Bold Prince Bishop's Men : 無料・フリー素材/写真
Bold Prince Bishop's Men / Giles Watson's poetry and prose
| ライセンス | クリエイティブ・コモンズ 表示-継承 2.1 |
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| 説明 | Picture: Mediaeval bishop's crosier, Ashmolean museum (currently undated).Some of the first song lyrics I ever wrote, dating from student days in Durham, are below. None of the opinions expressed are my own: they are in the voice of an imaginary minstrel employed by the Prince Bishop's Men.Bold Prince Bishop’s MenWe build like gods, we feed like dogsLike angels glorious, badgers malodorousGenerous and gentle-heartedWorshipful of the departedBereft of mercy for our foesBrave where our blazoned banner goes:Make way, make way, we prithee thenFor all the bold Prince Bishop’s men!Fasting, scourgéd and abasedProud like peacocks, gentle-facedBy turns haughty, by turns humbleReady for a rough and tumbleOur host all cowardice overthrowsBrave where our blazoned banner goes:Make way, make way, we prithee thenFor all the bold Prince Bishop’s men!Cuthbert’s CrossA monk in exile once again,Driven on by axe of Dane.In sleep I lie beside the WearAnd I am wrung of every tear.O! Cuthbert! Oswald! Come! Arise!O! Fill the night with fireflies!In hills of Lothian Cuthbert stands,Shepherd’s crook held in his hands.His flock about him bleat and cryWhile tearful monks watch Aidan die:Cuthbert sees him mount the skies;The dark night burns with fireflies.Crook laid down, good Cuthbert goesBefore the Prior of Melrose.The Prior trembles, overawed,“Behold the Spirit of the Lord!”Angelic Cuthbert stills his cries;His eyes burn soft like fireflies.Cuthbert with consumption wracked -Yet with blessed wit and tactHe bids the storm at Whitby calm,And shepherds monks at Lindisfarne,Then on a hermit island lies.And all around burn fireflies.A humble shelter builds he there;With crow and eagle does he shareHis simple fare amid the squalls,Then sleeps within his rough-hewn walls.He contemplates the Northern skies:The stars aglow like fireflies.To Holy Island he returnsAs Bishop, tho’ the pomp he spurns:No armies at his footstool stand,No servants waiting at his hand.No glory and no false disguiseFor saints aglow like fireflies.Yet for his island Cuthbert yearns,Where the sea swell torrid churns.His fretful flock behold him floatAway inside a cockle-boat.They fill the air with moans and sighs;Their tears burn like fireflies.One disciple, gaunt with concern,Cries, “Cuthbert! When wilt thou return?”“O! When you bring my body hither,For all flesh must wilt and wither!”His body frail, yet still his eyesBurn in the dark like fireflies.The waves lash the little shore;The monks’ fond hopes arise no more.The pulse of Cuthbert soon will cease,His dying breath now urges peace.In pain his broken body writhes,Yet burns his breath like fireflies:“Bear me with thee where ye go!Let not hail, storm nor snowPrevent you when destruction’s near!Banish sadness! Banish fear!”Consumed at last, St. Cuthbert diesWith the winking-out of fireflies.On Lindisfarne they wait forlornFor some sign, or shout, or horn:Then with the death, burning softComes light of torches held aloft!Above the ground where Cuthbert liesThe torches burn like fireflies.His cross of garnets and of goldIs laid upon his body cold.Twice broken was it, twice repaired,And now its memory is shared:The Cross exalted in our eyes -Its garnets burn like fireflies!His corp’rax bears the self-same sign,And so the priests of Cuthbert’s lineElevate the holy HostAnd in the Cross of Cuthbert boast,And at each Mass like myriad eyesThe candles burn like fireflies.And now I dream on banks of WearExhausted, driven hence by fear:“Build my Church upon this rockAnd bring all St. Cuthbert’s flock!Let the might of Dunholme rise:The dark night burns with fireflies!”FlambardWide the Wear winds its course,Past Dunholme on both sides,Young Flambard on a chestnut horseThrough the woodland rides.He sees the vision glorious:The might of stone on stone!May Dunholme’s tower victoriousFor Flambard’s sins atone!