Saint Erkenwald

At London in Englonde noȝt fulle longe sythen—

Sythen Crist suffride on crosse and Cristendome stablyde—

Ther was a byschop in þat burghe, blessyd and sacryd:

Saynt Erkenwolde as I hope þat holy mon hatte.

In his tyme in þat toun þe temple alder-grattyst

Was drawen doun, þat one dole, to dedifie new,

For hit hethen had bene in Hengyst dawes

Þat þe Saxones vnsaȝt haden sende hyder.

Þai bete oute þe Bretons and broȝt hom into Wales

And peruertyd alle þe pepul þat in þat place dwellide.

Þen wos this reame renaide mony ronke ȝeres

Til Saynt Austyn into Sandewiche was sende fro þe pope;

Þen prechyd he here þe pure faythe and plantyd þe trouthe

And conuertyd alle þe communnates to Cristendame newe.

He turnyd temples þat tyme þat temyd to þe deuelle

And clansyd hom in Cristes nome and kyrkes hom callid;

He hurlyd owt hor ydols and hade hym in sayntes

And chaungit cheuely hor nomes and chargit hom better:

Þat ere was of Appolyn is now of Saynt Petre,

Mahoun to Saynt Margrete oþir to Maudelayne;

Þe synagoge of þe Sonne was ett to oure Lady,

Jubiter and Jono to Jhesus oþir to James.

So he hom dedifiet and dyght alle to dere halowes

Þat ere wos sett of Sathanas in Saxones tyme.

Now þat London is neuenyd—hatte þe New Troie—

Þe metropol and þe mayster-toun hit euermore has bene.

Þe mecul mynster þerinne a maghty deuel aght

And þe title of þe temple bitan was his name,

For he was dryghtyn, derrest of ydols praysid,

And þe solempnest of his sacrifices in Saxon londes.

Þe thrid temple hit wos tolde of Triapolitanes,

By alle Bretaynes bonkes were bot othire twayne.

Now of þis Augustynes art is Erkenwolde bischop

At loue London toun and the laghe teches,

Syttes semely in þe sege of Saynt Paule mynster

Þat was þe temple Triapolitan as I tolde are.

Þen was hit abatyd and beten doun and buggyd efte new—

A noble note for þe nones and New Werke hit hatte.

Mony a mery mason was made þer to wyrke,

Harde stones for to hewe wyt eggit toles,

Mony grubber in grete þe grounde for to seche

Þat þe fundement on fyrst shuld þe fote halde.

And as þai makkyde and mynyde a meruayle þai founden

As ȝet in crafty cronecles is kydde þe memorie, A

For as þai dyȝt and dalfe so depe into þe erthe

Þai founden fourmyt on a flore a ferly faire toumbe.

Hit was a throghe of thykke ston thryuandly hewen,

Wyt gargeles garnysht aboute alle of gray marbre.

The sperle of þe spelunke þat sparde hit o-lofte

Was metely made of þe marbre and menskefully planede,

And þe bordure enbelicit wyt bryȝt golde lettres,

Bot roynyshe were þe resones þat þer on row stoden.

Fulle verray were þe vigures þer auisyde hom mony,

Bot alle muset hit to mouthe and quat hit mene shulde:

Mony clerkes in þat clos wyt crownes ful brode

Þer besiet hom a-boute noȝt to brynge hom in wordes.

Quen tithynges token to þe toun of þe toumbe wonder

Mony hundrid hende men highide þider sone.

Burgeys boghit þerto, bedels ande othire,

And mony a mesters mon of maners diuerse.

Laddes laften hor werke and lepen þiderwardes,

Ronnen radly in route wyt ryngande noyce.

Þer commen þider of alle kynnes so kenely mony

Þat as alle þe worlde were þider walon wytin a honde-quile.

Quen þe maire wyt his meynye þat meruaile aspied

By assent of þe sextene þe sayntuaré þai kepten,

Bede vnlouke þe lidde and lay hit byside;

Þai wolde loke on þat lome quat lengyd wytinne.

Wyȝt werke-men wyt þat wenten þer-tille,

Putten prises þerto, pinchid one vnder,

Kaghten by þe corners wyt crowes of yrne,

And were þe lydde neuer so large þai laide hit by sone.

Bot þen wos wonder to wale on wehes þat stoden,

That myȝt not come to knowe a quontyse strange.

So was þe glode wyt-in gay, al wyt golde payntyde

And a blisfulle body opon þe bothum lyggid

Araide on a riche wise in rialle wedes.

