England's Antiphon. George MacDonald

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 declare13

            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

9

"All as if it were not never, I wis."

10

"So that many men say—True it is, all goeth but God's will."

11

I conjecture "All that grain (me) groweth green."

12

Not is a contraction for ne wat, know not. "For I know not whither I must go, nor how long here I dwell." I think y is omitted by mistake before duelle.

13

This is very poor compared with the original.