{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_13211/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_13211","id":"gutenberg_13211","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/13211","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Classics of Literature","Category: Poetry","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Christian poetry, English (Middle) -- Translations into English"],"text":"THE PEARL\n\n\nA MIDDLE ENGLISH POEM\n\n\nA MODERN VERSION IN THE METRE OF THE ORIGINAL\n\nBY\n\nSOPHIE JEWETT\n\nASSOCIATE PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN WELLESLEY COLLEGE\n\n\n\n1908\n\n\n\nTo KATHARINE LEE BATES\n\nTHE TRANSLATOR TO THE AUTHOR\n\n     Poet of beauty, pardon me\n     If touch of mine have tarnish\u00e8d\n     Thy Pearl's pure luster, loved by thee;\n     Or dimmed thy vision of the dead\n     Alive in light and gaiety.\n     Thy life is like a shadow fled;\n     Thy place we know not nor degree,\n     The stock that bore thee, school that bred;\n     Yet shall thy fame be sung and said.\n     Poet of wonder, pain, and peace,\n     Hold high thy nameless, laurelled head\n     Where Dante dwells with Beatrice.\n\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\nAmong the treasures of the British Museum is a manuscript which\ncontains four anonymous poems, apparently of common authorship: \"The\nPearl,\" \"Cleanness,\" \"Patience,\" \"Sir Gawayne and the Green Knight.\"\nFrom the language of the writer, it seems clear that he was a native\nof some Northwestern district of England, and that he lived in the\nsecond half of the Fourteenth Century. He is quite unknown, save as\nhis work reveals him, a man of aristocratic breeding, of religious and\nsecular education, of a deeply emotional and spiritual nature, gifted\nwith imagination and perception of beauty. He shows a liking for\ntechnique that leads him to adopt elaborate devices of rhyme, while\nretaining the alliteration characteristic of Northern Middle English\nverse. He wrote as was the fashion of his time, allegory, homily,\nlament, chivalric romance, but the distinction of his poetry is that\nof a finely accentuated individuality.\n\nThe poems called \"Cleanness\" and \"Patience,\" retell incidents of\nbiblical history for a definitely didactic purpose, but even these are\nfrequently lifted into the region of imaginative literature by the\nauthor's power of graphic description. \"Sir Gawayne and the Green\nKnight\" is a priceless contribution to Arthurian story. \"The Pearl,\"\nthough it takes the form of symbolic narrative, is essentially lyric\nand elegiac, the lament, it would seem, of a father for a little,\nlong-lost daughter.\n\nThe present translation of \"The Pearl\" was begun with no larger design\nthan that of turning a few passages into modern English, by way of\nillustrating to a group of students engaged in reading the original,\nthe possibility of preserving intricate stanzaic form, and something\nof alliteration, without an entire sacrifice of poetic beauty. The\nexperiment was persisted in because its problems are such as baffle\nand fascinate a translator, and the finished version is offered not\nmerely to students of Middle English but to college classes in the\nhistory of English literature, and to non-academic readers.\n\nIf \"The Pearl\" presented no greater obstacle to a modern reader than\nis offered by Chaucer's English, a translation might be a gratuitous\ntask, but the Northwest-Midland dialect of the poem is, in fact,\nincomparably more difficult than the diction of Chaucer, more\ndifficult even than that of Langland. The meaning of many passages\nremains obscure, and a translator is often forced to choose what seems\nthe least dubious among doubtful readings.\n\nThe poem in the original passes frequently from imaginative beauty to\nconversational commonplace, from deep feeling to didactic aphorism or\ntheological dogma, and it has been my endeavor faithfully to interpret\nthese variations of matter and of style, sometimes substituting modern\ncolloquialisms for such as are obsolete, or in other ways paraphrasing\na stubborn passage, but striving never to polish the dullest lines nor\nto strengthen the weakest.\n\nA reader who will observe the difficult rhyming scheme, a scheme that\ncalls for six words of one rhyme and four of another, will understand\nthe presence of forced lines, an intrusion that one must needs suffer\nin even \"The Faerie Queene.\" These padded lines are a serious blemish\nto the poem, but the introduction of na\u00efve and familiar expressions is\none of its charms, as when the Pearl, protesting like Piccarda in\nParadise[1] that among beatified spirits there can be no rivalry,\nexclaims: \"The more the merrier.