Al wyt glisnande golde his gowne wos hemmyd,

Wyt mony a precious perle picchit þer-on,

And a gurdille of golde bigripide his mydelle,

A meche mantel on-lofte wyt menyuer furrit

(Þe clothe of camelyn ful clene wyt cumly bordures),

And on his coyfe wos kest a coron ful riche

And a semely septure sett in his honde.

Als wemles were his wedes wyt-outen any tecche

Oþir of moulynge oþir of motes oþir moght-freten,

And als bryȝt of hor blee in blysnande hewes

As þai hade ȝepely in þat ȝorde bene ȝisturday shapen.

And als freshe hym þe face and the fleshe nakyde

Bi his eres and bi his hondes þat openly shewid

Wyt ronke rode, as þe rose, and two rede lippes

As he in sounde sodanly were slippide opon slepe.

Þer was spedeles space to spyr vch on oþir

Quat body hit myȝt be þat buried wos ther.

How longe had he þer layne his lere so vnchaungit

And al his wede vnwemmyd þus ylka weghe askyd:

“Hit myȝt not be bot suche a mon in mynde stode longe;

He has ben kynge of þis kithe as couthely hit semes.

He lyes doluen þus depe hit is a derfe wonder

Bot summe segge couthe say þat he hym sene hade.”

Bot þat ilke note wos noght for nourne none couthe,

Noþir by title ne token ne by tale noþir

Þat euer wos breuyt in burghe ne in boke notyde,

Þat ever mynnyd suche a mon, more ne lasse.

Þe bodeworde to þe byschop was broght on a quile

Of þat buriede body, al þe bolde wonder.

Þe primate wyt his prelacie was partyd fro home;

In Esex was Ser Erkenwolde an abbay to visite.

Tulkes tolden hym þe tale wyt troubulle in þe pepul

And suche a cry aboute a cors, crakit euer-more.

The bischop sende hit to blynne by bedels and lettres

Ande buskyd þiderwarde by-tyme on his blonke after.

By þat he come to þe kyrke kydde of Saynt Paule;

Mony hym metten on þat meere þe meruayle to telle:

He passyd in-to his palais and pes he comaundit,

And deuoydit fro þe dede and ditte þe durre after.

Þe derke nyȝt ouerdrofe and day-belle ronge

And Ser Erkenwolde was vp in þe vghten ere þen,

Þat welneghe al þe nyȝt hade naityd his houres

To biseche his souerayn of his swete grace

To vouche safe to reuele hym hit by a visioun or elles.

"Þaghe I be vnworthi,” al wepande he sayde

Thurghe his deere debonerté, "digne hit my Lorde

In confirmynge þi Cristen faithe, fulsen me to kenne

Þe mysterie of þis meruaile þat men opon wondres.”

And so longe he grette after grace þat he graunte hade

An ansuare of þe Holy Goste and afterwarde hit dawid.

Mynster dores were makyd opon quen matens were songen;

Þe byschop hym shope solemply to synge þe heghe masse;

Þe prelate in pontificals was prestly atyride.

Manerly wyt his ministres þe masse he begynnes,

Of Spiritus Domini for His spede on sutile wise,

Wyt queme questis of þe quere wyt ful quaynt notes.

Mony a gay grete lorde was gedrid to herken hit

(As þe rekenest of þe reame repairen þider ofte),

Tille cessyd was þe seruice and sayde þe later ende.

Þen heldyt fro þe autere alle þe heghe gynge—

Þe prelate passide on þe playn, þer plied to hym lordes;

As riche reuestid as he was he rayked to þe toumbe,

Men vnclosid hym þe cloyster wyt clustrede keies,

Bot pyne wos wyt þe grete prece þat passyd hym after.

The byschop come to þe burynes him barones besyde,

Þe maire wyt mony maȝti men and macers before hym.

Þe dene of þe dere place deuysit al on fyrst

Þe fyndynge of þat ferly, wyt fynger he mynte.

“Lo, lordes,” quoþ þat lede, “suche a lyche here is

Has layn loken here on loghe how longe is vnknawen,

And ȝet his colour and his clothe has caȝt no defaute,

Ne his lire ne þe lome þat he is layde inne,

Þer is no lede opon lyfe of so longe age

Þat may mene in his mynde þat suche a mon regnyd

Ne noþir his nome ne his note nourne of one speche.

Queþer mony porer in þis place is putte into grave

Þat merkid is in oure martilage his mynde for euer,

And we haue oure librarie laitid þes longe seuen dayes

Bot one cronicle of þis kynge con we neuer fynde.

