The Young Poet Fallen from Grace

The Tudor Poet John Skelton was one of Henry’s tutors, a Tudor Tutor if you will.  Henry composed melodies and his extant poems were written for singing.  Henry himself played the lute, organ, and harpsichord, and one of his anthems, “O Lord, the Maker of All Things,” was sung in English Cathedrals.

History has left us with the image of Henry late in life as an obese man with severe health problems and a brutal disposition; but he was once a young man filled with vitality and grace, perhaps even with a winsomeness that was attractive, but lo, how the years and exigencies of time and circumstance changed him.

The question arises: How does our increasing age and the exigencies of our own times and circumstances change us?  Will we go on as heliotropes always facing the Sun and always being transformed from light to radiant light; or will we become beasts long after we have been seen as winsome children of God?

 

Originally written in Latin, the following translation was in the time of Elizabeth I

O Lord the Maker of All Thing

O Lord, the maker of all thing,

We praie Thee nowe in this evening

Us to defende through Thy mercie

From all deceite of our enemie.

Let neither us deluded be,

Good Lord, with dream or fantasie;

Our harts waking in Thee Thou keepe

That we in sinne fall not on sleepe.

O father, through Thy blessed sonne,

Grant us this our petition,

To whom, with the Holy Ghost alwaies,

In heaven and earthe be laud and praise.

"Green Groweth the Holly"  by King Henry VIII

Green groweth the holly,

so doth the ivy.

Though winter blasts

blow never so high,

Green groweth the holly.

As the holly groweth green

    And never changeth hue,

So I am, and ever hath been,

    Unto my lady true.

Green groweth the holly,

so doth the ivy.

Though winter blasts

blow never so high,

Green groweth the holly.

As the holly groweth green,

    With ivy all alone,

When flowerys cannot be seen

    And green-wood leaves be gone,

Green groweth the holly,

so doth the ivy.

Though winter blasts

blow never so high,

Green groweth the holly.

Now unto my lady

    Promise to her I make:

From all other only

    To her I me betake.

Green groweth the holly,

so doth the ivy.

Though winter blasts

blow never so high,

Green groweth the holly.

Adieu, mine own lady,

    Adieu, my specïal,

Who hath my heart truly,

    Be sure, and ever shall.

Green groweth the holly,

so doth the ivy.

Though winter blasts

blow never so high,

Green groweth the holly.