maiden mon."4"Soné, help at alle need
Allé those that to me grede, cry.
Maiden, wife, and full wymmon." woman with child.
"Mother, may I no longer dwell;
The time is come I shall to hell;
The third day I rise upon."
"Son, I will with thee founden; set out, go.
I die, I wis, for thy wounden:
So sorrowful death nes never none." was not never none.
When he rose, then fell her sorrow;
Her bliss sprung the third morrow:
Blithe mother wert thou tho! then.
Lady, for that ilké bliss, same.
Beseech thy son of sunnés lisse: for sin's release.
Thou be our shield against our foe. Be thou.
Blessed be thou, full of bliss!
Let us never heaven miss,
Through thy sweeté Sonés might!
Loverd, for that ilké blood, Lord,
That thou sheddest on the rood,
Thou bring us into heaven's light. AMEN.
I think my readers will not be sorry to have another of a similar character.
I sigh when I sing
For sorrow that I see,
When I with weeping
Behold upon the tree,
And see Jesus the sweet
His heart's blood for-lete yield quite.
For the love of me.
His woundés waxen wete, wet.
They weepen still and mete:5
Mary rueth thee. pitieth.
High upon a down, hill.
Where all folk it see may,
A mile from each town,
About the mid-day,
The rood is up arearéd;
His friendés are afearéd,
And clingeth so the clay;6
The rood stands in stone,
Mary stands her on,
And saith Welaway!
When I thee behold
With eyen brighté bo, eyes bright both.
And thy body cold—
Thy ble waxeth blo, colour: livid.
Thou hangest all of blood bloody.
So high upon the rood
Between thieves tuo— two.
Who may sigh more?
Mary weepeth sore,
And sees all this woe.
The nails be too strong,
The smiths are too sly; skilful.
Thou bleedest all too long;
The tree is all too high;
The stones be all wete! wet.
Alas, Jesu, the sweet!
For now friend hast thou none,
But Saint John to-mournynde, mourning greatly.
And Mary wepynde, weeping.
For pain that thee is on.
Oft when I sike sigh.
And makie my moan,
Well ill though me like,
Wonder is it none.7
When I see hang high
And bitter pains dreye, dree, endure.
Jesu, my lemmon! love.
His woundés sore smart,
The spear all to his heart
And through his side is gone.
Oft when I syke, sigh.
With care I am through-sought; searched through.
When I wake I wyke; languish.
Of sorrow is all my thought.
Alas! men be wood mad.
That swear by the rood swear by the cross.
And sell him for nought
That bought us out of sin.
He bring us to wynne, may he: bliss.
That hath us dear bought!
I add two stanzas of another of like sort.
Man that is in glory and bliss,
And lieth in shame and sin,
He is more than unwis unwise.
That thereof will not blynne. cease.
All this world it goeth away,
Me thinketh it nigheth Doomsday;
Now man goes to ground: perishes.
Jesus Christ that tholed ded endured death.
He may our souls to heaven led lead.
Within a little stound. moment.
Jesus, that was mild and free,
Was with spear y-stongen; stung or pierced.
He was nailéd to the tree,
With scourges y-swongen. lashed.
All for man he tholed shame, endured.
Withouten guilt, withouten blame,
Bothé day and other8.
Man, full muchel he loved thee, much.
When he woldé make thee free,
And become thy brother.
The simplicity, the tenderness, the devotion of these lyrics is to me wonderful. Observe their realism, as, for instance, in the words: "The stones beoth al wete;" a realism as far removed from the coarseness of a Rubens as from the irreverence of too many religious teachers, who will repeat and repeat again the most sacred words for the merest logical ends until the tympanum of the moral ear hears without hearing the sounds that ought to be felt as well as held holiest. They bear strongly, too, upon the outcome of feeling in action, although doubtless there was the same tendency then as there is now to regard the observance of church-ordinances
Mon is used for man or woman: human being. It is so used in Lancashire still: they say mon to a woman.
"They weep quietly and becomingly." I think there must be in this word something of the sense of gently,-uncomplainingly.
"And are shrunken (clung with fear) like the clay." So here is the same as as. For this interpretation I am indebted to Mr. Morris.
"It is no wonder though it pleases me very ill."
I think the poet, wisely anxious to keep his last line just what it is, was perplexed for a rhyme, and fell on the odd device of saying, for "both day and night," "both day and the other."