He has non layne here so longe, to loke hit by kynde,

To malte so out of memorie bot meruayle hit were.”

"Þu says soþe,” quoþ þe segge þat sacrid was byschop,

"Hit is meruaile to men þat mountes to litelle

Towarde þe prouidens of þe prince þat paradis weldes,

Quen Hym luste to vnlouke þe leste of His myȝtes.

Bot quen matyd is monnes myȝt and his mynde passyde,

And al his resons are to-rent and redeles he stondes,

Þen lettes hit Hym ful litelle to louse wyt a fynger

Þat alle þe hondes vnder heuen halde myȝt neuer.

Þere-as creatures crafte of counselle oute swarues,

Þe comforthe of þe creatore byhoues þe cure take.

And so do we now oure dede, deuyne we no fyrre;

To seche þe sothe at oure selfe ȝee se þer no bote,

Bot glow we alle opon Godde and His grace aske

Þat careles is of counselle and comforthe to sende,

And þat in fastynge of ȝour faithe and of fyne bileue.

I shal auay ȝow so verrayly of vertues His

Þat ȝe may leue vpon longe þat He is Lord myȝty,

And fayne ȝour talent to fulfille if ȝe Hym frende leues.”

Then he turnes to þe toumbe and talkes to þe corce,

Lyftande vp his eghe-lyddes he loused suche wordes:

"Now lykhame þat þer lies, layne þou no lenger;

Sythen Jhesus has iuggit to-day His ioy to be schewyde,

Be þou bone to His bode, I bydde in His behalue.

As He was bende on a beme quen He His blode schedde,

As þou hit wost wyterly and we hit wele leuen,

Ansuare here to my sawe, councele no trouthe.

Sithen we wot not qwo þou art witere vs þiselwen

In worlde quat weghe þou was and quy þow þus ligges,

How longe þou has layne here and quat laghe þou vsyt

Queper art þou ioyned to ioy oþir iuggid to pyne.”

Quen þe segge hade þus sayde and syked þer-after,

Þe bryȝt body in þe burynes brayed a litelle

And wyt a drery dreme he dryues owte wordes,

Þurghe sum Goxte lant lyfe of hym þat al redes.

"Bisshop,” quop þis ilke body, "þi bode is me dere.

I may not bot boghe to þi bone for bothe myn eghen;

To þe name þat þou neuenyd has and nournet me after

Al heuen and helle heldes to and erthe bitwene.

Fyrst to say the þe sothe quo my selfe were—:

One þe vnhapnest hathel þat euer on erthe ȝode.

Neuer kynge ne cayser ne ȝet no knyȝt nothyre,

Bot a lede of þe laghe þat þen þis londe vsit.

I was committid and made a mayster-mon here

To sytte vpon sayd causes, þis cité I ȝemyd

Vnder a prince of parage of paynymes laghe,

And vche segge þat him sewide þe same faythe trowid.

Þe lengthe of my lyinge here, þat is a lewid date,

Hit is to meche to any mon to make of a nommbre:

After þat Brutus þis burghe had buggid on fyrste,

Noȝt bot fife hundred ȝere þer aghtene wontyd

Before þat kynned ȝour Criste by Cristen acounte

A þousande ȝere and þritty mo and yet threnen aght.

I was of heire and of oyer in þe New Troie

In þe regne of þe riche kynge þat rewlit vs þen,

The bolde Breton Ser Belyn, Ser Berynge was his brothire.

Mony one was þe busmare boden hom bitwene

For hor wrakeful werre quil hor wrathe lastyd.

Þen was I iuge here enioynyd in gentil lawe.”

Quil he in spelunke þus spake þer sprange in þe pepulle

In al þis worlde no worde, ne wakenyd no noice

Bot al as stille as þe ston stoden and listonde

Wyt meche wonder forwrast, and wepid ful mony.

The bisshop biddes þat body, "Biknowe þe cause,

Sithen þou was kidde for no kynge, quy þou þe croun weres,

Quy haldes þou so heghe in honde þe septre

And hades no londe of lege men ne life ne lym aghtes?”

"Dere Ser,” quoþ þe dede body, "deuyse þe I thenke.

Al was hit neuer my wille þat wroght þus hit were;

I wos deputate and domesmon vnder a duke noble

And in my power þis place was putte al to-geder.

I justifiet þis ioly toun on gentil wise

And euer in fourme of gode faithe more þen fourty wynter.

Þe folke was felonse and fals and frowarde to reule,

I hent harmes ful ofte to holde hom to riȝt.

