[Illustration: England's Antiphon]
ENGLAND'S ANTIPHON
BY GEORGE MACDONALD
ENGLAND'S ANTIPHON
was originally published in 1868
PREFACE
In this book I have sought to trace the course of our religious poetry
from an early period of our literary history.
This could hardly be done without reference to some of the principal
phases of the religious history of the nation. To give anything like a
full history of the religious feeling of a single county, would require a
large book, and--not to mention sermons--would involve a thorough
acquaintance with the hymns of the country,--a very wide subject, which I
have not considered of sufficient importance from a literary point of
view to come within the scope of the volume.
But if its poetry be the cream of a people's thought, some true
indications of the history of its religious feeling must be found in its
religious verse, and I hope I have not altogether failed in setting forth
these indications.
My chief aim, however, will show itself to have been the mediating
towards an intelligent and cordial sympathy betwixt my readers and the
writers from whom I have quoted. In this I have some confidence of
success.
Heartily do I throw this my small pebble at the head of the great
Sabbath-breaker _Schism_.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION.
CHAPTER I.
SACRED LYRICS OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.
CHAPTER II.
THE MIRACLE PLAYS, AND OTHER POEMS OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY.
CHAPTER III.
THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY.
CHAPTER IV.
INTRODUCTION TO THE ELIZABETHAN ERA.
CHAPTER V.
SPENSER AND HIS FRIENDS.
CHAPTER VI.
LORD BACON AND HIS COEVALS.
CHAPTER VII.
DR. DONNE.
CHAPTER VIII.
BISHOP HALL AND GEORGE SANDYS.
CHAPTER IX.
A FEW OF THE ELIZABETHAN DRAMATISTS.
CHAPTER X.
SIR JOHN BEAUMONT AND DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN.
CHAPTER XI.
THE BROTHERS FLETCHER.
CHAPTER XII.
WITHER, HERRICK, AND QUARLES.
CHAPTER XIII.
GEORGE HERBERT.
CHAPTER XIV.
JOHN MILTON.
CHAPTER XV.
EDMUND WALLER, THOMAS BROWN, AND JEREMY TAYLOR.
CHAPTER XVI.
HENRY MORE AND RICHARD BAXTER.
CHAPTER XVII.
CRASHAW AND MARVELL.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A MOUNT OF VISION--HENRY VAUGHAN.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE PLAIN.
CHAPTER XX.
THE ROOTS OF THE HILLS.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE NEW VISION.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE FERVOUR OF THE IMPLICIT. INSIGHT OF THE HEART.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE QUESTIONING FERVOUR.
ENGLAND'S ANTIPHON.
INTRODUCTION.
If the act of worship be the highest human condition, it follows that the
highest human art must find material in the modes of worship. The first
poetry of a nation will not be religious poetry: the nation must have a
history at least before it can possess any material capable of being cast
into the mould of religious utterance; but, the nation once possessed of
this material, poetry is the first form religious utterance will assume.
The earliest form of literature is the ballad, which is the germ of all
subsequent forms of poetry, for it has in itself all their elements: the
_lyric_, for it was first chanted to some stringed instrument; the
_epic_, for it tells a tale, often of solemn and ancient report; the
_dramatic_, for its actors are ever ready to start forward into life,
snatch the word from the mouth of the narrator, and speak in their own
persons. All these forms have been used for the utterance of religious
thought and feeling. Of the lyrical poems of England, religion possesses
the most; of the epic, the best; of the dramatic, the oldest.
Of each of these I shall have occasion to speak; but, as the title of the
book implies,--for _Antiphon_ means the responsive song of the parted
choir,--I shall have chiefly to do with the lyric or song form.
For song is the speech of feeling. Even the prose of emotion always
wanders into the rhythmical. Hence, as well as for other reasons
belonging to its nature, it is one chief mode in which men unite to
praise God; for in thus praising they hold communion with each other, and
the praise expands and grows.
