And on the smalle greene twistis sat
The little sweete nightingale, and sung
So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrat
Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among,
That all the gardens and the wallis rung
Right of their song.
-Cast I down mine eyes again
Where as I saw, walking under the Tower,
Full secretly, new comen hear to plain,
The fairest and the freshest young flower
That ever I saw, methought, before that hour,
For which sudden abate, anon astart,
The blood of all my body to my heart.
And though I stood abasit tho a lite,
No wonder was; for why? my wittis all
Were so o'ercome with pleasance and delight,
Only through letting of my eyen fall,
That suddenly my heart became her thrall,
For ever of free will-for of menace
There was no token in her sweete face.
And in my head I drew right hastily,
And eftesoons I leant it out again,
And saw her walk that very womanly
With no wight mo', but only women twain.
Then gan I study in myself, and sayn:
Ah, sweet! are ye a worldly creature,
Or heavenly thing in likeness of nature?
'Or are ye god Cupidis own princess,
And comin are to loose me out of band?
Or are ye very Nature the goddess,
That have depainted with your heavenly hand,
This garden full of flowers as they stand?
What shall I think, alas! what reverence
Shall I mister unto your excellence ?
'If ye a goddess be, and that ye like
To do me pain, I may it not astart:
If ye be warldly wight, that doth me sike
Why list God make you so, my dearest heart,
To do a seely prisoner this smart,
That loves you all, and wot of nought but wo?
And therefore mercy, sweet! sin' it is so.'
And in adversitee ful patient:
And swiche he was yprevéd often sithes. proved, since
Ful loth were him to cursen for his tithes,
But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute,
Unto his pouré parishens aboute,
Of his offrìng, and eke of his substànce
He coude in litel thing have suffisance.
Wide was his parish, and houses fer asonder,
But he ne left nought for no rain ne thonder,
In sikenesse and in mischief to visìte
The ferrest in his parish, moche and lite, farthest, little Upon his fete, and in his hand a staf.
This noble ensample to his shepe he yaf,
That first he wrought, and afterward he taught.
Out of the Gospel he the wordés caught,
And this figure he added yet therto,
That if gold rusté, what shuld iren do?
For if a preest be foule, on whom we trust,
No wonder is a lewed man to rust.
Wel ought a preest ensample for to yeve,
By his cleennessé, how his shepe shulde live.
He setté not his benefice to hire,
And lette his shepe acombred in the mire,
And ran unto Londòn, unto Seint Poules,
To seken him a chanterie for soules, singing endowment Or with a brotherhede to be withold;
But dwelt at home, and kepte wel his fold,
So that the wolf ne made it not miscarie.
He was a shepherd, and no mercenàrie.
And though he holy were, and vertuous,
He was to sinful men not dispitòus,
Ne of his speché dangerous ne digne,
But in his teching discrete and benigne.
To drawen folk to heven with fairéness,
By good ensample, was his besinesse :
But it were any persone obstinat,
What so he were of highe, or low estat,
Him wolde he snibben sharply for the nonés. occasion
A better preest I trowe that nowher non is.
He waited after no pompe ne reverence,
Ne makéd him no spiced consciènce,
But Cristés lore, and his apostles twelve,
He taught, but first he folwed it himselve.
uncertainty wealth, blind
desire, benefit counsel
FLY fro the presse, and dwell with sothfastnesse,
Suffise unto thy good though it be small,
For horde hath hate, and climbing tikelnesse,
Prease hath envy, and wele is blent over all,
Savour no more than thee behové shall,
Rede well thy selfe that other folk canst rede,
And trouth thee shall deliver, it is no drede.
Peiné thee not ech crooked to redresse,
In trust of her that tourneth as a ball;
Great rest standèth in little businesse,
Beware also to spurne againe a nall,
Strive not as doth a crocké with a wall,
Demé thy selfe that demest others' dede,
And trouth thee shall deliver, it is no drede.
That thee is sent receive in buxomnesse,
The wrastling of this world asketh a fall,
Here is no home, here is but wildernesse,
Forth, pilgrime! forth, beast, out of thy stall!
Looke up on high, and thanké God of all!
