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[St. Erkenwald

(Bishop of London 675-693): An Alliterative Poem, written about 1386, narrating a Miracle wrought by the Bishop in St. Paul's Cathedral, in] Select Early English Poems: Edited by Sir Israel Gollancz ... IV

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DE ERKENWALDO

[PROLOGUE.]

At London in Englonde noȝt fulle longe [tyme]
Sythen Crist suffride on crosse, & Cristendome stablyde,
Ther was a byschop in þat burghe, blessyd & sacryd,—
Saynt Erkenwold, as I hope, þat holy mon hatte.
In his tyme in þat ton þe temple alder-grattyst
Was drawen don 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, & broȝt hom in-to Wales,
& peruertyd alle þe pepul þat in þat place dwellide;
Þen wos this reame renaide mony ronke ȝeres,
Til Saynt Austyn in-to Sandewiche was sende fro þe pope.
Þen prechyd he here þe pure faythe & plantyd þe trouthe,
&conuertyd alle þe communnates to Cristendame newe;
He turnyd temples þat tyme þat temyd to þe deuelle,
&clansyd hom in Cristes nome, & kyrkes hom callid.
He hurlyd owt hor ydols & hade hym in sayntes,
& chaungit cheuely hor nomes, & chargit hom better:
Þat ere was of Appolyn is now of Saynt Petre;
Mahon to Saynt Margrete, oþer to Maudelayne.


ÞeSynagogue of þe Sonne was sett to oure Lady;
Jubiter & Jono to Jhesu oþer to James;
So he hom dedifiet & 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 & þe mayster-ton hit euermore has bene;
Þe mecul mynster perinne a maghty deuel aght,
& 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.

[I.]

Now of þis Augustynes art is Erkenwolde bischop
At loue London ton, & 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 & beten don, & buggyd efte new,
A noble note for þe nones, & New Werke hit hatte;
Mony a mery mason was made þer to wyrke,
Harde stones for to hewe with eggit toles;
Mony a grubber in grete þe grounde for to seche,
Þat þe fundement on fyrst shuld þe fote halde;
& as þai m[u}kkyde & mynyde, a meruayle þai founden,
As ȝet in crafty cronecles is kydde þe memorie.


For as þai dyȝt & dalfe so depe in-to þe erthe,
Þai founden fourmyt on a flore a ferly faire toumbe;
Hit was a throghe of thykke ston, thryuandly hewen,
With gargeles garnysht a-boute, alle of gray marbre.
The spe[k]e of þe spelunke þat spradde hit o-lofte
Was metely made of þe marbre & menskefully planede,
& þe bordure enbelicit with byrȝt 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 & quat hit mene shulde;
Mony clerke in þat clos, with crownes ful brode,
Þer besiet hom a-boute noȝt, to brynge hom in wordes.
Quen tithynges token to þe ton of þetoumbe-wonder,
Mony hundrid hende men highide þider sone;
Burgeys boghit þer-to, bedels ande othire,
& mony a mesters-mon of maners dyuerse.
Laddes laften hor werke & lepen þiderwardes,
Ronnen radly in route with ryngande noyce;
Þer commen þider of alle kynnes so kenely mony,
Þat as alle þe worlde were þider walon with-in a hondequile.
Quen þe maire with his meynye þat meruaile aspied,
By assent of þe sextene, þe sayntuare þai kepten;
Bede vnlouke þe lidde, & lay hit by-side;
Þai wolde loke on þat lome quat lengyd withinne.
Wyȝt werke-men with þat wenten þer-tille;
Putten prises þerto, pinchid one-vnder;
Kaghten by þe corners with 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 to-knowe a quontyse strange;
So was þe glode with-in gay, al with golde payntyde,
& a blisfulle body opon þe both[um] lyggid, —
Araide on a riche wise, in rialle wedes,
Al with glisnande golde his gowne wos hemmyd,
With mony a precious perle picchit þer-on,
& a gurdille of golde bigripide his mydelle;
A meche mantel on-lofte with menyuer furrit,
Þe clothe of camelyn ful clene, with cumly bordures;
& on his coyfe wos kest a coron ful riche,
& a semely septure sett in his honde.
Als wemles were his wedes, with-outen any tecche,
Oþer of moulynge, oþer of motes, oþir moght-freten,
& als bryȝt of hor blee, in blysnande hewes,
As þai hade ȝepely in þat ȝorde bene ȝisturday shapen;
& als freshe hym þe face & the fleshe nakyde,
Bi his eres & bi his hondes þat openly shewid,
With ronke rode as þe rose, & two rede lippes,
As he in sounde sodanly were slippide opon slepe.
Þer was spedeles space to spyr vschon oþer
Quat body hit myȝt be þat buried wos ther;
How longe had he þer layne, his lere so vnchaungit,
& al his wede vnwemmyd, — þus ylka weghe askyd:
‘Hit myȝt not be bot suche a mon in my[n]de 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 couth say þat he hym sene hade.’


