter drink
They sent him
A taste.

Death he took on rood-tree,
The life of us all;
Nor might it any other way be
Or else we should lament
And suffer in hell so deep
And never cease from labour
Withal.
Nor could us save
Castle, tower,
Or hall.

Maid and mother there she stood,
Mary full of grace,
And from her eyes she let the blood
Fall down in that place.
The tears ran of her blood,
Changed were her flesh and blood
And face.
He was ill-treated
Like a beast hunted
In the chase.

Death he took, that sweet man,
High there upon the rood;
He washed our sins, every one,
With his sweet blood.
With that flood he bent down
And burst the gates of that prison
Where they stood,
And chose from there
The ones who
Were good.

He rose again on the third day,
And set him on his throne;
He will come on doomsday,
To judge us every one.
Mourn he may and weep ay,
The man who dies without amendment
Alone;
Grant us, Christ,
By thy uprising
With thee to go. Amen.

'& þis foules everichon...' (BL, Royal 3 D VI, f.116)

The world itself keeps Easter Day

The world itself keeps Easter Day,
And Easter larks are singing;
And Easter flowers are blooming gay,
And Easter buds are springing.
Alleluia! Alleluia!
The Lord of all things lives anew,
And all His works are rising too.
Alleluia! Alleluia!

There stood three Maries by the tomb
On Easter morning early
When day had scarcely chased the gloom,
And dew was white and pearly.
Alleluia! Alleluia!
With loving, but with erring mind
They came the Prince of Life to find,
Alleluia! Alleluia!

But earlier still the angel sped,
His news of comfort giving;
And "Why," he said, "among the dead
Thus seek ye for the living?"
Alleluia! Alleluia!
"Go tell them all, and make them blest,
Tell Peter first, and then the rest."
Alleluia! Alleluia!

But one, and one alone, remained,
With love that could not vary;
And thus a joy past joy she gained,
That sometime sinner, Mary.
Alleluia! Alleluia!
The first the dear, dear form to see
Of Him that hung upon the tree.
Alleluia! Alleluia!

The world itself keeps Easter day,
Saint Joseph's star is beaming;
Saint Alice has her primrose gay,
Saint George's bells are gleaming;
Alleluia! Alleluia!
The Lord hath risen, as all things tell;
Good Christians, see ye rise as well!

This is one of a number of carols John Mason Neale wrote for tunes in Piae Cantiones (others I've posted include 'Earth today rejoices', 'Spring has now unwrapped the flowers' and 'Athens'). The tune in this case, according to the Oxford Book of Carols, is 'O Christe, rex piissime', which I can't find a recording of on the internet, but you can read the sheet-music here.  Many versions omit the last verse of this carol, perhaps because the flowers named are a little obscure.  The names aroused my curiosity, but only after much Google-booking was I able to find out the following: 'St George's bells' are bluebells; 'St Alice's primrose' is the variety of primrose mentioned in this old book; and I think 'St Joseph's star' might be the speedwell.  (For those of you unfamiliar with English spring flowers, they look like this: speedwell, primrose and bluebell). The point is that they are spring flowers which grow in England around those saints' days (St Alice = St Adelaide, whose feast is February 5; St Joseph in March; and St George in April). It's been a long and a cold spring in this part of the world, and it isn't over yet - but today the sun is shining, the flowers are out, and the birds are singing.  The world is keeping Easter Day.