The _individual_ heart, however, must first have been uplifted into
praiseful song, before the common ground and form of feeling, in virtue
of which men might thus meet, could be supplied. But the vocal utterance
or the bodily presence is not at all necessary for this communion. When
we read rejoicingly the true song-speech of one of our singing brethren,
we hold song-worship with him and with all who have thus at any time
shared in his feelings, even if he have passed centuries ago into the
"high countries" of song.
My object is to erect, as it were, in this book, a little auricle, or
spot of concentrated hearing, where the hearts of my readers may listen,
and join in the song of their country's singing men and singing women.
I will build it, if I may, like a chapel in the great church of England's
worship, gathering the sounds of its never-ceasing choir, heart after
heart lifting up itself in the music of speech, heart after heart
responding across the ages. Hearing, we worship with them.
For we must not forget that, although the individual song springs from
the heart of the individual, the song of a country is not merely
cumulative: it is vital in its growth, and therefore composed of
historically dependent members. No man could sing as he has sung, had not
others sung before him. Deep answereth unto deep, face to face, praise to
praise. To the sound of the trumpet the harp returns its own vibrating
response--alike, but how different! The religious song of the country, I
say again, is a growth, rooted deep in all its story.
Besides the fact that the lyric chiefly will rouse the devotional
feeling, there is another reason why I should principally use it: I wish
to make my book valuable in its parts as in itself. The value of a thing
depends in large measure upon its unity, its wholeness. In a work of
these limits, that form of verse alone can be available for its unity
which is like the song of the bird--a warble and then a stillness.
However valuable an extract may be--and I shall not quite eschew such--an
entire lyric, I had almost said _however inferior_, if worthy of a place
at all, is of greater value, especially if regarded in relation to the
form of setting with which I hope to surround it.
There is a sense in which I may, without presumption, adopt the name of
Choragus, or leader of the chorus, in relation to these singers: I must
take upon me to order who shall sing, when he shall sing, and which of
his songs he shall sing. But I would rather assume the office of master
of the hearing, for my aim shall be to cause the song to be truly heard;
to set forth worthy points in form, in matter, and in relation; to say
with regard to the singer himself, his time, its modes, its beliefs, such
things as may help to set the song in its true light--its relation,
namely, to the source whence it sprung, which alone can secure its right
reception by the heart of the hearer. For my chief aim will be the heart;
seeing that, although there is no dividing of the one from the other, the
heart can do far more for the intellect than the intellect can do for the
heart.
We must not now attempt to hear the singers of times so old that their
language is unintelligible without labour. For this there is not room,
even if otherwise it were desirable that such should divide the volume.
We must leave Anglo-Saxon behind us. In Early English, I shall give a few
valuable lyrics, but they shall not be so far removed from our present
speech but that, with a reasonable amount of assistance, the nature and
degree of which I shall set forth, they shall not only present themselves
to the reader's understanding, but commend themselves to his imagination
and judgment.
CHAPTER I.
SACRED LYRICS OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.
In the midst of wars and rumours of wars, the strife of king and barons,
and persistent efforts to subdue neighbouring countries, the mere
effervescence of the life of the nation, let us think for a moment of
that to which the poems I am about to present bear good witness--the true
life of the people, growing quietly, slowly, unperceived--the leaven hid
in the meal. For what is the true life of a nation? That, I answer, in
its modes of thought, its manners and habits, which favours the growth
within the individual of that kingdom of heaven for the sake only of
which the kingdoms of earth exist. The true life of the people, as
distinguished from the nation, is simply the growth in its individuals of
those eternal principles of truth, in proportion to whose power in them
they take rank in the kingdom of heaven, the only kingdom that can
endure, all others being but as the mimicries of children playing at
government.
Little as they then knew of the relations of the wonderful story on which
their faith was built, to everything human, the same truth was at work
then which is now--poor as the recognition of these relations yet
is--slowly setting men free. In the hardest winter the roots are still
alive in the frozen ground.