Bot þat ilke note wos noght, for nourne none couthe,
Noþer by title, ne token, ne by tale noþer,
Þat wos breuyt in b[rut], ne in bok[e] notyde,
Þat euer mynnyd suche a mo[n], more ne lasse.
Þe bode-worde to þe byschop was broght on a quile,
Of þat buriede body al þe bolde wonder;
Þe primate with his prelacie was partyd fro home;
In Esex was Ser Erkenwolde, an abbay to visite.
Tulkes tolden hym þe tale [&þe] troubulle in þe pepul,
And suche a cry aboute a cors crakit euer-more;
The bischop sende hit to blynne, by bedels & 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 & pes he comaundit,
& deuoydit fro þe d[outh]e, & ditte þe durre after.
Þe derke nyȝt ouer-drofe, & day-belle ronge;
And Ser Erkenwolde was vp in þe vghten ere þen,
Þat wel neghe al þe nyȝt hade na[i]tyd his houres,
To biseche his souerayn, of his swete grace,
To vouche-safe to reuele hym hit, by a-vis[i]on or elles;
‘Þaghe I be vnworthi’ al wepande he sayde,
‘Thurghe [þi] deere debonerte,digne hit, my Lorde,
In confirmynge þi cristen faithe, fulsen me to kenne
Þe mysterie of þis meruaile þat men opon wondres.’
& so longe he grette after grace, þat he graunte hade,
An ansaure of þe Holy Goste, & after-warde 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 with his ministres þe masse he begynnes
Of Spiritus Domini for his spede, on sutile wise,
With queme questis of þe quere, with 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, & 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 with clustrede keies;
Bot pyne wos with þe grete prece þat passyd hym after.
The byschop come to þe burynes, him barones besyde;
Þe maire with mony maȝti men, & macers before hym;
Þe dene of þe dere place deuysit al on fyrst,
Þe fyndynge of þat ferly with fynger he mynte.
‘Lo, Lordes,’ quoþ þat lede, ‘suche a lyche here is,
Has layn loken here on-loghe, how longe is vnknawen;
& ȝet his colour & 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 noþer his nome ne his note nourne of one speche;
Queþer mony porer in þis place is putte into graue,
Þat merkid is in oure martilage his mynde for euer.
& we haue oure librarie la[i]tid 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.’


‘Þou says soþe,’ quoþ þe segge þat sacrid was byschop,
‘ Hit is meruaile to men, þat mountes to litelle
Towards þe prouidens of þe Prince þat Paradis weldes,
Quen hym luste to vnlouke þe leste of his myȝtes.
Bot quen matyd is monnes myȝt, & hs mynde passyde,
And al his resons are to-rent, & 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 c[reat]ue take.
& so do we now oure dede, deuyne we no fyrre;
To seche þe sothe at oure-selfe, ȝee se þer no bote;
Bot gl[e]w we alle opon Godde, & his grace aske,
Þat careles is of counselle, [vs] comforthe to sende.
[Anande] þat in fastynge of ȝour faithe & of fyne bileue,
I shal auay ȝow so verrayly of vertues his,
Þat ȝe may leue vpon longe þat he is lord myȝty,
& fayne ȝour talent to fulfille, if ȝe hym frende leues.’