Bot for wothe ne wele ne wrathe ne drede

Ne for maystrie ne for mede ne for no monnes aghe,

I remewit neuer fro þe riȝt by reson myn awen

For to dresse a wrange dome, no day of my lyue.

Declynet neuer my consciens for couetise on erthe,

In no gynful iugement no iapes to make

Were a renke neuer so riche for reuerens sake.

Ne for no monnes manas ne meschefe ne routhe

Non gete me fro þe heghe gate to glent out of ryȝt,

Als ferforthe as my faithe confourmyd my hert.

Þaghe had been my fader bone, I bede hym no wranges,

Ne fals fauour to my fader, þaghe felle hym be hongyt.

And for I was ryȝtwis and reken and redy of þe laghe

Quen I deghed for dul denyed alle Troye.

Alle menyd my dethe, þe more and the lasse

And þus to bounty my body þai buriet in golde,

Cladden me for þe curtest þat courte couthe þen holde,

In mantel for þe mekest and monlokest on benche,

Gurden me for þe gouernour and graythist of Troie,

Furrid me for þe fynest of faithe me wytinne.

For þe honour of myn honesté of heghest enprise

Þai coronyd me þe kidde kynge of kene iustises

Þer euer wos tronyd in Troye, oþir trowid ever shulde,

And for I rewardid euer riȝt þai raght me the septre.”

Þe bisshop baythes hym ȝet wyt bale at his hert,

Þaghe men menskid him so, how hit myȝt worthe

Þat his clothes were so clene: “In cloutes me thynkes

Hom burde haue rotid and bene rent in rattes longe sythen.

Þi body may be enbawmygd, hit bashis me noght

Þat hit thar ryue ne rote ne no ronke wormes,

Bot þi coloure ne þi clothe—I know in no wise

How hit myȝt lye, by monnes lore, and last so longe.”

"Nay bisshop,” quoþ þat body, "enbawmyd wos I neuer

Ne no monnes counselle my clothe has kepyd vnwemmyd

Bot þe riche kynge of reson þat riȝt euer alowes

And loues al þe lawes lely þat longen to trouthe.

And moste he menskes men for mynnynge of riȝtes

Þen for al þe meritorie medes þat men on molde vsen;

And if renkes for riȝt þus me arayed has

He has lant me to last þat loues ryȝt best.”

"ȝea bot sayes þou of þi saule,” þen sayd þe bisshop,

"Quere is ho stablid and stadde if þou so streȝt wroghtes?

He þat rewardes vche a renke as he has riȝt seruyd

Myȝt euel forgo the to gyfe of His grace summe brawnche,

For as He says in His sothe psalmyde writes:

Þe skilfulle and þe vnskathely skelton ay to me”.

Forþi say me of þi soule in sele quere ho wonnes

And of þe riche restorment þat raȝt hyr oure Lorde.”

Þen hummyd he þat þer lay and his hedde waggyd,

And gefe a gronynge ful grete and to Godde sayde,

"Maȝty maker of men, thi myghtes are grete—

How myȝt þi mercy to me amounte any tyme?

Nas I a paynym vnpreste þat neuer thi plite knewe,

Ne þe mesure of þi mercy ne þi mecul vertue,

Bot ay a freke faitheles þat faylid þi laghes

Þat euer þou Lord wos louyd in?—Allas þe harde stoundes!

I was non of þe nommbre þat þou wyt noy boghtes,

Wyt þe blode of thi body vpon þe blo rode;

Quen þou herghedes helle-hole and hentes hom þeroute,

Þi loffynge oute of limbo, þou laftes me þer.

And þer sittes my soule þat se may no fyrre,

Dwynande in þe derke dethe þat dyȝt vs oure fader,

Adam oure alder þat ete of þat appulle

Þat mony a plyȝtles pepul has poysned for euer.

ȝe were entouchid wyt his tethe and toke in þe glotte

Bot mendyd wyt a medecyn ȝe are made for to lyuye

Þat is, fulloght in fonte wyt faitheful bileue,

And þat han we myste alle merciles, myselfe and my soule.

Quat wan we wyt oure wele-dede þat wroghtyn ay riȝt,

Quen we are dampnyd dulfully into þe depe lake

And exilid fro þat soper so, þat solempne fest

Þer richely hit arne refetyd þat after right hungride?

My soule may sitte þer in sorow and sike ful colde,

Dymly in þat derke dethe þer dawes neuer morowen,

Hungrie in-wyt helle-hole, and herken after meeles

Longe er ho þat soper 5e oþir segge hyr to lathe.”

