Hollydaze Quotemail #3: The Once & Future King

Hello everyone – 

The tales of King Arthur and the knights of the Round Table have fascinated me for half a century. 😊 Initially inspired by my mother reading the Disney storybook of The Sword in the Stone to me in my preschool days, my interest in the Arthurian legendarium has only grown with time. As we conclude the Yuletide season in the next few days, and the Old Year departs to make room for the New Year, here are some reflections – in poetry and prose – on King Arthur’s mysterious departure from this world’s realm to the Otherworldly Isle of Avalon, from whence (it is said) that he will one day return to usher in a new Golden Age for Britain and the entire world.

 

From the Vita Merlini (Life of Merlin)

By Geoffrey of Monmouth (ca. 1095-1155 CE)

Editor’s Note: In this excerpt, the Welsh bard Taliesin is relating to Merlin how he accompanied King Arthur on his final journey out of this world into the Otherworldly Isle of Avalon, where Arthur was to be cared for by his sister Morgan Le Fay (who, in this narrative, is a queen of the Fair Folk, and not an evil sorceress, as in later retellings).

The island of apples [Avalon], which men call “The Fortunate Isle,” gets its name from the fact that it produces all things of itself; the fields there have no need of the ploughs of the farmers and all cultivation is lacking except what nature provides.  Of its own accord it produces grain and grapes, and apple trees grow in its woods from the close-clipped grass.  The ground of its own accord produces everything instead of merely grass, and people live there a hundred years or more.  There nine sisters rule by a pleasing set of laws those who come to them from our country. She who is first of them is more skilled in the healing art, and excels her sisters in the beauty of her person.  Morgen is her name, and she has learned what useful properties all the herbs contain, so that she can cure sick bodies.  She also knows an art by which to change her shape, and to cleave the air on new wings like Daedalus; when she wishes she is at Brest, Chartres, or Pavia, and when she will she slips down from the air onto your shores.  And men say that she has taught mathematics to her sisters, Moronoe, Mazoe, Gliten, Glitonea, Gliton, Tyronoe, Thitis; Thitis best known for her cither.  Thither after the battle of Camlann we took the wounded Arthur, guided by Barinthus, to whom the waters and the stars of heaven were well known.  With him steering the ship, we arrived there with the prince, and Morgen received us with fitting honor, and in her chamber she placed the king on a golden bed and with her own hand she uncovered his honorable wound and gazed at it for a long time.  At length she said that health could be restored to him if he stayed with her for a long time and made use of her healing art.  Rejoicing, therefore, we entrusted the king to her and returning spread our sails to the favoring winds.

 

From Le Morte D’Arthur (Book 21, Chapter 7)

By Sir Thomas Malory (15^th Century CE)

Yet some men say in many parts of England that King Arthur is not dead, but had by the will of our Lord Jesu into another place; and men say that he shall come again, and he shall win the holy cross.  I will not say it shall be so, but rather I will say: here in this world he changed his life.  But many men say that there is written upon his tomb this verse:  <Hic jacet Arthurus, Rex quondam, Rexque futurus” [“Here lies Arthur, the once and future King”].

 

From “Morte D’Arthur”

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Editor’s Note: The complete text of this poem, which features the faithful knight Sir Bedivere, the fate of the sword Excalibur, and King Arthur’s final departure, can be read at https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45370/morte-darthur.

         Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge

Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,

Beneath them; and descending they were ware

That all the decks were dense with stately forms

Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream—by these

Three Queens with crowns of gold—and from them rose

A cry that shivered to the tingling stars,

And, as it were one voice, an agony

Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills

All night in a waste land, where no one comes,

Or hath come, since the making of the world.

         Then murmured Arthur, "Place me in the barge,"

And to the barge they came. There those three Queens

Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.

But she that rose the tallest of them all

And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,

And loosed the shattered casque, and chafed his hands,

And called him by his name, complaining loud

And dropping bitter tears against his brow

Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white

And colorless, and like the withered moon

Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;

And all his greaves and cuisses dashed with drops

Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls—

That made his forehead like a rising sun

High from the daïs-throne—were parched with dust;

Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,

Mixed with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.

So like a shattered column lay the King;

Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,

From spur to plume a star of tournament,

Shot through' the lists at Camelot, and charged

Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

         Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:

"Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?

Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?

For now I see the true old times are dead,

When every morning brought a noble chance,

And every chance brought out a noble knight.

Such times have been not since the light that led

The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.

