Albion

Hello Albion.

Thanksgiving of Albion

O Lord of dawn and harvest crown,
Whose hand stirs wind on moor and sea,
Albion lifts her ancient town
To sing in solemn unity.
From chalk-white cliffs to northern fells,
Where shepherds watch and river swells,
We raise our prayer, our hearts made still—
For all Thy mercies, God of skill.

We thank Thee for the golden sheaves,
For fields that glow in autumn’s grace,
For orchards hung with scarlet leaves
And every season’s gentle pace.
The hearths burn warm, the tables bend,
With bread and fruit Thy seasons send;
And humble souls in chapel light
Give thanks for peace throughout the night.

For Thou hast shaped this storied land—
The shining downs, the sombre moor,
The steadfast cliffs of chalk and sand,
The villages with doors made sure.
Thy rain has fed the waiting grain,
Thy sun has turned it gold again;
We reap the gifts Thy goodness gave—
From first green shoot to threshing-sheaf.

So praise we sing on harvest morn,
With church-bells rolling over hill,
And voices in the cool air borne,
In grateful worship shining still.
For Thou art Alpha, Thou the end,
Our sovereign Lord, our guardian friend;
We feast, we sing, we kneel, we pray—
A thankful nation on Thanksgiving Day.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of Albion.

In Memoriam CVI
~ Alfred Lord Tennyson ~

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light:

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind

For those that here we see no more;

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Lord that is to be.

Merry Christmas, Albion!!!

Albion Sleeps

Beneath the hawthorn’s hush, where moonbeams keep,
Fey Albion lies cradled in the snow;
Her silver rivers slow, then cease to leap,
And frost-laced thistles bow in lantern-glow.

The oaks stand cloaked in old enchantment’s grey,
Their acorns locked like runes in earthen jars;
The fox trots soft where footprints fade to day,
While ice rethreads the seams of broken stars.

In barrows deep the candle-moths are still,
And ring-stones dream of feet that danced them warm;
The heather holds its breath upon the hill,
As if to hush the mouth of coming storm.

Yet under rime, a green oath, patient, lies—
Spring’s secret harpstring, humming as she sighs.

The King Who Walked Out of Albion

Albion was not broken at the start.
The fields lay level, and the rivers knew
Their courses without quarrel. In the west
The sun went down as if it meant to rise.
And in the midst there stood a king—
Not crowned with gold so much as with a trust.

He ruled, as rulers do when they forget
They rule at all. The law was like the air:
Not praised, not noticed, simply breathed.
Men thanked the harvest, not the throne,
And children slept without invoking guards.

But there came a day (such days are small)
When someone spoke the word my right
A little louder than the good.
The king heard this and found it pleasant.
It sounded strong. It sounded free.

Soon Albion felt the change before it saw.
The clocks ran true, but something in the time
No longer fit the work. The birds still sang,
Yet not to anyone in particular.
The king had stepped an inch aside from truth—
And found, to his surprise, a road.

He did not fall. He walked.
Out past the laws that once obeyed his voice,
Past counsel, prayer, and names like duty.
He told himself the land would keep itself.
(It never does. It always needs a heart.)

Albion endured, as good things often do.
It cracked like frost-split stone, but did not cry.
The people learned the weight of choices made
Without a shepherd. They grew clever, sharp,
And tired. Mercy became a tale for children.

The king went far. The road grew thin.
His crown grew heavy when no one bowed.
He learned the cost of warmth, of bread, of rest—
Things once supplied by love he did not earn.
And here the story might have ended so:

A man alone, too proud to kneel,
Too small to be forgiven.

But Albion was not finished yet.
Nor was the king.

One night, when hunger made him honest,
He remembered—not his throne, but a voice
That once had asked him simply, Will you serve?
Not will you win, or will you rule,
But will you stay?

He wept, which surprised him. Kings are taught
That tears undo authority.
Yet nothing else would do.

He turned. Repentance is not grand;
It is a step made backward into light.
No angels sang. The road did not improve.
But every mile weighed less than the last.

When he came home, Albion did not cheer.
It scarcely recognized his face.
The fields were thin. The walls were scarred.
And yet the land leaned toward him—as if
It knew his feet.

He did not claim the throne. He cleaned it.
He listened first. He named the wounds.
He ruled again the way he had before:
As one beneath a law he did not make,
A mercy he could never fully spend.

And Albion, being old and wise,
Did not forget the cost.
But it forgave.

For this is always how the story goes:
The king is lost before the land is found,
And mercy is the deepest form of rule.

There once were leprechauns in Albion fair,
Who braided up gold in the damp, misty air.
They’d dance in the rain,
Then hide it again,
And charge you a fee just to stare!

The Tree Of Life

In Albion’s green breast where soft winds awaken,
The frozen earth yields to the sun’s gentle claim;
Through silvered mist, the dawn of spring is taken,
And life rekindles in a whispered flame.

Along the hills where ancient stones lie dreaming,
The tender buds unfold in quiet grace;
Each brook reflects the sky’s pale, golden gleaming,
And time itself seems slowed in this fair place.

There stands a tree, set high in sacred glade,
Its branches crowned with light no mortal sows;
Its roots in depths where oldest prayers were laid,
Its leaves aglow with truths the spirit knows.

No common oak, nor ash of mortal seed,
But born where heaven’s breath and earth unite;
Its bark inscribed with every silent creed,
Its fruit a lantern burning with the Light.

And those who walk in reverent stillness near
May feel their burdens loosen, fall away;
For in its shade, the soul is rendered clear,
And night gives way to everlasting day.

The Fairies
~William Allingham~

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watchdogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and grey
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure, here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!