Þus dulfully þis dede body deuisyt hit sorowe

Þat alle wepyd for woo þe wordes þat herden,

And þe bysshop balefully bere doun his eghen

Þat hade no space to speke so spakly he ȝoskyd,

Til he toke hym a tome and to þe toumbe lokyd,

To þe liche þer hit lay, wyt lauande teres.

"Oure Lord lene,” quoþ þat lede, "þat þou lyfe hades,

By Goddes leue, as longe as I myȝt lacche water

And cast vpon þi faire cors and carpe þes wordes,

‘I folwe þe in þe Fader nome and His fre Childes,

And of þe gracious Holy Goste' and not one grue lenger;

Þen þof þou droppyd doun dede hit daungerde me lasse.”

Wyt þat worde þat he warpyd þe wete of eghen

And teres trillyd adoun and on þe toumbe lighten,

And one felle on his face and þe freke syked.

Þen sayd he wyt a sadde soun, "Our Sauyoure be louyd;

Now herid be þou heghe God, and þi hende moder,

And blissid be þat blisful houre þat ho The bere in,

And also be þou, bysshop, þe bote of my sorowe

And þe relefe of þe lodely lures þat my soule has leuyd in.

For þe wordes þat þou werpe and þe water þat þou sheddes—

Þe bryȝt bourne of þin eghen—my bapteme is worthyn;

Þe fyrst slent þat on me slode slekkyd al my tene.

Ryȝt now to soper my soule is sette at þe table,

For wyt þe wordes and þe water þat weshe vs of payne

Liȝtly lasshit þer a leme, loghe in þe abyme,

Þat spakly sprent my spyrit wyt vnsparid murthe

Into þe cenacle solemply þer soupen alle trew;

And þer a marcialle hyr mette wyt menske alder-grattest

And wyt reuerence a rowme he raȝt hyr for ever.

I heere þerof my heghe God and also þe bysshop,

Fro bale has broȝt vs to blis; blessid þou worthe.”

Wyt this cessyd his sowne, sayd he no more.

Bot sodenly his swete chere swyndid and faylide

And alle the blee of his body wos blakke as þe moldes,

As roten as þe rottok þat rises in powdere.

For as sone as þe soule was sesyd in bliss

Corrupt was þat oþir crafte þat couert þe bones,

For þe ay-lastande life þat lethe shalle never

Deuoydes vche a vayne-glorie þat vayles so litelle.

Þen wos louynge oure Lorde wyt loves vp-halden,

Meche mournynge and myrthe was mellyd to-geder;

Þai passyd forthe in processioun and alle þe pepulle folowid

And alle þe belles in þe burghe beryd at ones.

Quat body hit myȝt be þat buried wos ther.

How longe had he þer layne his lere so vnchaungit

And al his wede vnwemmyd þus ylka weghe askyd:

“Hit myȝt not be bot suche a mon in mynde stode longe;

He has ben kynge of þis kithe as couthely hit semes.

He lyes doluen þus depe hit is a derfe wonder

Bot summe segge couthe say þat he hym sene hade.”

Bot þat ilke note wos noght for nourne none couthe,

Nopir by title ne token ne by tale noþir

Þat euer wos breuyt in burghe ne in boke notyde,

Þat ever mynnyd suche a mon, more ne lasse.

Þe bodeworde to þe byschop was broght on a quile

Of þat buriede body, al þe bolde wonder.

Þe primate wyt his prelacie was partyd fro home;

In Esex was Ser Erkenwolde an abbay to visite.

Tulkes tolden hym þe tale wyt troubulle in þe pepul

And suche a cry aboute a cors, crakit euer-more.

The bischop sende hit to blynne by bedels and lettres

Ande buskyd þiderwarde by-tyme on his blonke after.

By þat he come to þe kyrke kydde of Saynt Paule;

Mony hym metten on þat meere þe meruayle to telle:

He passyd in-to his palais and pes he comaundit,

And deuoydit fro þe dede and ditte þe durre after.

Þe derke nyȝt ouerdrofe and day-belle ronge

And Ser Erkenwolde was vp in þe vghten ere þen,

Pat welneghe al þe nyȝt hade naityd his houres

To biseche his souerayn of his swete grace

To vouche safe to reuele hym hit by a visioun or elles.

"Paghe I be vnworthi,” al wepande he sayde

Thurghe his deere debonerts, "digne hit my Lorde

In confirmynge þi Cristen faithe, fulsen me to kenne

Þe mysterie of þis meruaile þat men opon wondres.”

And so longe he grette after grace þat he graunte hade

An ansuare of þe Holy Goste and afterwarde hit dawid.