(Chorus:)Profuse and profligate, contemptuous of all,Roguish and greedy, handsome, full of guile,Vulgar in religion, broad and strong and tall,Flambard’s fortitude and fame waxes all the while!Known for prodigality, wanting in morality,Not given to frugality,of dubious legality,All praise to Flambard, Bishop Prince,Mainspring of iniquity!Great Dunholme’s robust transepts riseAstride the soaring choir.Beneath the pallid northern skiesThe walls mount ever higher.Across the Wear a bridge is flung,The masons’ chisels ringing.Down the nave the vaults are slungThe choir fills with singing.Flambard feeds his architectsOn venison and boar,The city’s walls he now erectsFor archers by the score.Along the high peninsulaThe oxen haul the stone,All critics snide or insularBy Flambard overthrown.Cuthbert’s body incorrupt:Enshrined in marble coldA score of jewellers now constructReliquaries of gold.Wond’rous images and jewelsBedeck the abbey’s wallsStill the schemes of prudes and foolsShrewd Flambard oft forestalls.The sceptics are confounded -The abbey’s all but builtAnd Cuthbert’s tomb surroundedBy crusts of stones and gilt.The pilgrims hasten to adoreAnd seek St. Cuthbert’s will.They bring their silver coins galoreAnd Flambard’s coffers fill.Flambard dies, his goods endowed:Griffins adorn his copeTwo more sewn with peacocks proud,A silver censer from the Pope,Tapestries in richest hue,Silken, every stitch,And crosses made of lapis blueFlambard’s church enrich.Now his seals are broken allOn Cuthbert’s tomb they lie,Proof that all the mighty fall,And all the great must die.Yet Flambard’s voice will never restThough he is dust and bone,“I built this church! My name’s impressedOn Dunholme’s every stone!”Profuse and profligate, contemptuous of all,Roguish and greedy, handsome, full of guile,Vulgar in religion, broad and strong and tall,Flambard’s fortitude and fame waxes all the while!Known for prodigality, wanting in morality,Not given to frugality,of dubious legality,All praise to Flambard, Bishop Prince,Mainspring of iniquity!Anthony BekSplendid and dangerous Anthony BekGentry stand by thee, bare to the neckNobles address thee, on bended knee all -Above them you tower, stalwart and tall.Chorus:In a Church grown cold, this Bishop seemsA hero to be desiredFor the world was young and hearty then;Now ‘tis old and tired.One hundred and forty knights follow your trainO! Such magnificence! O! to regainThe pomp of the Bishop Prince, Bek most adoredO! To be blessed by the hilt of his sword!Never luxurious, not soft nor idleNever apart from his saddle and bridleBold Bek delighteth in horse and in houndNo equal in England will ever be found.In courage unparallelled, brazen and brave,Spirit of Bishop Bek, hear us and save:Our banner’s defiled, answer you mustSt. Cuthbert’s honour is trampled in dust.Neville’s CrossLaudate pueri Dominum: laudate nomen Domini.Dunholme standeth, mist enshrouded: solid stand her towers.The monks sing prime, incense-clouded, while the pale sun glowers.John Fossor swooneth in his stall, by bright vision blinded,He hears the clear, climactic call, of Cuthbert reminded.King David, sneering weasel ScotComes to suck the English eggsHis troops the northern landscape blot,Each town for mercy begs.King Edward draws the sword in France,Leaves all exposed at home;The weasel chooses to advanceOn fortified Dunholme.“John Fossor, man of fortitude, take holy Cuthbert’s Cross.All other schemes shalt thou exclude, yet Cuthbert’s sign embossUpon a blazoned banner blue, haul it to yonder hill.Beseech me ‘til the battle’s through, that I might work my will!”Bold Hatfield and three Bishops braveRide hard on Neville’s Cross,The priests bear cudgels for to saveDunholme from direst loss.The weasel writhes in wrathful glee,“A corps of priest and wench?I’ll fill hill and field and leeWith their rotting bodies’ stench!”John Fossor takes the corp’rax cloth, imprints on bluest bannerEmblem of faith, fear and wrath, while outside the clamourBuilds beneath embattled walls. Then marches Fossor north;“Behold the Banner!” Fossor calls, the cloister’d monks come forth.The weasel wafts his hungry swordHis minions round him creep,“Where is your King and noble Lord,A-whoring, or asleep?”