In the silence of the monastery, unnatural as that life was, germinated
much of this deeper life. As we must not judge of the life of the nation
by its kings and mighty men, so we must not judge of the life in the
Church by those who are called Rabbi. The very notion of the kingdom of
heaven implies a secret growth, secret from no affectation of mystery,
but because its goings-on are in the depths of the human nature where it
holds communion with the Divine. In the Church, as in society, we often
find that that which shows itself uppermost is but the froth, a sign, it
may be, of life beneath, but in itself worthless. When the man arises
with a servant's heart and a ruler's brain, then is the summer of the
Church's content. But whether the men who wrote the following songs moved
in some shining orbit of rank, or only knelt in some dim chapel, and
walked in some pale cloister, we cannot tell, for they have left no name
behind them.
My reader will observe that there is little of theory and much of love in
these lyrics. The recognition of a living Master is far more than any
notions about him. In the worship of him a thousand truths are working,
unknown and yet active, which, embodied in theory, and dissociated from
the living mind that was in Christ, will as certainly breed worms as any
omer of hoarded manna. Holding the skirt of his garment in one hand, we
shall in the other hold the key to all the treasures of wisdom and
knowledge.
I think almost all the earliest religious poetry is about him and his
mother. Their longing after his humanity made them idolize his mother. If
we forget that only through his humanity can we approach his divinity, we
shall soon forget likewise that his mother is blessed among women.
I take the poems from one of the Percy Society publications, edited by
Mr. Wright from a manuscript in the British Museum. He adjudges them to
the reign of Edward I. Perhaps we may find in them a sign or two that in
cultivating our intellect we have in some measure neglected our heart.
But first as to the mode in which I present them to my readers: I have
followed these rules:--
1. Wherever a word differs from the modern word only in spelling, I have,
for the sake of readier comprehension, substituted the modern form, with
the following exception:--Where the spelling indicates a different
pronunciation, necessary for the rhyme or the measure, I retain such part
of the older form, marking with an acute accent any vowel now silent
which must be sounded.
2. Where the word used is antique in root, I give the modern synonym in
the margin. Antique phrases I explain in foot-notes.
It must be borne in mind that our modern pronunciation can hardly fail in
other cases as well to injure the melody of the verses.
The modern reader will often find it difficult to get a rhythm out of
some of them. This may arise from any of several causes. In the first
place many final _e_'s were then sounded which are now silent; and it is
not easy to tell which of them to sound. Again, some words were
pronounced as dissyllables which we treat as monosyllables, and others as
monosyllables which we treat as dissyllables. I suspect besides, that
some of the old writers were content to allow a prolonged syllable to
stand for two short ones, a mode not without great beauty when sparingly
and judiciously employed. Short supernumerary syllables were likewise
allowed considerable freedom to come and go. A good deal must, however,
be put down to the carelessness and presumption of the transcribers, who
may very well have been incapable of detecting their own blunders. One of
these ancient mechanics of literature caused Chaucer endless annoyance
with his corruptions, as a humorous little poem, the last in his works,
sufficiently indicates. From the same sources no doubt spring as well
most of the variations of text in the manuscripts.
The first of the poems is chiefly a conversation between the Lord on the
cross and his mother standing at its foot. A few prefatory remarks in
explanation of some of its allusions will help my readers to enjoy it.
It was at one time a common belief, and the notion has not yet, I think,
altogether vanished, that the dying are held back from repose by the love
that is unwilling to yield them up. Hence, in the third stanza, the Lord
prays his mother to let him die. In the fifth, he reasons against her
overwhelming sorrows on the ground of the deliverance his sufferings will
bring to the human race. But she can only feel her own misery.
To understand the seventh and eighth, it is necessary to know that, among
other strange things accepted by the early Church, it was believed that
the mother of Jesus had no suffering at his birth. This of course
rendered her incapable of perfect sympathy with other mothers. It is a
lovely invention, then, that he should thus commend mothers to his
mother, telling her to judge of the pains of motherhood by those which
she now endured. Still he fails to turn aside her thoughts. She is
thinking still only of her own and her son's suffering, while he
continues bent on making her think of others, until, at last, forth comes
her prayer for all women. This seems to me a tenderness grand as
exquisite.