Mynster dores were makyd opon quen matens were songen;

Þe byschop hym shope solemply to synge þe heghe masse;

Þe prelate in pontificals was prestly atyride.

Manerly wyt his ministres þe masse he begynnes,

Of Spiritus Domini for His spede on sutile wise,

Wyt queme questis of þe quere wyt ful quaynt notes.

Mony a gay grete lorde was gedrid to herken hit

(As þe rekenest of þe reame repairen þider ofte),

Tille cessyd was þe seruice and sayde þe later ende.

Pen heldyt fro þe autere alle þe heghe gynge—

Þe prelate passide on þe playn, þer plied to hym lordes;

As riche reuestid as he was he rayked to þe toumbe,

Men vnclosid hym þe cloyster wyt clustrede keies,

Bot pyne wos wyt þe grete prece þat passyd hym after.

The byschop come to þe burynes him barones besyde,

Þe maire wyt mony maȝti men and macers before hym.

Þe dene of þe dere place deuysit al on fyrst

Þe fyndynge of þat ferly, wyt fynger he mynte.

“Lo, lordes,” quoþ þat lede, “suche a lyche here is

Has layn loken here on loghe how longe is vnknawen,

And ȝet his colour and his clothe has caȝt no defaute,

Ne his lire ne þe lome þat he is layde inne,

Þer is no lede opon lyfe of so longe age

Þat may mene in his mynde þat suche a mon regnyd

Ne noþir his nome ne his note nourne of one speche.

Queper mony porer in þis place is putte into grave

Þat merkid is in oure martilage his mynde for euer,

And we haue oure librarie laitid þes longe seuen dayes

Bot one cronicle of þis kynge con we neuer fynde.

He has non layne here s0 longe, to loke hit by kynde,

To malte s0 out of memorie bot meruayle hit were.”

“Þu says soþe,” quoþ þe segge þat sacrid was byschop,

“Hit is meruaile to men þat mountes to litelle

Towarde þe prouidens of þe prince þat paradis weldes,

Quen Hym luste to vnlouke þe leste of His myȝtes.

Bot quen matyd is monnes myȝt and his mynde passyde,

And al his resons are to-rent and redeles he stondes,

Þen lettes hit Hym ful litelle to louse wyt a fynger

Þat alle þe hondes vnder heuen halde myȝt neuer.

Þere-as creatures crafte of counselle oute swarues,

Þe comforthe of þe creatore byhoues þe cure take.

And so do we now oure dede, deuyne we no fyrre;

To seche þe sothe at oure selfe ȝee se þer no bote,

Bot glow we alle opon Godde and His grace aske

Þat careles is of counselle and comforthe to sende,

And þat in fastynge of ȝour faithe and of fyne bileue.

I shal auay ȝow so verrayly of vertues His

Þat ȝe may leue vpon longe þat He is Lord myȝty,

And fayne ȝour talent to fulfille if ȝe Hym frende leues.”

Then he turnes to þe toumbe and talkes to þe corce,

Lyftande vp his eghe-lyddes he loused suche wordes:

“Now lykhame þat þer lies, layne þou no lenger;

Sythen Jhesus has iuggit to-day His ioy to be schewyde,

Be þou bone to His bode, I bydde in His behalue.

As He was bende on a beme quen He His blode schedde,

As þou hit wost wyterly and we hit wele leuen,

Ansuare here to my sawe, councele no trouthe.

Sithen we wot not qwo þou art witere vs þiselwen

In worlde quat weghe þou was and quy þow þus ligges,

How longe þou has layne here and quat laghe þou vsyt

Queþer art þou ioyned to ioy oþir iuggid to pyne.”

Quen þe segge hade þus sayde and syked þer-after,

Þe bryȝt body in þe burynes brayed a litelle

And wyt a drery dreme he dryues owte wordes,

ȝurghe sum Goxte lant lyfe of hym þat al redes.

"Bisshop,” quoþ þis ilke body, "þi bode is me dere.

I may not bot boghe to þi bone for bothe myn eghen;

To þe name þat þou neuenyd has and nournet me after

Al heuen and helle heldes to and erthe bitwene.

Fyrst to say the þe sothe quo my selfe were—:

One þe vnhapnest hathel þat euer on erthe ȝode.

Neuer kynge ne cayser ne ȝet no knyȝt nothyre,

Bot a lede of þe laghe þat þen þis londe vsit.

I was committid and made a mayster-mon here

To sytte vpon sayd causes, þis cité I ȝemyd

Vnder a prince of parage of paynymes laghe,

And vche segge þat him sewide þe same faythe trowid.