“Fear not!” retorts the bold Hatfield,“Our King fights fiercer wars!And if you think our fate is sealed,I prithee! Look to yours!”The banner flies above Flass Vale, the monks intone the MassConcealed in cowls their faces pale, they blench not as they passAbout the hallowed, fractured Host, and raise the Cup of blood,Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost, ankle-deep in mud.The wily weasel bares his fangs,Lethal in the melee.The battle in the balance hangs,The blood runs fast and free.“I absolve thee!” cry the priests,With their cudgels clubbing,“Then die beknighted!” cry the ScotsWith bloodstained broadswords dubbing.The monks pray on, by blood bespattered, carnage covers all the hillThe clashing armies’ banners tattered, yet Cuthbert’s Cross flies still.And from Dunholme’s distant tower, more monks watching, waiting,While bells toll for each passing hour, still the battle’s raging.Bold Edward Balliol spurs his steedInto the weasel’s weakened flank,The weasel’s wounds weep and bleed,His bloodstained hair hangs lank.“Thou weasel Scot, surrender now!”One plucky squire is crying,The weasel bends as if to bow,Then sends the squire’s teeth flying.“Gentle Cuthbert, ever blessed, receive our plaintive prayerWe stand shriven, sins confesséd, sworn to Our Lady fair!Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, Thine honour be exalted!Let not Dunholme be undone, by Scottish foes assaulted!”King David picks the teeth and skinFrom his gauntlet gory,“Curséd be thy craven kin!Disgracéd be thy glory!Man and horse he hews to ground,His sword cleaves skin and bone,Until at last he’s lashed and boundFast by a cross of stone.The banner flieth o’er the field, monks in triumph chantingAnd in the mud the bood congealed, weasel widly ranting.“Behold! The Banner!” cheers resound, “An end to wrath and wrong!”From Dunholme’s tower the tidings sound, echoéd in plainsong:Te deum laudamus: te dominum confitemur.Te, aeternum patrum, omnis terra veneratur.Tibi omnes angeli, tibi caeli et universae potestates,Tibi cherubim et seraphim, incessabili voce proclamat,Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus, dominus deus sabaoth;Pleni sunt caeli et terra maiestatis gloriae tuae.TunstallOutmoded saint in newfangled worldTunstall sits with bright banner furled,In Auckland Castle, mouthing his prayers.His messenger falters on the stairs.Copernicus calibrates the sky,Leonardo draws machines that fly,Luther hammers upon the Church door,The King wants gold to support his wars.And so the officials of the StateRide forth to the Palatinate,Appraise his ledgers and all his goldAnd Tunstall’s saintly soul is sold.Finchale falls and its Prior marries.The greedy King no longer tarries:All trash and trumpery swept away,No sweet-toned bells, no banners gay.Holy Tunstall, blessed impotence,In arms untutored, slow to offense,Let a Bek or Fossor take the stage!Save sanctity for a softer age!Jane LumleyIn your arms I rested yesternightWarmth and strength my soul surroundingWe made love in pale moonlightYour skin was soft, my heart was pounding.George Lumley, husband, lover, friend:At dawn you ride off to your end.I pleaded, “Let me ride with youAnd bear Cuthbert’s banner bright!”Resplendent in your tabard blueMy tears welled forth at the sight.George Lumley, I caress your faceBefore the Pilgrimage of Grace.Bulmer, Hilton, Tempest, AskeTake arms against a King turned foe,Staunch and steeléd for the taskAnd I collapse in helpless woe.George Lumley, chain-mailed on your steed,Sword unsheathed in hour of need.Bright at dawn the beacons glow,The relics are brought forth.The monks tramp onward through the snowWith bold horsemen of the north.George Lumley, may their prayers prevailAs you ride on through wind and hail.From Doncaster come tidings illYou rode in triumph to the southBut the King with stealth and skillDeceives with honey in his mouth.George Lumley by deceit delayedBy our King is sore betrayed.My husband mounts the scaffold cold,The axeman plies his blade,The King counts out my husband’s gold,The banner falls, the war-cries fade.George Lumley, would I shared your ending,Our blood upon the scaffold blending.