Following the recent conference, we have taken the opportunity to share the poem St Erkenwald, which has links to the Shropshire area below.
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“Saint Erkenwald” is a Middle English poem that tells the story of a miraculous discovery made during the construction of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London.
The poem begins by describing the history of the site, which was once a pagan temple of Hengist.
After the reconversion of that part of England that holds London to Christianity, the temple was destroyed and replaced with a new church.
During the construction of the new St. Paul’s, workers unearthed a remarkable tomb. The tomb contained the body of a man who appeared to have been preserved for centuries, wearing rich garments and a crown. Despite extensive research, no one could identify the man or his origins.
The bishop of London, Saint Erkenwald, was called to investigate the mystery. Through prayer and divine intervention, he was able to communicate with the the man in the tomb who awoke. The man revealed that he was a judge decended from the lines of the people of the city of Troy.
He had lived centuries earlier, before event the time of the Roman occupation of Britain.
He had been buried with great honor for his just and righteous rule.
The bishop was deeply moved by the story and offered a prayer for the man’s soul while crying. Miraculously, the man’s body began to decay, and his spirit was finally released:
Ryȝt now to soper my soule is sette at þe table,
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The poem is the greatest work of surviving from Middle English, perhaps composed in the late 1380s or early 1390s.
It would have been familiar to Old Sir Rowland Hill as an important part of the medieval and early Tudor civic identity of London.
One of the most thought-provoking aspects of the poem is its careful handling of the question of what happens to virtuous people who have not heard the Christian message. The man in the tomb, despite his righteous life and contributions to his community, was ultimately judged by God based on his lack of faith, at least initially. This raises important questions about the nature of salvation and the role of divine grace.
However, the bishop’s prayers and blessings are instrumental in freeing the man’s soul, highlighting the power of spiritual intervention and the hope of salvation. This invites us to contemplate the nature of time for souls existing beyond mortality.
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Saint Erkenwald
By The Pearl Poet
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.