ȝe lengthe of my lyinge here, þat is a lewid date,

Hit is to meche to any mon to make of a nommbre:

After þat Brutus þis burghe had buggid on fyrste,

Noȝt bot fife hundred ȝere þer aghtene wontyd

Before þat kynned ȝour Criste by Cristen acounte

A þousande ȝere and þritty mo and yet threnen aght.

I was of heire and of oyer in þe New Troie

In þe regne of þe riche kynge þat rewlit vs þen,

The bolde Breton Ser Belyn, Ser Berynge was his brothire.

Mony one was þe busmare boden hom bitwene

For hor wrakeful werre quil hor wrathe lastyd.

Þen was I iuge here enioynyd in gentil lawe.”

Quil he in spelunke þus spake þer sprange in þe pepulle

In al þis worlde no worde, ne wakenyd no noice

Bot al as stille as þe ston stoden and listonde

Wyt meche wonder forwrast, and wepid ful mony.

The bisshop biddes þat body, "Biknowe þe cause,

Sithen þou was kidde for no kynge, quy þou þe croun weres,

Quy haldes þou so heghe in honde þe septre

And hades no londe of lege men ne life ne lym aghtes?”

"Dere Ser,” quoþ þe dede body, "deuyse þe I thenke.

Al was hit neuer my wille þat wroght þus hit were;

I wos deputate and domesmon vnder a duke noble

And in my power þis place was putte al to-geder.

I justifiet þis ioly toun on gentil wise

And euer in fourme of gode faithe more þen fourty wynter.

Þe folke was felonse and fals and frowarde to reule,

I hent harmes ful ofte to holde hom to riȝt.

Bot for wothe ne wele ne wrathe ne drede

Ne for maystrie ne for mede ne for no monnes aghe,

I remewit neuer fro þe riȝt by reson myn awen

For to dresse a wrange dome, no day of my lyue.

Declynet neuer my consciens for couetise on erthe,

In no gynful iugement no iapes to make

Were a renke neuer so riche for reuerens sake.

Ne for no monnes manas ne meschefe ne routhe

Non gete me fro þe heghe gate to glent out of ryȝt,

Als ferforthe as my faithe confourmyd my hert.

Þaghe had been my fader bone, I bede hym no wranges,

Ne fals fauour to my fader, þaghe felle hym be hongyt.

And for I was ryȝtwis and reken and redy of þe laghe

Quen I deghed for dul denyed alle Troye.

Alle menyd my dethe, þe more and the lasse

And þus to bounty my body þai buriet in golde,

Cladden me for þe curtest þat courte couthe þen holde,

In mantel for þe mekest and monlokest on benche,

Gurden me for þe gouernour and graythist of Troje,

Furrid me for þe fynest of faithe me wytinne.

For þe honour of myn honesté of heghest enprise

Þai coronyd me þe kidde kynge of kene iustises

Þer euer wos tronyd in Troye, oþir trowid ever shulde,

And for I rewardid euer riȝt þai raght me the septre.”

Þe bisshop baythes hym ȝet wyt bale at his hert,

Þaghe men menskid him so, how hit myȝt worthe

Þat his clothes were so clene: “In cloutes me thynkes

Hom burde haue rotid and bene rent in rattes longe sythen.

Þi body may be enbawmygd, hit bashis me noght

Þat hit thar ryue ne rote ne no ronke wormes,

Bot þi coloure ne þi clothe—I know in no wise

How hit myȝt lye, by monnes lore, and last so longe.”

“Nay bisshop,” quoþ þat body, "enbawmyd wos I neuer

Ne no monnes counselle my clothe has kepyd vawemmyd

Bot þe riche kynge of reson þat riȝt ever alowes

And loues al þe lawes lely þat longen to trouthe.

And moste he menskes men for mynnynge of riȝtes

Þen for al þe meritorie medes þat men on molde vsen;

And if renkes for riȝt þus me arayed has

He has lant me to last þat loues ryȝt best.”

“ȝea bot sayes þou of þi saule,” þen sayd þe bisshop,

“Quere is ho stablid and stadde if þou so streȝt wroghtes?

He þat rewardes vche a renke as he has riȝt seruyd

Myȝt euel forgo the to gyfe of His grace summe brawnche,

For as He says in His sothe psalmyde writes:

Þe skilfulle and þe vnskathely skelton ay to me”.

Forþi say me of þi soule in sele quere ho wonnes

And of þe riche restorment þat raȝt hyr oure Lorde.”