Weivé thy lusts, and let thy ghost thee lede,
And trouth thee shall deliver, it is no drede.
THOMAS OF ERCILDOUNE, commonly called Thomas the Rhymer, lived about the year 1300, and was born at his father's patrimonial estate of Ercildoune or Earlston, now a small village in Scotland. Few personages are more renowned than he in tradition, having been, shortly after his death, placed in the highest position both as a poet and a prophet. The popular tale bears "that he was carried away to Fairyland at an early age, where he acquired the knowledge and gifts which made him so famous. After seven years' residence there he was permitted to return to earth, and astonish his countrymen by his powers and prophecies. After some time, while making merry in his Tower of Ercildoune, a person came running in and told him that a hart and hind were slowly parading the street of the village; Thomas rose, and left his house, and followed the animals to the forest, whence he never returned."
INCIPIT PROPHESIA THOMÆ DE ERSELDOUN.
In a lande as I was lent,
In the gryking of the day
Ay alone as I went,
In Huntle bankys me for to play ;
I saw the throstyl, and the jay,
Ye mawes movyde of her song,
Ye wodwale sange notes gay,
That al the wod about range.
In that longyng as I lay,
Undir nethe a dern tre,
I was war of a lady gay,
Come rydyng ouyr a fair le :
Zogh I suld sitt to domysday,
With my tong to wrabbe and wry,
Certenly all hyr aray,
It beth neuyer discryuyd for me.
Hyr palfra was dappyll gray,
Sycke on say neuer none;
As the son in somers day,
All abowte that lady schone.
Hyr sadel was of a rewel bone;
A semly syght it was to se,
Bryght with mony a precyous stone,
And compasyd all with crapste ;
Stones of oryens, gret plente,
Her hair about her hede it hang,
She rode ouer the farnyle,
He sayd Yonder is Mary of Might,
That bar the child that died for me.
Certes bot I may speke with that lady bright,
Myd my hert will breke in three ;
I schal me hye with all my might,
Hyr to mete at Eldyn Tre.
Thomas rathly up him rase,
And ran ouer mountayn hye,
If it be sothe the story says,
He met her euyn at Eldyn Tre.
Thomas knelyd down on his kne
Undir nethe the grenewood spray,
And sayd, Lovely lady, thou rue on me,
Queen of Heaven as you may well be.
Tak thy leue, Thomas, at son and mone,
At gresse, and at euery tre,
This twelmonth sall you with me gone,
Medyl erth you sall not se.
Alas, he seyd, ful wo is me,
I trow my dedes will werke me care,
Jesu, my sole tak to ye,
Whedir so euyr my body sal fare.
She rode furth with all her mizt,
Undir nethe the derne lee,
It was as derke as at midnizt,
And euyr in water unto the kne;
Through the space of days thre,
He herde but swowyng of a flode;
Thomas sayd, Ful wo is me,
Now I spyll for fawte of fode;
To a garden she lede him tyte,
There was fruyte in grete plente,
Peyres and appless ther wer rype,
The date and the damese,
The figge and als fylbert tre;
The nyghtyngale bredyng in her neste,
The papigaye about gan fle,
The throstylcock sang wald hafe no rest.
He pressed to pulle fruyt with his hand,
As man for faute that was faynt;
She sayd, Thomas, lat al stand,
Or els the deuyl wil the ataynt.
Sche seyd, Thomas, I thee hyzt,
To lay thy hede upon my kne,
And thou shalt see fayrer syght,
Than euyr sawe man in their kintre.
Sees thou, Thomas, yon fayr way,
That lyggs ouyr yone fayr playn?
Yonder is the way to heuyn for ay,
Whan synful sawles haf derayed their payne. suffered
Sees thou, Thomas, yon secund way
That lygges lawe undir the ryse?
Streight is the way, sothly to say,
To the joyes of paradyce.
Sees thou, Thomas, yon thyrd way,
That lygges ouyr yon how?
Wide is the way, sothly to say,
To the brynyng fyres of helle.
Sees thou, Thomas, yone fair castell,
That standes ouyr yone fair hill ?
Of town and tower it beereth the belle,
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