The outburst of the chorus of the Faithful in the last stanza but one,--
When he rose, then fell her sorrow,
is as fine as anything I know in the region of the lyric.
"Stand well, mother, under rood;[1] _the cross._
Behold thy son with gladé mood; _cheerful._
Blithe mother mayst thou be."
"Son, how should I blithé stand?
I see thy feet, I see thy hand
Nailéd to the hard tree."
"Mother, do way thy wepynde: _give over thy weeping._
I tholé death for mankind-- _suffer._
For my guilt thole I none."
"Son, I feel the dede stounde; _death-pang._
The sword is at my heart's ground _bottom._
That me byhet Simeon." _foreshowed._
"Mother, mercy! let me die,
For Adam out of hell buy, _for to buy Adam._
And his kin that is forlore." _lost._
"Son, what shall me to rede?[2]
My pain paineth me to dede: _death._
Let me die thee before!"
"Mother, thou rue all of thy bairn; _rue thou_; _all_ is only expletive
Thou wash away the bloody tern; _wash thou; tears._
It doth me worse than my ded." _hurts me more; death._
"Son, how may I terés werne? _turn aside tears._
I see the bloody streamés erne _flow._
From thy heart to my fet." _feet._
"Mother, now I may thee seye, _say to thee._
Better is that I one deye _die._
Than all mankind to hellé go."
"Son, I see thy body byswongen, _lashed._
Feet and hands throughout stongen: _pierced through and through._
No wonder though me be woe." _woe be to me._
"Mother, now I shall thee tell,
If I not die, thou goest to hell:
I thole death for thy sake." _endure._
"Son, thou art so meek and mynde, _thoughtful._
Ne wyt me not, it is my kind[3]
That I for thee this sorrow make."
"Mother, now thou mayst well leren _learn._
What sorrow have that children beren, _they have; bear._
What sorrow it is with childé gon." _to go._
"Sorrow, I wis! I can thee tell!
But it be the pain of hell _except._
More sorrow wot I none."
"Mother, rue of mother-care, _take pity upon._
For now thou wost of mother-fare, _knowest._
Though thou be clean maiden mon."[4]
"Soné, help at alle need
Allé those that to me grede, _cry._
Maiden, wife, and full wymmon." _woman with child._
"Mother, may I no longer dwell;
The time is come I shall to hell;
The third day I rise upon."
"Son, I will with thee founden; _set out, go._
I die, I wis, for thy wounden:
So sorrowful death nes never none." _was not never none._
When he rose, then fell her sorrow;
Her bliss sprung the third morrow:
Blithe mother wert thou tho! _then._
Lady, for that ilké bliss, _same._
Beseech thy son of sunnés lisse: _for sin's release._
Thou be our shield against our foe. _Be thou._
Blessed be thou, full of bliss!
Let us never heaven miss,
Through thy sweeté Sonés might!
Loverd, for that ilké blood, _Lord,_
That thou sheddest on the rood,
Thou bring us into heaven's light. AMEN.
I think my readers will not be sorry to have another of a similar
character.
I sigh when I sing
For sorrow that I see,
When I with weeping
Behold upon the tree,
And see Jesus the sweet
His heart's blood for-lete _yield quite._
For the love of me.
His woundés waxen wete, _wet._
They weepen still and mete:[5]
Mary rueth thee. _pitieth._
High upon a down, _hill._
Where all folk it see may,
A mile from each town,
About the mid-day,
The rood is up arearéd;
His friendés are afearéd,
And clingeth so the clay;[6]
The rood stands in stone,
Mary stands her on,
And saith Welaway!
When I thee behold
With eyen brighté bo, _eyes bright both._
And thy body cold--
Thy ble waxeth blo, _colour: livid._
Thou hangest all of blood _bloody._
So high upon the rood
Between thieves tuo-- _two._
Who may sigh more?
Mary weepeth sore,
And sees all this woe.
The nails be too strong,
The smiths are too sly; _skilful._
Thou bleedest all too long;
The tree is all too high;
The stones be all wete! _wet._
Alas, Jesu, the sweet!