But now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved

Which was an image of the mighty world;

And I, the last, go forth companionless,

And the days darken round me, and the years,

Among new men, strange faces, other minds."

         And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:

"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,

And God fulfils Himself in many ways,

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

I have lived my life, and that which I have done

May He within Himself make pure! but thou,

If thou shouldst never see my face again,

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer

Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice

Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

For what are men better than sheep or goats

That nourish a blind life within the brain,

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer

Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

For so the whole round earth is every way

Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

But now farewell. I am going a long way

With these thou seëst—if indeed I go—

(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)

To the island-valley of Avalon;

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,

Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies

Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard-lawns

And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea,

Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

         So said he, and the barge with oar and sail

Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan

That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,

Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood

With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere

Revolving many memories, till the hull

Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn,

And on the mere the wailing died away.

 

“Lead, Kindly Light”

By John Henry Newman (1801-1890)

 

Lead, Kindly Light, amidst the encircling gloom,

Lead Thou me on!

The night is dark, and I am far from home,

Lead Thou me on!

Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see

The distant scene; one step enough for me.

 

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou

Shouldst lead me on;

I loved to choose and see my path; but now

Lead Thou me on!

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,

Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years!

 

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still

Will lead me on.

Over moor and fen, over crag and torrent, till

The night is gone,

And with the morn those angel faces smile,

Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!

 

Edward Burne-Jones (1833-1898): Last Sleep of Arthur in Avalon

 

Until next time –

Rob 😊

 

#WingedWordsWindsday: 2022/12/28 -- Angelic Poems for the Yuletide Season

 

WINGED WORDS WINDSDAY

Compiled by Rob Chappell (@RHCLambengolmo)

Vol. 2, No. 9: December 28, 2022

 

 

A Garland of Angelic Poems for the Yuletide Season

 

Editor’s Note

                As the Yuletide season continues, pictures and stories about angels are everywhere. Various types of angels, some named, and others unnamed, are present in all the major spiritual traditions of the world, and their depictions can provide comfort, hope, and inspiration during challenging times. Here is a quartet of my favorite poems about angels, all of which draw on classical traditions about these amazing denizens of the unseen realms.

 

“Abou Ben Adhem”

By Leigh Hunt (1784-1859)

                Editor’s Note: Abou Ben Adhem (a/k/a Ibrahim ibn Adham, ca. 718-782 CE) was an early Muslim saint. You can learn more about his life and legacy @ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ibrahim_ibn_Adham.

 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw, within the moonlight in his room,

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

An angel writing in a book of gold: —

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

And to the presence in the room he said,

“What writest thou?” — The vision raised its head,

And with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”

“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerily still; and said, “I pray thee, then,

Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”

 

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blest,

And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

 

“Uriel”

By Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

                Editor’s Note: Uriel is regarded as the archangel of poetry and prophecy in Jewish and Christian traditions, and he is especially prominent in the angelology of the Eastern Orthodox churches. Read about the archangel Uriel @ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uriel.

 

It fell in the ancient periods

   Which the brooding soul surveys,

Or ever the wild Time coined itself

   Into calendar months and days.

 

This was the lapse of Uriel,

Which in Paradise befell.

Once, among the Pleiads walking,

Seyd overheard the young gods talking;

And the treason, too long pent,

To his ears was evident.

The young deities discussed

Laws of form, and meter just,

Orb, quintessence, and sunbeams,

What subsisteth, and what seems.

One, with low tones that decide,

And doubt and reverend use defied,

With a look that solved the sphere,

And stirred the devils everywhere,

Gave his sentiment divine

Against the being of a line.

"Line in nature is not found;

Unit and universe are round;

In vain produced, all rays return;

Evil will bless, and ice will burn."

As Uriel spoke with piercing eye,

A shudder ran around the sky;

The stern old war-gods shook their heads,

The seraphs frowned from myrtle-beds;

Seemed to the holy festival

The rash word boded ill to all;

The balance-beam of Fate was bent;

The bounds of good and ill were rent;

Strong Hades could not keep his own,

But all slid to confusion.

 

A sad self-knowledge, withering, fell

On the beauty of Uriel;

In heaven once eminent, the god

Withdrew, that hour, into his cloud;

Whether doomed to long gyration

In the sea of generation,

Or by knowledge grown too bright

To hit the nerve of feebler sight.

Straightway, a forgetting wind

Stole over the celestial kind,

And their lips the secret kept,

If in ashes the fire-seed slept.