\"[2]\n\nThe translation may, at many points, need apology, but the original\nneeds only explanation. Readers familiar with medi\u00e6val poetry expect\nto encounter moral platitudes and theological subtlety. Dogma takes\nlarge and vital place in the sublimest cantos of Dante's \"Paradise,\"\nand the English poet is consciously following his noblest master when\nhe puts a sermon into the lips of his \"little queen.\" To modern ears\nsuch exposition is at harsh discord with the simple human grief and\nlonging of the poet, but to the mediaevalist symbolic theology was a\npassion. Precisely in the moment when she begins a discourse\nconcerning the doctrine of redemption, Beatrice turns upon Dante \"eyes\nthat might make a man happy in the fire,\" and at its close he looks\nupon her and beholds her \"grow more beautiful.\"[3] If even Beatrice\nhas been considered mere personification, it is natural that the Pearl\nshould be so regarded, but the plain reader finds in the symbolic\nmaiden of the English poem, as in the transfigured lady of the\nItalian, some record of a human being whose loss was anguish, and\nwhose presence rapture, to a poet long ago.\n\nThe lover of things medi\u00e6val will find in this little book not only\nthe familiar garden of Guillaume de Lorris, of Boccaccio and of\nChaucer, but an unexpected and enchanting vision of great forest and\nrushing water, of hillside and plain, of crystal cliffs and\nflame-winged birds; of the Pearl among her white peers; of the\nApocalyptic Jerusalem, discovered to the poet, it may be, as a goodly\nGothic city, though its walls are built of precious stone, and its\ntowers rise from neither church nor minster.\n\nIf even a few readers turn from the modern to the original version,\nthe translation will have had fair fortune, for the author of \"The\nPearl\" is, though unknown and unnamed, a poet second only to Chaucer\nin Chaucer's generation.\n\nIt is a pleasure to record my many debts of gratitude: to Professor\nFrank H. Chase of Beloit, Professor John L. Lowes of Swarthmore, and\nDr. Charles G. Osgood of Princeton, for their careful reading of the\ntranslation in manuscript, with invaluable assistance and suggestion;\nto Professor Martha Hale Shackford, and Miss Laura A. Hibbard, for\nconstant aid while the work was in making, and, above all, to\nProfessor Katharine Lee Bates for a critical, line by line, comparison\nof this version with the original.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: Par. III.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Pearl, stanza 71.]\n\n[Footnote 3:  Par. VII, II. 17-18; Par. VIII, I. 15.]\n\n\nS.J.\nWELLESLEY COLLEGE,\nJune, 1908.\n\n\nEDITIONS: R. Morris, Early English text Sc. 1864; I. Gollancz, London,\n1891; C.G. Osgood, Boston, 1906 (with admirable introduction, etc.).\nTRANSLATIONS: Gollancz (above); S. Weir Mitchell, New York, 1906\n(poetic, but incomplete); G.G. Coulton, London, 1906 (metre of the\noriginal); C.G. Osgood, Princeton, 1907 (prose).\n\n\n\n\nTHE PEARL\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nPearl that the Prince full well might prize,\nSo surely set in shining gold!\nNo pearl of Orient with her vies;\nTo prove her peerless I make bold:\nSo round, so radiant to mine eyes,\nsmooth she seemed, so small to hold,\nAmong all jewels judges wise\nWould count her best an hundred fold.\nAlas! I lost my pearl of old!\nI pine with heart-pain unforgot;\nDown through my arbour grass it rolled,\nMy own pearl, precious, without spot.\n\n\nSince in that spot it slipped from me\nI wait, and wish, and oft complain;\nOnce it would bid my sorrow flee,\nAnd my fair fortune turn again;\nIt wounds my heart now ceaselessly,\nAnd burns my breast with bitter pain.\nYet never so sweet a song may be\nAs, this still hour, steals through my brain,\nWhile verity I muse in vain\nHow clay should her bright beauty clot;\nO Earth! a brave gem thou dost stain,\nMy own pearl, precious, without spot!\n\n\nNeeds must that spot with spices spread,\nWhere such wealth falleth to decay;\nFair flowers, golden and blue and red,\nShine in the sunlight day by day;\nNor flower nor fruit have wither\u00e8d\nOn turf wherein such treasure lay;\nThe blade grows where the grain lies dead,\nElse were no ripe wheat stored away;\nOf good come good things, so we say,\nThen surely such seed faileth not,\nBut spices spring in sweet array\nFrom my pearl, precious, without spot.\n\n\nOnce, to that spot of which I rhyme,\nI entered, in the arbour green,\nIn August, the high summer-time\nWhen corn is cut with sickles keen;\nUpon the mound where my pearl fell,\nTall, shadowing herbs grew bright and sheen,\nGilliflower, ginger and gromwell,\nWith peonies powdered all between.\nAs it was lovely to be seen,\nSo sweet the fragrance there, I wot,\nWorthy her dwelling who hath been\nMy own pearl, precious, without spot.