THE CALENDAR
| I | St. Andrew | [9] |
| II | St. Philip and St. James | [12] |
| III | St. Peter and St. Paul | [14] |
| IV | St. Mary Magdalene | [17] |
| V | St. Matthew | [20] |
| VI | Ascension Day | [21] |
| VII | Pentecost | [23] |
| VIII | Corpus Christi | [25] |
| IX | The Conception B.V.M. | [26] |
| X | Lady Day in Harvest | [27] |
ST. ANDREW
The Men of Sussex crying after him
Andrew, what of the North?
In November shadows drear
We have heard thee marching forth
With songs of a glad new year.
Thou goest to mountains high,
To Picts in a Northern fen—
But, Andrew, tarry and hear the cry
Of the little Southern Men.
Down by the seas of Gaul,
Where the Roman eagles stand,
Anderida they call
Our shaggy forest land.
We have no saving health,
To us no Word comes forth,
On us the gods bestow no wealth—
Yet Andrew goes to the North.
Oh, stay and give us grace,
For our hearts are grey with dule,
As each man lifts his face
In the dreadful days of Yule,
When the burning Wheel stands still
In the black and dropping skies,
And the Long Man screams upon the hill
With the human sacrifice.
Andrew, what of the North?
Our Druids tell sad tales,
Our arms have lost their worth
In the scrubby hills of Wales;
But thy mighty banners go
Forward and pass us by,
As the Northern streamers fly and flow
On the red wings of the sky.
We hear strange tales of thee—
We hear thou preachest still
A Man more fair than Bald, a Tree
More tall than Ygdrasyl,
A Bread more strong than meat,
Water more fierce than wine—
Than the mead which drunken gods find sweet
In the halls where Heroes dine....
To the little Southern Men
Saint Andrew answered he:
“I have heard from the Northern fen
Your moan from the Gaulish sea;
And though I pass you by,
And may not see your face,
Yet my Lord hath heard your cry,
And He sends you hope of grace.
“Three saints shall teach the land
That lies by the Southern sea;
Three saints on your shores shall stand—
A thrice-noble company.
The Word that heals and saves,
Which to the Scots I send,
Wilfred shall teach by the waves
That beat on Manhood’s End.
“On Havant’s drawling tide,
Which round the island swells,
The solemn ships shall glide
To the chime of Richard’s bells:
On Mayfield’s hills the iron
Of Dunstan’s anvil rings
As he hammers gates for Zion
And fights Unholy Things.
“So faint not—all is well,
And the price of hope is paid
By the Lord Who hath harrowed hell,
And hath made the gods afraid.
Eternity keeps the hours
Till the Sussex Saints go forth—
Wilfred and Richard and Dunstan are yours,
But Andrew goes to the North.”
St. Philip & St. James to St. Simon & St. Jude
Said the May Day Saints to the Grey Day Saints,
Singing across the year:
How is it with you in October?
With us the meadows are green,
And the grass is warm with the sun,
And strown with the golden pence
Of the coltsfoot, our offertory.
The tapers are lit for our feast—
Tall tapers are lit for our feast
In the drooping horse-chestnut boughs;
And the thrushes serve our Mass
There in the white thorn hedge,
Where the bloom is breaking against
A smudgy, sweet, grey sky
That shall give us holy water....
Oh, tell us, October Saints,
How you fare at the end of the year.
Are you cold in the draught of the year?—
On the edge of the fog of All Saints
And the gloom of the Holy Souls?
Said the Grey Day Saints to the May Day Saints,
Singing across the year:
How is it with you in the Spring?
The leaves in the wood are red,
And the frightened trees are a-shake
Down by the moaning brook.
The birds sweep the sky with desperate wings of escape.
There is none to serve our Mass,
And the high wind is our Priest.
No censer swings for us
From the lime-tree’s blossomed boughs;
Yet have we joy of our feast,
For we know that the Child is near—
The Child Who is born in December,
In the frozen December stillness.
Round Him the year shall wake,
And climb up the Spring into May,
To the feast of Philip and James.
The tapers of Christ’s own Mass
Shall rekindle the fading sun,
And Mary shall lift her Babe
To the horn of the wintry moon,
And ride Him into a Happy New Year.
ST. PETER & ST. PAUL
The Gate of Lewes
St. Peter sits on Caburn Hill,
St. Paul sits high on Beacon Down,
And there, each side of Wakeland’s Mill,
They guard the way to Lewes Town:
They hold the Sword and Keys in state—
Our bands are loosed, our sins forgiven—
They sit there guarding Lewes Gate
As they would guard the Gate of Heaven.
For Lewes Town like Heaven is,
And Heaven is like Lewes Town.
The golden streets go up the hill,
In sunshine dreaming, warm and still;
Ouse river through the vale below
Like Sion’s Stream of Life doth flow,
And many fruits our fruit-trees bear—
Plum, cherry, apple, quince, and pear—
And in our streets the live-long day
The girls and boys are at their play.
When evening falls the church bells ring,
And faithful voices pray and sing;
When morning comes the faithful feet
Tread to the altar-paces sweet.
The Lamb is with us day and night,
So, like high Heaven’s, our streets are bright.
The Lamb is with us night and day,
So two Apostles guard the way
’Twixt Caburn Hill and Beacon Down,
The way that leads to Lewes Town.
For Lewes Town like Heaven is,
And Heaven is like Lewes Town.
Oh, great St. Peter, hear our cry
From your high sunset seat on Firle,
Promise by Him you did deny
That our dear city’s gates of pearl
Shall not be forced by any foe;
Nor any soul that mongers sin,
Or in defilement loves to go,
Or makes a lie, shall enter in.
Oh, great St. Paul on Mount Caburn,
Promise by Him you sought to slay
That your fierce, fiery sword shall turn
Both east and west and every way
To guard the sunrise road that swings
Past Glynde and Wick and Stonery,
Because it is the road of kings,
Who bring their glory from the sea.
They bring their glory to our feast,
As to the New Jerusalem;
They are the Wise Kings of the East,
Who journeyed once to Bethlehem;
And through our streets they’ll ride in state,
From Brooks to Priory, up and down,
And praise the Saints who guard our Gate—
The holy Gate of Lewes Town.