Today is the feast day of St. Edmund Campion and Companions, the companions in question being the lesser known St. Alexander Briant and St. Ralph Sherwin. They were martyred on this day in 1581, 430 years ago.

St. Edmund Campion is a sadly neglected saint who was not even mentioned at today’s Mass even though the celebrant, like Campion, was a Jesuit. Recent intriguing evidence suggests that Campion may have known the teenage Shakespeare.

Ironically, considering Campion’s neglect in England and the United States, I received this moving e-mail from an Elizabethan scholar in the Czech Republic:

Saint Edmund Campion (+ 1. 12. 1581)

Scholar, poet, martyr…”a mystery whose solution lies in the busy and unevenful years at Brunn and Prague….” [Evelyn Waugh]

St Edmund Campion was canonized on 25th October 1970 (St Crispin´s Day)

This day is called the feast of CAMPION…

 
      He that shall live this day, and see old age,
      Will yearly ON THE VIGIL feast his neighbours,
      And say ‘To-morrow is Saint EDMUND CAMPION:’
      Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
      And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
      Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
      But he’ll remember with advantages
      What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
      Familiar in his mouth as household words
      CAMPION, BRIANT and KIRBY, SHERWINE and COTTOM,
      MARGARET CLITHEROE and ANN LINE, MAYNE and PAINE,
      WALPOLE and HOWARD, SOUTHWELL and GARNET
      Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d…   (Henry V, accordingly)

 
      ST EDMUND AND ALL ENGLISH MARTYRS PRAY FOR US
      THE DAY IS YOURS

(Prayer for all English benefactors today at 12, 15 in the Church of Asumption in Brno /Campions icon of Our Lady still on the altar.)

      PETR OSOLSOBE
      BRNO, MORAVIA

Edmund Campion

He came by vow, the cause to conquer sin.
His armour prayer. The word his targe & shield.
His confort heaven, his spoil our souls to win.
The devil his foe, the wicked word his field.
Hys triumphe joy, his wage eternall blysse,
His captayne Chryste, whiche ever blessed ys.
His natives flowers were mixed with hearb of grace.
His mild behaviour tempered well with skill.
A lowly mind possesed a lerned place.
A sugered speech, a rare and virtuous will.
A saint like man was set in earth below
The seed of truth in hearing hearts to sow.
His fare was hard, yet mild and sweet his cheer.
His prison close, yet free and loose his mind.
His torture great, yet scant or none his fear.
His offers large, yet no thing could him blind.
O constant man, O mind, O virtue strange,
Whom want, nor woe, nor fear, nor hope could change.

—Henry Walpole