[II.]

Then he turnes to þe toumbe & talkes to þe corce;
Lyftande vp his eghe-lyddes, he loused suche wordes:
‘Now, lykhame, þat þ[us] 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, & we hit wele leuen,
Ansuare here to my sawe, councele no trouthe!
Sithen we wot not qwo þou art, witere vs þi-selwen,
In worlde quat weghe þou was, & quy þow þus ligges,
Ho longe þou has layne here, & quat laghe þou vsyt,
Qeper art þou ioyned to ioy oþer iugged to pyne.’
Quen þe segge hade þus sayde, & syked þer-after,
Þe bryȝt body in þe burynes bray[þ]ed a litelle,
& with a drery dreme he dryues owte wordes
Þurghe s[um] lyf[ly] goste, lant of hym þat al redes:—
‘Bisshop,’ quoþ þis ilke body, ‘þi boode is me dere,
I may not bot boghe to þi bone for bothe myn eghen;
Þe name þat þou neuenyd has & nournet me after
Al heuen & helle heldes to, & erthe bitwene.
Fyrst to say the þe sothe quo my selfe were, —
One þe vnhapnest hathel þat euer on erhte ȝode,
Neuer kynge ne cayser ne ȝet no knyȝt nothyre,
Bot a lede of þe laghe þat þen þis londe vsit.
I was committid & made a mayster-mon here,
To sytte vpon syd causes þis cite I ȝemyd,
Vnder a prince of parage of paynymes laghe,
& vche segge þat him sewide þe same faythe trowid.


Þe lengthe of my lyinge here, þat is a l[app]id date
Hit to m[ut]he to any mon to make of a nombre:
After þat Brutus þis burghe had buggid on fyrste
Noȝt bot [aght] hundred ȝere þer aghtene wontyd —
Before þat kymmed ȝour Criste by cristen acounte
[Þre hundred] ȝere & pritty mo & ȝet threnen aght,
I was [o]]n eire of an oye[r] 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 stelle as þe ston stoden & listonde,
With meche wonder forwrast, & wepid ful mony.
The bisshop bides þat body, ‘biknowe þe cause,
Sithen þou was kidde for no kynge, quy þou þe cron weres.
Qu haldes þou so heghe in honde þe septre,
& hades no londe of lege men, ne life ne lym aghtes?’
‘Dere ser,’ quop þe dede body, ‘deuyse þe I thenke,
Al was hit neuer my wille þat wroght þus hit were;
I wos deputate & domesmon vnder a duke noble,
& in my power þis place was putte al to-geder.
I iustifiet þis ioly toun on gentil wise,
& euer in fourme of gode faithe, more þen fourty wynter.
Þe folke was felonse & fals, & 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 bene my fader bone, I bede hym no wranges,
Ne fals fauour to my fader, þaghe felle hym be hongyt.
& for I was ryȝtwis & reken, & redy of þe laghe,
Quen I deghed, for dul denyed alle Troye;
Alle menyd my dethe, þe more & the lasse;
& þus to bounty my body þai buriet in golde, —
Cladden me for þe curtest þat courte couthe þen holde,
In mantel for þe mekest & monlokest on benche;
Gurden me for gouern[ance þe] graythist of Troie,
Furrid me for þe fynest of faithe [þer] withinne.
For þe honour of myn honeste of heghest enprise,
Þai coronyd me þe kidde kynge of kene iustises,
Þ[at] euer was tronyd in Troye oþer trowid euer shulde;
And for I rewardid euer riȝt, þai raght me the septre.’
Þe bisshop baythes hym ȝet, with 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 & bene rent in rattes longe sythen.


