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XXXIV. þe Pope trental.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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XXXIV. þe Pope trental.

I-writen I fynde a good stori,
Þe Pope hit wrot seint Gregori,
Of his Modur and of hire lyf,
Þat alle men heolden an holi hosewyf,
So sad of Maner, so mylde of Mood,
Þat alle men heolden hire holi and good;
De-boner, deuout, so milde of steuene,
Þat alle men gesset hire worþi to heuene.

261

As holi I-holden as heo was,
Þe fend ȝit falled hire in a foul cas,
He truyled hire wiþ his tricherye
And ladde hire in to lecherye,
Þat lust wiþ loue hire so be-gylede,
So foule, til heo was wiþ childe.
So priueliche noþeles heo hire bar
Þat þer-of nas no wiht I-war.
And for no wiht schulde wite hire cas,
Anon as hire child I-boren was,
Þe Nekke heo nom, þe child heo woriede,
And a-non þe child heo buriede.
Þus was heo cumbred in careful cas,
Ne schewed neuer schrift þerof, allas!
ffor heo wolde holy I-holde be,
Heo tolde neuer prest hire priuite;
Al folk fayn was of hire fame,
So holy as heo was holden of name.
Eft-sones hir fel þe same cas
Riht as bi-foren bi-tyd hire was.
ffor heo was comen of prys parage,
Of riche kun, of gentil lynage,
Hire sone was seynt Gregori þe pope,
Men heolden hire holy wiþ al heore hope,
Þerfore heo schonede hir schrift to schowe,
Leste by schrift hire cas weor knowe.
So schome makeþ men schone heor schrift
And leose þe grace of godus ȝift,
And siþen to liuen so sunfulli

262

And sorily dyen and sodeynli.
Þis wommones dedes ner not aspyet,
And softly sone þer-aftur heo dyed.
Whon heo was seyen so softly dye,
Men hopede heo weore in heuene ful hiȝe,
Men heolden hir holy and so deuoute
Þat of hire deþ men hedden no doute,
But wenden witerly alle to-wisse
Þat heo weore set in souereyn blisse.
Þer-aftur wiþ-Inne a luytel tyme
Vp-on a day sone aftur prime
Hire sone þe pope at Masse stood,
And of his Modur trouwed bote good.
Al sodeynliche a-Midde his messe
Þer drouh touward him such a derknesse
Þat lakkede al þe dayes lyht
And was derk as hit weore midniht;
And in þat derknesse a myst among,
Al stoneyd he was, such stunch þer stong;
Þer-of so grislich he was a-gast
Þat al swounyng he was al-mast.
Beo-syde he loked vndur his leor:
A-Midde þe derknesse þer drouȝ on ner
A wonder grisli creature,
Riht aftur a fend ferde hire feture;
So Ragget, so Rent, so elyng, so vuel,
As hidous to bi-holden as helle-deuel;
Mouþ and Neose, Eres and Eȝes

263

fflaumed al ful of furi liȝes.
He asked hit heiȝlich: “þorwh his miht
Þat alle deueles schal dreden and diht,
And eke bi vertu of his blood
Þat for Monkynde diȝed on Rod,
Sey me a-non þe soþe soone:
What hastou in þis place to done?
What is þi cause, þou cursede wrecche,
Þus me at Masse to derue and drecche?”
Þe gost onswerde wiþ dreri cher:
“I am þi Moodur þat þe beer,
Þat for vn-schriuene dedes derne
In bitter peynes þus i berne.”
Þen onswerd þe pope: “allas,
Allas, my Modur, þis wondur cas!
Allas, my Modur, hou may þis be,
In such aray I þe to seo?
Men wenden witerli to-wisse
Þou weore wel worþi to habbe blisse
And þat ful wel wiþ God þou were,
To preyen for us þat liuen ȝit here.
Sey me, modur, wiþ-outen feyne,
Whi art þou put to al þis peyne?”
Heo seide: “my sone, soþfastly
I schal þe telle þe cause why:
ffor I nas not such as I seemed,
But wikked and worse þen men me demed,