Þen hummyd he þat þer lay and his hedde waggyd,

And gefe a gronynge ful grete and to Godde sayde,

“Maȝty maker of men, thi myghtes are grete—

How myȝt þi mercy to me amounte any tyme?

Nas I a paynym vnpreste þat neuer thi plite knewe,

Ne þe mesure of þi mercy ne þi mecul vertue,

Bot ay a freke faitheles þat faylid þi laghes

Þat euer þou Lord wos louyd in?—Allas þe harde stoundes!

I was non of þe nommbre þat þou wyt noy boghtes,

Wyt þe blode of thi body vpon þe blo rode;

Quen þou herghedes helle-hole and hentes hom þeroute,

Þi loffynge oute of limbo, þou laftes me þer.

And þer sittes my soule þat se may no fyrre,

Dwynande in þe derke dethe þat dyȝt vs oure fader,

Adam oure alder þat ete of þat appulle

Þat mony a plyȝtles pepul has poysned for ever.

ȝe were entouchid wyt his tethe and toke in þe glotte

Bot mendyd wyt a medecyn ȝe are made for to lyuye

Þat is, fulloght in fonte wyt faitheful bileue,

And þat han we myste alle merciles, myselfe and my soule.

Quat wan we wyt oure wele-dede þat wroghtyn ay riȝt,

Quen we are dampnyd dulfully into þe depe lake

And exilid fro þat soper s0, þat solempne fest .

Þer richely hit arne refetyd þat after right hungride?

My soule may sitte þer in sorow and sike ful colde,

Dymly in þat derke dethe þer dawes neuer morowen,

Hungrie in-wyt helle-hole, and herken after meeles

Longe er ho þat soper 5e opir segge hyr to lathe.”

Þus dulfully þis dede body deuisyt hit sorowe

Þat alle wepyd for woo þe wordes þat herden,

And þe bysshop balefully bere doun his eghen

Þat hade no space to speke 50 spakly he ȝoskyd,

Til he toke hym a tome and to þe toumbe lokyd,

To þe liche þer hit lay, wyt lauande teres.

“Oure Lord lene,” quoþ þat lede, *þat þou lyfe hades,

By Goddes leue, as longe as I myȝt lacche water

And cast vpon þi faire cors and carpe þes wordes,

‘I folwe þe in þe Fader nome and His fre Childes,

And of þe gracious Holy Goste' and not one grue lenger;

Þen þof þou droppyd doun dede hit daungerde me lasse.”

Wyt þat worde þat he warpyd þe wete of eghen

And teres trillyd adoun and on þe toumbe lighten,

And one felle on his face and þe freke syked.

Þen sayd he wyt a sadde soun, "Our Sauyoure be louyd;

Now herid be þou heghe God, and þi hende moder,

And blissid be þat blisful houre þat ho The bere in,

And also be þou, bysshop, þe bote of my sorowe

And þe relefe of þe lodely lures þat my soule has leuyd in.

For þe wordes þat þou werpe and þe water þat þou sheddes—

Þe bryȝt bourne of þin eghen—my bapteme is worthyn;

Þe fyrst slent þat on me slode slekkyd al my tene.

Ryȝt now to soper my soule is sette at þe table,

For wyt þe wordes and þe water þat weshe vs of payne

Liȝtly lasshit þer a leme, loghe in þe abyme,

Þat spakly sprent my spyrit wyt vnsparid murthe

Into þe cenacle solemply þer soupen alle trew;

And þer a marcialle hyr mette wyt menske alder-grattest

And wyt reuerence a rowme he raȝt hyr for ever.

I heere þerof my heghe God and also þe bysshop,

Fro bale has broȝt vs to blis; blessid þou worthe.”

Wyt this cessyd his sowne, sayd he no more.

Bot sodenly his swete chere swyndid and faylide

And alle the blee of his body wos blakke as þe moldes,

As roten as þe rottok þat rises in powdere.

For as sone as þe soule was sesyd in blisse

Corrupt was þat oþir crafte þat couert þe bones,

For þe ay-lastande life þat lethe shalle never

Deuoydes vche a vayne-glorie þat vayles 50 litelle.

Þen wos louynge oure Lorde wyt loves vp-halden,

Meche mournynge and myrthe was mellyd to-geder;

Þai passyd forthe in processioun and alle þe pepulle folowid

And alle þe belles in þe burghe beryd at ones.

Notes:

Original text dates to the late 14th century, by an unknown author. Source language text is public domain.

Copyright Credit: "Saint Erkenwald" from The Complete Works of the Pearl Poet, ed. Casey Finch. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993.

Alliterative Verse / Avant-Garde