His felaw taught him homeward prively
Fro day to day, til he coude it by rote,
And than he song it wel and boldely
Fro word to word according with the note:
Twies a day it passed thurgh his throte,
To scoleward and homeward whan he wente:
On Cristes moder set was his entente.
As I have said, thurghout the Jewerie
This litel child as he came to and fro,
Ful merily than wold he sing and crie,
O Alma redemptoris, ever mo:
The swetenesse hath his herte persed so
Of Cristes moder, that to hire to pray
He cannot stint of singing by the way.
Our firste fo, the serpent Sathanas,
That hath in Jewes herte his waspes nest,
Up swale and said, O Ebraike peple, alas!
Is this to you a thing that is honest,
That swiche a boy shal walken as him leste
In your despit, and sing of swiche sentence,
Which is again our lawes reverence?
From thennes forth the Jewes han conspired
This innocent out of this world to chace:
An homicide therto han they hired,
That in an aleye had a privee place,
And as the child gan forthby for to pace,
This cursed Jew him hent, and held him fast,
And cut his throte, and in a pit him cast.
I say that in a wardrope they him threwe,
Wher as thise Jewes purgen hir entraille.
O cursed folk, of Herodes alle newe,
What may your evil entente you availle?
Mordre wol out, certein it wol not faille,
And namely ther the honour of God shal sprede: The blood out crieth on your cursed dede.
O martyr souded in virginitee,
Now maist thou singe, and folwen ever in on
The white lamb celestial, quod she,
Of which the gret Evangelist Seint John
In Pathmos wrote, which sayth that they that gon Beforn this lamb, and singe a song al newe, That never fleshly woman they ne knewe.
This poure widewe awaiteth al that night After hire litel childe, and he came nought: For which as sone as it was dayes light, With face pale of årede and besy thought, She hath at scole and elleswher him sought, Til finally she gan so fer aspie,
That he last seen was in the Jewerie.
With modres pitee in hire brest enclosed
She goth, as she were half out of hire minde,
To every place, wher she hath supposed
By likelihed hire litel child to finde:
And ever on Cristes moder meke and kinde
She cried, and at the laste thus she wrought,
Among the cursed Jewes she him sought.
She freyneth, and she praieth pitously
To every Jew that dwelled in thilke place,
To telle hire, if hire child went ought forthby:
They sayden, Nay; but Jesu of his grace
Yave in hire thought, within a litel space,
That in that place after hire sone she cride,
Ther he was casten in a pit beside.
O grete God, that parformest thy laude
By mouth of innocentes, lo here thy might!
This gemme of chastitee, this emeraude,
And eke of martirdome the rubie bright,
Ther he with throte ycorven lay upright,
He Alma redemptoris gan to singe
So loude, that all the place gan to ringe.
The Cristen folk, that thurgh the strete wente,
In comen, for to wondre upon this thing:
And hastifly they for the provost sente.
He came anon withouten tarying,
And herieth Crist, that is of heven king,
And eke his moder, honour of mankind,
And after that the Jewes let he binde.
This child with pitous lamentation Was taken up, singing his song alway: And with honour and gret procession, They carien him unto the next abbey. His moder swouning by the bere lay; Unnethes might the peple that was there This newe Rachel bringen fro his bere.
With turment, and with shameful deth eche on This provost doth thise Jewes for to sterve, That of this morder wiste, and that anon; He n'olde no swiche cursednesse observe: Evil shal he have, that evil wol deserve. Therfore with wilde hors he did hem drawe, And after that he heng hem by the lawe.
Upon his bere ay lith this innocent Beforn the auter while the masse last: And after that, the abbot with his covent Han spedde hem for to berie him ful fast:
And whan they holy water on him cast,
Yet spake this child, whan spreint was the holy And sang, o Alma redemptoris mater.
[water,
This abbot, which that was an holy man,
As monkes ben, or elles ought to be,
This yonge child to conjure he began,
And said; O dere child, I halse thee
In vertue of the holy Trinitee,
Tell me what is thy cause for to sing,
Sith that thy throte is cut to my seming,
My throte is cut unto my nekke-bon,
Saide this child, and as by way of kinde
I shuld have deyd, ye longe time agon:
But Jesu Crist, as ye in bookes finde,
Wol that his glory last and be in minde,
And for the worship of his moder dere,
Yet may I sing o Alma loude and clere.
This welle of mercie, Cristes moder swete,
I loved alway, as after my conning:
And whan that I my lif shulde forlete,
To me she came, and bad me for to sing
This antem veraily in my dying,
As ye han herde, and, whan that I had songe,
Me thought she laid a grain upon my tonge.
Wherfore 1 sing, and sing I mote certain
In honour of that blisful maiden free,
Til fro my tonge of taken is the grain.
And after that thus saide she to me;
My litel child, than wol I fetchen thee,
Whan that the grain is fro thy tong ytake:
Be not agaste, I wol thee not forsake.
This holy monk, this abbot him mene I,
His tonge out caught, and toke away the grain;
And he yave up the gost ful softely.
And whan this abbot had this wonder sein,
His salte teres trilled adoun as reyne:
And groff he fell al platte upon the ground,
And still he lay, as he had ben ybound.
The covent lay eke upon the pavement
Weping and herying Cristes moder dere.
And after that they risen, and forth ben went,
And toke away this martir fro his bere,
And in a tombe of marble stones clere
Enclosen they his litel body swete:
Ther he is now, God lene us for to mete.
O yonge Hew of Lincoln, slain also
With cursed Jewes, as it is notable,
For it n'is but a litel while ago,
Pray eke for us, we sinful folk unstable,
That of his mercy God so merciable
On us his grete mercie multiplie,
For reverence of his moder Marie.
WHAN said was this miracle, every man
As sober was, that wonder was to see,
Til that our hoste to japen he began,
And than at erst he loked upon me,
And saide thus; What man art thou? quod he.
Thou lokest, as thou woldest finde an hare,
For ever upon the ground I see thee stare.
Approche nere, and loke up merily.
Now ware you, sires, and let this man have place. He in the waste is shapen as wel as I:
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