Altenglische legenden.

                                
                                  Which late ffyl the sylve same yeer
                                
                                  A thousand toold ffro the Natiuite
                                  Line 10 
                                
                                  Off Cryst Jhesu by mevyng circuleer
                                
                                  Fourty and oon, at Londone the Cite;
                                
                                  That our lord of merciful pite
                                
                                  The twenty day monyth of Novembre
                                
                                  Lyst to renewe of his benignite
                                  Line 15 
                                
                                  A memoryal, as I can remembre,
                                
                                  With-inne the boundys of that towne
                                
                                  Maad his grace wit newe light to shyne,
                                
                                  To greet reiosshyng of al this regioun,
                                
                                  Vpon a day, pleynly to termyne,
                                  Line 20 
                                
                                  Off hym that is kyng, martir, and virgine,
                                
                                  Blyssed Edmond: whoos merytes to ag|gregge,
                                
                                  Our lord Jhesu, by grace which is divyne,
                                
                                  Wrought a myracle at Tempse vpon the bregge,
                                
                                  His gloryous martir ffor-to magneffye,
                                  Line 25 
                                
                                  Day of his ffeeste, at ffoure afftir|noon —
                                
                                  Thyng doon in opyn may nat gladly lye.
                                
                                  On that bregge, bylt of lym and stoon,
                                
                                  Chyldre to pleye assemblyd were in oon;
                                
                                  Among which sone of a ffleccheer,
                                  Line 30 
                                
                                  Tendre of lymes so as he myght goon,
                                
                                  Was among hem, of age but thre yeer.
                                
                                  Which of custom ther pleyes did or|deyne, [folio 88] 
                                
                                  Lyk ther conceyt, of verray Innocence.
                                
                                  Tyme of ther play to-gidre thre or tweyne
                                  Line 35 
                                
                                  Kept ther dispoort, in whoom was no diffence(!).
                                
                                  A droof of oxes cam fforby ther presence
                                
                                  Passyng the bregge; the chyldre wer so neer:
                                
                                  Oon of the beestys by sodeyn violence
                                
                                  Cauht in his hornys the chyld of the ffleccheer,
                                  Line 40 
                                
                                  Lefft hym vp-on heyghte toward the Oryent,
                                
                                  Ovir the wal caste hym in-to the fflood —
                                
                                  Sondry peple beeing ther present:
                                
                                  Off aventure somme on the bregge stood.
                                
                                  But Jhesu Cryst, moost benigne and good,
                                  Line 45 
                                
                                  Which of mercy lyst for man to sterve,
                                
                                  For our sake spent his precious blood:
                                
                                  The seid chyld of mercy lyst preserve,
                                
                                  As I toold erst nat fful thre yeer of age —
                                
                                  A monyth lasse, as I reherse can,
                                  Line 50 
                                
                                  Born thorugh the bregge with the wawes rage.
                                
                                  Off compassyoun a pitous noyse gan,
                                
                                  The bittir teerys doun by ther cheekys ran
                                
                                  Off suych as sauh westward them be-fforn
                                
                                  Toward Cooldherberwe passyng "the Swan"
                                  Line 55 
                                
                                  How, by myracle, the seid chyld was born.
                                
                                  Grace of our lord, knet with good aventure,
                                
                                  Gaff to this chyld a special avauntage:
                                
                                  That so tendre a litel creature
                                
                                  Born with the streem ffelt no damage,
                                  Line 60 
                                
                                  Nat astonyd of look nor visage.
                                
                                  Casuelly a botman fforby went,
                                
                                  Merveyllyng cam ner in his passage,
                                
                                  Into his vessel the litel child he hent,
                                
                                  Afftir an ebbe, whan the fflood gan ryse; —
                                  Line 65 
                                
                                  As ye haue herd, Cryst Jhesu was his guyde,
                                
                                  As þe processe pleynly doth devyse.
                                
                                  Vpon the bregge in the same tyde
                                
                                  The childes modir sat in hir hous besyde
                                
                                  And knewh no-thyng what of hir chyld was ffalle.
                                  Line 70 
                                
                                  Tyl a woman cowde no lengere byde,
                                
                                  Ran a greet paas: which did the modir calle,
                                
                                  With wepyng and sobbyng of hir cheer
                                
                                  Sparyd nat but pleynly toold hir al.
                                
                                  The modir saide: the chyld in no maneer
                                  Line 75 
                                
                                  No poweer hadde to reche vp to the wal;
                                
                                  But whan she knewh of hir childes ffal
                                
                                  By a greet oxe cast in-to the fflood:
                                
                                  As modrys weepe at ffeestys ffuneral,
                                
                                  Lyk a mad woman, ffuryous and wood
                                  Line 80 
                                
                                  She ran hire out, lyst ffor no-thyng spare,
                                
                                  As creature moost Inffortunat,
                                
                                  Hir her to-torn, of kercheves maad al bare,
                                
                                  Crying allas, with sorwe & dool chek|maat,
                                
                                  Off sodeyn ffurye al disconsolat.
                                  Line 85 
                                
                                  And so she ran by howsys to the place
                                
                                  Off Temple streete, took heede of noon estat:
                                
                                  Tyl she met a gentylman by grace,
                                
                                  Which appertenyd, as it also is toold,
                                
                                  To a baroun dwellyng ther-be-syde,
                                  Line 90 
                                
                                  The lord Fanhoop, which heeld ther his housoold.
                                
                                  The seid servaunt of ffortune in that tyde
                                
                                  Vpon this woman sadly dyd abyde
                                
                                  Amyd the streete, lyst no fferther goo,
                                
                                  Tyl it stood soo that grace lyst provide
                                  Line 95 
                                
                                  He knewh the cause and ground of al hir woo;
                                
                                  Hadde of hir constreynt greet com|passyoun,
                                
                                  Serchyng the cause of hire compleynyng.
                                
                                  "Allas, quod she, my child is throwe doun" —
                                
                                  Dysespeyred ffully of his ffyndyng;
                                  Line 100 
                                
                                  "But, gentyl sere, telle me now o thyng:
                                
                                  This day what ffeeste is in the kalendeer,

About this Item

Title: Altenglische legenden.
Author: Horstmann, Carl, ed. b. 1851.
Canvas: Page 441
Publication: Heilbronn,: Gebr. Henninger,; 1881.
Subject terms: Saints -- Legends; English poetry; Legends

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Collection: Corpus of Middle English Prose and Verse
Link to this Item: https://name.umdl.umich.edu/afw1383.0001.001
Link to this scan: https://quod.lib.umich.edu/c/cme/afw1383.0001.001/613:4.21

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Full citation: "Altenglische legenden." In the digital collection Corpus of Middle English Prose and Verse. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/afw1383.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed June 23, 2025.

Altenglische legenden.

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