For now friend hast thou none,
But Saint John to-mournynde, _mourning greatly._
And Mary wepynde, _weeping._
For pain that thee is on.
Oft when I sike _sigh._
And makie my moan,
Well ill though me like,
Wonder is it none.[7]
When I see hang high
And bitter pains dreye, _dree, endure._
Jesu, my lemmon! _love._
His woundés sore smart,
The spear all to his heart
And through his side is gone.
Oft when I syke, _sigh._
With care I am through-sought; _searched through._
When I wake I wyke; _languish._
Of sorrow is all my thought.
Alas! men be wood _mad._
That swear by the rood _swear by the cross._
And sell him for nought
That bought us out of sin.
He bring us to wynne, _may he: bliss._
That hath us dear bought!
I add two stanzas of another of like sort.
Man that is in glory and bliss,
And lieth in shame and sin,
He is more than unwis _unwise._
That thereof will not blynne. _cease._
All this world it goeth away,
Me thinketh it nigheth Doomsday;
Now man goes to ground: _perishes._
Jesus Christ that tholed ded _endured death._
He may our souls to heaven led _lead._
Within a little stound. _moment._
Jesus, that was mild and free,
Was with spear y-stongen; _stung_ or _pierced._
He was nailéd to the tree,
With scourges y-swongen. _lashed._
All for man he tholed shame, _endured._
Withouten guilt, withouten blame,
Bothé day and other[8].
Man, full muchel he loved thee, _much._
When he woldé make thee free,
And become thy brother.
The simplicity, the tenderness, the devotion of these lyrics is to me
wonderful. Observe their realism, as, for instance, in the words: "The
stones beoth al wete;" a realism as far removed from the coarseness of a
Rubens as from the irreverence of too many religious teachers, who will
repeat and repeat again the most sacred words for the merest logical ends
until the tympanum of the moral ear hears without hearing the sounds that
ought to be felt as well as held holiest. They bear strongly, too, upon
the outcome of feeling in action, although doubtless there was the same
tendency then as there is now to regard the observance of
church-ordinances as the service of Christ, instead of as a means of
gathering strength wherewith to serve him by being in the world as he was
in the world.
From a poem of forty-eight stanzas I choose five, partly in order to
manifest that, although there is in it an occasional appearance of what
we should consider sentimentality, allied in nature to that worship of
the Virgin which is more a sort of French gallantry than a feeling of
reverence, the sense of duty to the Master keeps pace with the profession
of devotedness to him. There is so little continuity of thought in it,
that the stanzas might almost be arranged anyhow.
Jesu, thy love be all my thought;
Of other thing ne reck I nought; _reckon._
I yearn to have thy will y-wrought,
For thou me hast well dear y-bought.
Jesu, well may mine hearté see
That mild and meek he must be,
All unthews and lustés flee, _bad habits._
That feelen will the bliss of thee. _feel._
For sinful folk, sweet Jesus,
Thou lightest from the high house;
Poor and low thou wert for us.
Thine heart's love thou sendest us.
Jesu, therefore beseech I thee
Thy sweet love thou grant me;
That I thereto worthy be,
Make me worthy that art so free. _thou that art._
Jesu, thine help at my ending!
And in that dreadful out-wending, _going forth of the spirit._
Send my soul good weryyng, _guard._
That I ne dread none evil thing.
I shall next present a short lyric, displaying more of art than this
last, giving it now in the old form, and afterwards in a new one, that my
reader may see both how it looks in its original dress, and what it
means.
Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare,
Ofte y sike ant mourne sare, _sigh; sore._
When hit cometh in my thoht
Of this worldes joie, how hit goth al to noht.
Now hit is, ant now hit nys, _it is not._
Also hit ner nere y-wys,[9]
That moni mon seith soth hit ys,[10]
Al goth bote Godes wille,
Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle. _though it pleases us ill._
Al that gren me graueth grene,[11]
Nou hit faleweth al by-dene; _grows yellow: speedily._
Jhesu, help that hit be sene, _seen._
Ant shild us from helle;
For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.[12]
I will now give a modern version of it, in which I have spoiled the
original of course, but I hope as little as well may be.
