Englands Antiphon | Page 6

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