But now and then, truth-speaking things

Shamed the angels' veiling wings;

And, shrilling from the solar course,

Or from fruit of chemic force,

Procession of a soul in matter,

Or the speeding change of water,

Or out of the good of evil born,

Came Uriel's voice of cherub scorn,

And a blush tinged the upper sky,

And the gods shook, they knew not why.

 

Seven Princes of Heaven (i.e., the seven archangels of traditional angelic lore) by Pedro Fernández de Murcia, circa 1514. (Image Credit: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

 

“The Angels of Man”

By Bliss Carman (1861-1929)

                Editor’s Note: This poem is about three well-known archangels (Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael), all of whom are attested in the scriptures of the Abrahamic religions. Traditionally, the total number of archangels is believed to be seven (see, for example, the article @ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seven_Archangels).

 

The word of the Lord of the outer worlds

Went forth on the deeps of space,

That Michael, Gabriel, Rafael,

Should stand before his face,

The seraphs of his threefold will,

Each in his ordered place.

 

Brave Michael, the right hand of God,

Strong Gabriel, his voice,

Fair Rafael, his holy breath

That makes the world rejoice, —

Archangels of omnipotence,

Of knowledge, and of choice;

 

Michael, angel of loveliness

In all things that survive,

And Gabriel, whose part it is

To ponder and contrive,

And Rafael, who puts the heart

In everything alive.

 

Came Rafael, the enraptured soul,

Stainless as wind or fire,

The urge within the flux of things,

The life that must aspire,

With whom is the beginning,

The worth, and the desire;

 

And Gabriel, the all-seeing mind,

Bringer of truth and light,

Who lays the courses of the stars

In their stupendous flight,

And calls the migrant flocks of spring

Across the purple night;

 

And Michael, the artificer

Of beauty, shape, and hue,

Lord of the forges of the sun,

The crucible of the dew,

And driver of the plowing rain

When the flowers are born anew.

 

Then said the Lord: "Ye shall account

For the ministry ye hold,

Since ye have been my sons to keep

My purpose from of old.

How fare the realms within your sway

To perfections still untold?"

 

Answered each as he had the word.

And a great silence fell

On all the listening hosts of heaven

To hear their captains tell,—

With the breath of the wind, the call of a bird,

And the cry of a mighty bell.

 

Then the Lord said: "The time is ripe

For finishing my plan,

And the accomplishment of that

For which all time began.

Therefore on you is laid the task

Of the fashioning of man;

 

"In your own likeness shall he be,

To triumph in the end.

I only give him Michael's strength

To guard him and defend,

With Gabriel to be his guide,

And Rafael his friend.

 

"Ye shall go forth upon the earth,

And make there Paradise,

And be the angels of that place

To make men glad and wise,

With loving-kindness in their hearts,

And knowledge in their eyes.

 

"And ye shall be man's counsellors

That neither rest nor sleep,

To cheer the lonely, lift the frail,

And solace them that weep.

And ever on his wandering trail

Your watch-fires ye shall keep;

 

"Till in the far years he shall find

The country of his quest,

The empire of the open truth,

The vision of the best,

Foreseen by every mother saint

With her new-born on her breast."

 

“Azraël”

By Robert Gilbert Welsh (1869-1924)

                Editor’s Note: Azraël is the proper name given to the Angel of Death in Jewish, Islamic, and Sikh traditions. This angel also appears (in disguise) as a main character in George MacDonald’s classic children’s novel, At the Back of the North Wind (1871). You can learn more about Azraël @ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Azrael.

 

The angels in high places

Who minister to us,

Reflect God's smile, -- their faces

Are luminous;

Save one, whose face is hidden,

(The Prophet saith),

The unwelcome, the unbidden,

Azraël, Angel of Death.

 

And yet that veiled face, I know

Is lit with pitying eyes,

Like those faint stars, the first to glow

Through cloudy winter skies.

 

That they may never tire,

Angels, by God’s decree,

Bear wings of snow and fire, --

Passion and purity;

Save one, all unavailing,

(The Prophet saith),

His wings are gray and trailing,

Azraël, Angel of Death.

 

And yet the souls that Azraël brings

Across the dark and cold,

Look up beneath those folded wings,

And find them lined with gold.

 

Some Concluding Thoughts:

                Although angels are depicted in various and sundry ways throughout the world’s spiritual traditions, it is noteworthy that many angels are depicted in very similar ways across cultures and religions. Studying comparative angelology can help us to understand how our worldwide spiritual traditions are interrelated in fascinating and surprising ways and equip us to build bridges of mutual respect and appreciation with our neighbors both far and near.