Winter wakeneth all my care;
Now the trees are waxing bare;
Oft my sighs my grief declare[13]
When it comes into my thought
Of this world's joy, how it goes all to nought.
Now it is, and now 'tis not--
As it ne'er had been, I wot.
Hence many say--it is man's lot:
All goeth but God's will;
We all die, though we like it ill.
Green about me grows the grain;
Now it yelloweth all again:
Jesus, give us help amain,
And shield us from hell;
For when or whither I go I cannot tell
There were no doubt many religious poems in a certain amount of
circulation of a different cast from these; some a metrical recounting of
portions of the Bible history--a kind unsuited to our ends; others a
setting forth of the doctrines and duties then believed and taught. Of
the former class is one of the oldest Anglo-Saxon poems we have, that of
Caedmon, and there are many specimens to be found in the fourteenth and
fifteenth centuries. They could, however, have been of little service to
the people, so few of whom could read, or could have procured manuscripts
if they had been able to use them. A long and elaborate composition of
the latter class was written in the reign of Edward II. by William de
Shoreham, vicar of Chart-Sutton in Kent. He probably taught his own
verses to the people at his catechisings. The intention was, no doubt, by
the aid of measure and rhyme to facilitate the remembrance of the facts
and doctrines. It consists of a long poem on the Seven Sacraments; of a
shorter, associating the Canonical Hours with the principal events of the
close of our Lord's life; of an exposition of the Ten Commandments,
followed by a kind of treatise on the Seven Cardinal Sins: the fifth part
describes the different joys of the Virgin; the sixth, in praise of the
Virgin, is perhaps the most poetic; the last is less easy to
characterize. The poem is written in the Kentish dialect, and is
difficult.
I shall now turn into modern verse a part of "The Canonical Hours,"
giving its represented foundation of the various acts of worship in the
Romish Church throughout the day, from early in the morning to the last
service at night. After every fact concerning our Lord, follows an
apostrophe to his mother, which I omit, being compelled to choose.
Father's wisdom lifted high,
Lord of us aright--
God and man taken was,
At matin-time by night.
The disciples that were his,
Anon they him forsook;
Sold to Jews and betrayed,
To torture him took.
At the prime Jesus was led
In presence of Pilate,
Where witnesses, false and fell,
Laughed at him for hate.
In the neck they him smote,
Bound his hands of might;
Spit upon that sweet face
That heaven and earth did light.
"Crucify him! crucify!"
They cried at nine o'clock;
A purple cloth they put on him--
To stare at him and mock.
They upon his sweet head
Stuck a thorny crown;
To Calvary his cross he bears.
Pitiful, from the town
Jesus was nailed on the cross
At the noon-tide;
Strong thieves they hanged up,
One on either side.
In his pain, his strong thirst
Quenched they with gall;
So that God's holy Lamb
From sin washed us all.
At the nones Jesus Christ
Felt the hard death;
He to his father "Eloi!" cried,
Gan up yield his breath.
A soldier with a sharp spear
Pierced his right side;
The earth shook, the sun grew dim,
The moment that he died.
He was taken off the cross
At even-song's hour;
The strength left and hid in God
Of our Saviour.
Such death he underwent,
Of life the medicine!
Alas! he was laid adown--
The crown of bliss in pine!
At complines, it was borne away
To the burying,
That noble corpse of Jesus Christ,
Hope of life's coming.
Anointed richly it was,
Fulfilled his holy book:
I pray, Lord, thy passion
In my mind lock.
Childlike simplicity, realism, and tenderness will be evident in this, as
in preceding poems, especially in the choice of adjectives. But indeed
the combination of certain words had become conventional; as "The hard
tree," "The nails great and strong," and such like.
I know I have spoiled the poem in half-translating it thus; but I have
rendered it intelligible to all my readers, have not wandered from the
original, and have retained a degree of antiqueness both in the tone and
the expression.