“Wife Jane Lumley,” so my husband’s will,“May I behold once more your face!With thirty Requiems Dunholme fill,Exalt the Pilgrimage of Grace!Jane Lumley, O! that I may restMy head once more upon your breast!”His body wrap in shroud of blue,His cold feet kiss, his face anoint,His armour cleanse and shine anewHis bright sword sharpen at its point.On Lumley’s grave, Fili DeiDeus miserere mei.Dies iraeThe Duke of Norfolk’s retinueIn Dunholme Castle, eating stew,Making merry, guzzling wine,Despoil the Bishop’s fabrics fine.Norfolk, puppet of the CrownTakes Tunstall’s seal and wears his gownSends Lady Bulmer to the pyreAnd orders executions dire.Dunholme’s pillars wrathful quake,Cadavers in the crypt do shake,John Fossor’s teeth are set on edge,The very walls cry, “Sacrilege!”In March, when Cuthbert’s name’s reveredAnd Dunholme’s aisles are cleansed and cleared,The Prior, dressed in cope of gold,Takes up the Banner, as of old -Then the King sends lackeys, thugsDressed in silks and ermine rugs,They slap the Prior in the face,Bully his monks with sword and mace. Dunholme’s pillars wrathful quake,Cadavers in the crypt do shake,John Fossor’s teeth are set on edge,The very walls cry, “Sacrilege!”They march unheeding through the choir,Instruments of Henry’s ire,The candles from the altar strip,The priestly vestments cruelly ripAnd to Cuthbert’s shrine they trudge,Bearing Henry’s impious grudge,Cuthbert’s corpse they now exhume,And sneering, desecrate his tomb.Dunholme’s pillars wrathful quake,Cadavers in the crypt do shake,John Fossor’s teeth are set on edge,The very walls cry, “Sacrilege!”The alabaster, jewels and gold -All are pilfered, smashed or sold,And Cuthbert’s banner, flag of war,Is wrapped in rags and seen no moreUntil Dean Whittington’s dowdy wifeCuts through the rags with carving-knifeStrips away the hessian hoaryAnd rips to shreds St. Cuthbert’s glory.Dunholme’s pillars wrathful quake,Cadavers in the crypt do shake,John Fossor’s teeth are set on edge,The very walls cry, “Sacrilege!”St. Cuthbert’s Banner finds its pyreTossed upon the kitchen fireBy Whittington’s Genevan crone -The ensign which once stood aloneAt Neville’s Cross, with Scotland routed,With which the Bishops bold had floutedThe words of kings and earthly powers -This Banner now the flame devours.Dunholme’s pillars wrathful quake,Cadavers in the crypt do shake,John Fossor’s teeth are set on edge,The very walls cry, “Sacrilege!”Awash with incandescent flameThe flag of the Prince Bishops’ fameAnd Cuthbert’s Cross burns to ashBeneath the mutton, beans and mashBroiling on the Dean’s wife’s grille.And Dunholme stands deserted, still:No monkish prayer pleads and atonesFor Cuthbert’s broken, rifled bones.Dunholme’s pillars wrathful quake,Cadavers in the crypt do shake,John Fossor’s teeth are set on edge,The very walls cry, “Sacrilege!”Confutatis maledictisflammis acribus addictis,voca me cum benedictis.Oro supplex et acclinis,cor contritum quasi cinis,gere curam mei finis...cor contritum quasi cinisgere curam mei finis.Song lyrics by Giles Watson, inspired and sometimes adapted from Sir Timothy Eden's two volume history, Durham, 1952. |
| 撮影日 | 2010-01-30 17:49:09 |
| 撮影者 | Giles Watson's poetry and prose , Oxfordshire, England |
| タグ | |
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| カメラ | E8700 , NIKON |
| 露出 | 0.2 sec (1/5) |
| 開放F値 | f/2.8 |