264

I sungede wikkedliche in my lyue,
Of wȝuch I ne dorste for schome me schriue;”
Heo tolde him trewely al hire cas
ffrom ende to oþur riht as hit was.
Sei me, Modur, for Marie flour,
Ȝif ouȝt may beo þi socour,
Wher penaunce of fasting mai ouȝt alegge,
Beodes or Masses þi peynes abregge,
Or eny-maner oþur þyng
Þat þe mai helpe of eny lissyng?”
Mi deore Blessede sone,” seide heo,
“fful wel I-holpen I mihte beo,
Holpen and saued I mihte beo wel
Hose vndurtoke a trewe trentel
Of ten cheef festes of al þe ȝer
To synge for me in þis Maneer:
Þreo Masses of Cristes Natiuite,
And of þe Ephiphan oþur þre,
Þreo of þe Purificaciun,
And þreo of þe Annunciaciun,
Þreo of þe Resurrexiun,
And þreo of þe Ascenciun,
Of þe Pentecost oþur þre,
And þreo of þe holy Trinite,
Þreo of Maries Natiuite,
And of hire Concepcioun oþur þre”—

265

Þeose weoren þe cheef festes ten
Þat souereynliche socourde synful men.
“What godmon syngeþ þeos masses, saunfayle,
To synful soule þei schullen auayle,
Wiþ þe ȝeer wiþ-outen treyne
Diliueren a soule ful out of peyne.
Let sei þeos Masses bi ȝoure hestes
Wiþ-Inne þe vtaues of þe ffestes!
And he þat schal þeos Masses do,
Let sei þer-wiþ þe Orisun þer-to,
Treoweliche wiþ-outen were
Eueri day þorwh-out þe ȝere,
Heet him sei hit eueri day,
Oþur he þat doþ þe Masses to say.”
Hose wol knowe þis orisun clene,
Hit is on Englisch þus muche to mene:
“God, vr verrey Redempciun,

Oracio


Vr soþfast soules sauaciun,
Þat chose al oþur londes bi-forn
Þe lond of bi-heste In to beo born,
And þi deþ suffredest in þat same,
Diliuere þis soule from gult and blame,
Tak hit out of þe fendes bond,
And þat lond from þe heþene hond,
And peple þat leueþ not in þe
Þorwh þi vertu amendet mote be;
And alle þat trusteþ In þi Merci,
Lord, saue hem sone and soþfastli!”
A Modur,” he seide, “þat wol I do,
ffor I am mon most I-holde þer-to—
Þou weore my Modur, I was þi sone—
To synge þe Masses I schal not schone;

266

God graunte me, Modur, þe stonde in stede
Aȝeynes þe synnes þat euer þou dude.
I halse þe heiȝliche, Modur deere,
Þis tyme twelf-Moneþ to me a-peere,
Hol þin a-stat to me þou schowe,
Þat, hou þou fare, I mouwe wel knowe!”
Mi sone,” heo seide, “I wole, in ffey,”
And wiþ þat word heo wente hir wey.
So day from day þe ȝer con passe,
Þe pope for-lette neuer his Masse
Þe same dayes þat weoren asignet,
To helpen his Modur þat was so pynet,
And tok þe Orisun al-gate þer-to
Als, as his Modur preiȝede him do.
Þat tyde twelf-Moneþ at Masse he stod
Holyliche wiþ deuociun good:
And in þat same tyde apliht
He sayȝ a swiþe selli siht,
A comeli ladi, so dresset and diht
Þat al þe world of hire schon briht,
Comeli Corouned as a Qweene,
Tweyn Angeles ladden hire hem bi-twene.
He was so Rauischt of þat siht,
Al-most for Ioye he swounede riht.
He fel doun flat bi-foren hire feet,
Þe teres of his eȝen he doun leet,

267

He grette hire wiþ wel mylde steuene
And seyde: “ladi, Qween of heuene,
Moodur of Ihesu, Mylde Marie,
ffor my moodur Merci I crie.”
[D]o wey,” heo seide, “I nam not heo
Ne whom þou wenest þat I beo,
Bote, soþlyche, as þou seost me her,
I am þe Moodur þat þe beer.
Bi-foren i ferde, þou wustest wel,
ffarynge as a fend of hel,
I am nou such as þou sest her,
Þorwh help and vertu of þi preyer,
ffrom derknesse i-dresset to blisse cleer.
Þe tyme beo blesset þat I þe beer!
And for þe kuyndenesse of þi deede
Souereyn Ioye schal beo þy Meede.
And alle þat leteþ þeos Masses þus do,
Schul saue hem-self and soules also.
Þerfore, Sone, þis storie þou preche!
Mi dere sone, god I þe be-teche.”
Whon heo hedde endet þis wordes euene,
Angeles token hire hom to heuene.
Þe same hom to god vs sende,
To wone wiþ him wiþ-outen ende.
Amen.