Þi body may be enbawmyd, hit bashis me noght
Þat hit that ryne ne rote ne no ronke wormes;
Bot þi coloure ne þi clothe, I know in no wise
How hit myȝt lye by monnes lore & 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,
& loues al þe lawes lely þat longen to trouthe;
& moste he menskes men for mynnynge of riȝtes,
Þen for al þe meritorie medes þat men on molde vsen;
& if renkes for riȝt þus me arayed has,
He has lant me to last þat loues ryȝt best.’
‘Ȝea, bot say þou of þi saule,’ þen sayd þe bisshop.
‘Quere is ho stablid & stadde, if þou so streȝt wroghtes?
He þat rewardes vche a renke as he has riȝt seruyd
Myȝt euel for-go the to gyfe of his grace summe brawnche.
For as he says in his sothe psalmyde writtes:
“Þe skilfulle & þe vnskathely skelton ay to me.”
For-þi 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, & his hedde waggyd,
& gefe a gronynge ful grete, & 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 þ[e] mesure of þi mercy, ne þi mecul vertue,
Bot ay a freke faithles þat faylid þi laghes,
þat euer þou, Lord, wos louyd in? Allas, þe harde stoundes!


I was non of þe nombre þat þou with noy boghtes
With þe blode of thi body vpon þe blo rode;
Quen þou herghedes helle-hole, & hentes hom þer-oute,
Þ[e] loffynge, oute of Limbo, þou laftes [m]e þer,
& þer sittes my soule þat se may n[o] 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 with his te[c]he & t[o]ke in þe gl[e]tte,
Bot mendyd with a medecyn, ȝe are made for to lyuye, —
Þat is fulloght in fonte, with faitheful bileue;
& þat han we myste alle merciles, myselfe & my soule.
Quat wan we with oure wele-dede þat wroghtyn ay riȝt,
Quen we are dampnyd dulfully into þe depe lake,
& exiled fro þat soper so, þat solempne fest,
Þer richely hit arne refetyd þat after right hungride?
My soule may sitte þer in sorow, & sike ful colde,
Dy[m]ly in þat derke dethe, þer dawes neuer morowen,
Hungrie in-with helle-hole, & herken after meeles,
Longe er ho þat soper se, oþer segge hyr to lathe.’
Þus dulfully þis dede body deuisyt hit sorowe,
Þat alle wepyd for woo, þe wordes þat herden;
& þe bysshop balefully bere don his eghen,
Þat hade no space to speke, so spakly he ȝoskyd,
Til he toke hym a tome, & to þe toumbe lokyd,
To þe liche þer hit lay, with lauande teres:,
‘Oure Lord lene,’ quoþ þat lede, ‘þat þou lyfe hades,
By Goddes leue, as longe as I myȝt lacche water,


& cast vpon þi faire cors, & carpe þes wordes, —
“I folwe þe in þe Fader nome & his fre Childes
& of þe gracious Holy Goste”; — & not one grue lenger.
Þen þof þou droppyd doun ded, hit daungerde me lasse.’
With þat worde þat he warpyd, [of his] wete eghen
e] teres trillyd adon, & on þe toumbe lighten;
& one felle on his face, & þe freke syked;
Þen sayd he with a sadde soun, ‘Oure Sauyoure be louyd!
Now herid be þou, heghe God, & þi hende Moder,
& blissid be þat blisful houre þat ho the bere in!
& also be þou, bysshop, þe bote of my sorowe,
& þe relefe of þe lodely lures þat my soule has leuyd in!
For þe wordes þat þou werpe, & 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 with þe wordes & þe water þat weshe vs of payne
Liȝtly lasshit þer a leme loghe in þe abyme,
Þat spakly sprent my spyrit with vnsparid murthe
Into þe cenacle solemply þer soupen alle trew;
& þer a marcialle hyr mette with menske alder-grattest,
& with reuerence a rowme he raȝt hyr for euer.
I heere þerof my heghe God, & 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 & 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 oþer crafte þat couert þe bones;
For þe ay-lastande life, þat lethe shalle neuer,
Deuoydes vche a vayne glorie, þat vayles so litelle.
Þen wos louynge oure Lorde with loves vp-halden;
Meche mournynge & myrthe was mellyd to-geder;
Þai passyd forthe in procession, & alle þe pepulle folowid,
And alle þe belles in þe burghe beryd at ones.