But Jesus Christ, as in the books ye find,
Will that his glory last, and be in mind;
And, for the worship of his Mother dear,
Yet may I sing, O Alma! loud and clear.
'This well of mercy, Jesu's Mother sweet,
After my knowledge I have lived alwày;
And in the hour when I my death did meet,
To me she came, and thus to me did say,
"Thou in thy dying sing this holy lay,"
As
ye have heard; and soon as I had sung,
Methought she laid a grain upon my tongue.
'Wherefore I sing, nor can from song refrain,
In honor of that blissful Maiden free,
Till from my tongue off-taken is the grain.
And after that thus said she unto me:
"My little Child, then will I come for thee
Soon as the grain from off thy tongue they take:
Be not dismayed, I will not thee forsake!"'
This holy Monk, this Abbot, him mean I,
Touched then his tongue, and took away the grain;
And he gave up the ghost full peacefully;
And, when the Abbot had this wonder seen,
His salt tears trickled down like showers of rain;
And on his face he dropped upon the ground,
And still he lay as if he had been bound.
Eke the whole Convent on the pavement lay,
Weeping and praising Jesu's Mother dear;
And after that they rose, and took their way,
And lifted up this Martyr from the bier,
And in a tomb of precious marble clear
Inclosed his uncorrupted body sweet.
Where'er he be, God grant us him to meet !
Young Ho of Lincoln! in like sort laid low
By cursed Jews, - thing well and widely known,
For it was done a little while ago, -
Pray also thou for us, while here we tarry,
Weak, sinful folk, that God, with pitying eye,
In mercy would his mercy multiply
On us, for reverence of his Mother Mary !"
THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
THE God of Love,―ah benedicite!
How mighty and how great a Lord is he!
For he of low hearts can make high, of high
He can make low, and unto death bring nigh;
And hard hearts he can make them kind and free.
Within a little time, as hath been found,
He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound: Them who are whole in body and in mind,
He can make sick, bind can he and unbind
All that he will have bound, or have unbound.
To tell his might my wit may not suffice;
Foolish men he can make them out of wise;
For he may do all that he will devise;
Loose livers he can make abate their vice,
And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice.
In brief, the whole of what he will, he may;
Against him dare not any wight say nay;
To humble or afflict whome'er he will,
To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill;
But most his might he sheds on the eve of May.
For every true heart, gentle heart and free,
That with him is, or thinketh so to be,
Now against May shall have some stirring,
To joy, or be it to some mourning; never
At other time, methinks, in like degree.
For now when they may hear the small birds' song, And see the budding leaves the branches throng,
This unto their remembrance doth bring
All kinds of pleasure mixed with sorrowing;
And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long.
And of that longing heaviness doth come,
Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home;
Sick are they all for lack of their desire;
And thus in May their hearts are set on fire,
So that they burn forth in great martyrdom.
In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though now Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow;
Yet have I felt of sickness through the May, Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day, How hard, alas! to bear, I only know.
Such shaking doth the fever in me keep
Through all this May, that I have little sleep;
And also 't is not likely unto me,
That any living heart should sleepy be
In which Love's dart its fiery point doth steep.
But tossing lately on a sleepless bed,
I of a token thought which Lovers heed;
How among them it was a common tale,
That it was good to hear the Nightingale
Ere the vile Cuckoo's note be utterèd.
And then I thought anon, as it was day,
I gladly would go somewhere to essay
If I perchance a Nightingale might hear;
For yet had I heard none, of all that year,
And it was then the third night of the May.
And soon as I a glimpse of day espied,
No longer would I in my bed abide,
But straightway to a wood that was hard by
Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly,
And held the pathway down by a brook-side;
Till to a lawn I came, all white and green,
I in so fair a one had never been.
The ground was green, with daisy powdered over ;
Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover,
All green and white; and nothing else was seen.
There sat I down among the fair, fresh flowers, And saw the birds come tripping from their bowers, Where they had rested them all night; and they Who were so joyful at the light of day,
Began to honor May with all their powers.
Well did they know that service all by rote,
And there was many and many a lovely note,
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