\n\n\nUpon that spot my hands I crossed\nIn prayer, for cold at my heart caught,\nAnd sudden sorrow surged and tossed,\nThough reason reconcilement sought.\nI mourned my pearl, dear beyond cost,\nAnd strange fears with my fancy fought;\nMy will in wretchedness was lost,\nAnd yet Christ comforted my thought.\nSuch odours to my sense were brought,\nI fell upon that flowery plot,\nSleeping,--a sleep with dreams inwrought\nOf my pearl, precious, without spot.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nFrom the spot my spirit springs into space,\nThe while my body sleeping lies;\nMy ghost is gone in God's good grace,\nAdventuring mid mysteries;\nI know not what might be the place,\nBut I looked where tall cliffs cleave the skies,\nToward a forest I turned my face,\nWhere ranks of radiant rocks arise.\nA man might scarce believe his eyes,\nSuch gleaming glory was from them sent;\nNo woven web may men devise\nOf half such wondrous beauties blent.\n\n\nIn beauty shone each fair hillside\nWith crystal cliffs in shining row,\nWhile bright woods everywhere abide,\nTheir boles as blue as indigo;\nLike silver clear the leaves spread wide,\nThat on each spray thick-quivering grow;\nIf a flash of light across them glide\nWith shimmering sheen they gleam and glow;\nThe gravel on the ground below\nSeemed precious pearls of Orient;\nThe sunbeams did but darkling show\nSo gloriously those beauties blent.\n\n\nThe beauty of the hills so fair\nMade me forget my sufferings;\nI breathed fruit fragrance fine and rare,\nAs if I fed on unseen things;\nBrave birds fly through the woodland there,\nOf flaming hues, and each one sings;\nWith their mad mirth may not compare\nCithern nor gayest citole-strings;\nFor when those bright birds beat their wings,\nThey sing together, all content;\nKeen joy to any man it brings\nTo hear and see such beauties blent.\n\n\nSo beautiful was all the wood\nWhere, guided forth by Chance, I strayed,\nThere is no tongue that fully could\nDescribe it, though all men essayed.\nOnward I walked in merriest mood\nNor any highest hill delayed\nMy feet. Far through the forest stood\nThe plain with fairest trees arrayed,\nHedges and slopes and rivers wide,\nLike gold thread their banks' garnishment;\nAnd when I won the waterside,\nDear Lord! what wondrous beauties blent!\n\n\nThe beauties of that stream were steep,\nAll-radiant banks of beryl bright;\nSweet-sighing did the water sweep,\nWith murmuring music running light;\nWithin its bed fair stones lay deep;\nAs if through glass they glowed, as white\nAs streaming stars when tired men sleep\nShine in the sky on a winter night.\nPure emerald even the pebbles seemed,\nSapphire, or other gems that lent\nLuster, till all the water gleamed\nWith the glory of such beauties blent.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nFor the beauteousness of downs and dales,\nOf wood and water and proud plains,\nMy joy springs up and my grief quails,\nMy anguish ends, and all my pains.\nA swift stream down the valley hales\nMy feet along. Bliss brims my brains;\nThe farther I follow those watery vales,\nThe stronger joy my heart constrains.\nWhile Fortune fares as her proud will deigns,\nSending solace or sending sore,\nWhen a man her fickle favour gains,\nHe looketh to have aye more and more.\n\n\nThere was more of marvel and of grace\nThan I could tell, howe'er I tried;\nThe human heart that could embrace\nA tenth part were well satisfied;\nFor Paradise, the very place,\nMust be upon that farther side;\nThe water by a narrow space\nPleasance from pleasance did divide.\nBeyond, on some slope undescried\nThe City stood, I thought, wherefore\nI strove to cross the river's tide,\nAnd ever I longed, yet more and more.\n\n\nMore, and still more wistfully,\nThe banks beyond the brook I scanned;\nIf, where I stood, 't was fair to see,\nStill lovelier lay that farther land.\nI sought if any ford might be\nFound, up or down, by rock or sand;\nBut perils plainer appeared to me,\nThe farther I strode along the strand;\nI thought I ought not thus to stand\nTimid, with such bright bliss before;\nThen a new matter came to hand\nThat moved my heart yet more and more.\n\n\nMarvels more and more amaze\nMy mind beyond that water fair:\nFrom a cliff of crystal, splendid rays,\nReflected, quiver in the air.\nAt the cliff's foot a vision stays\nMy glance, a maiden debonaire,\nAll glimmering white before my gaze;\nAnd I know her,--have seen her otherwhere.\nLike fine gold leaf one cuts with care,\nShone the maiden on the farther shore.\nLong time I looked upon her there,\nAnd ever I knew her more and more.\n\n\nAs more and more I scanned her face\nAnd form, when I had found her so,\nA glory of gladness filled the place\nBeyond all it was wont to show.\nMy joy would call her and give chase,\nBut wonder struck my courage low;\nI saw her in so strange a place,\nThe shock turned my heart dull and slow.\nBut now she lifts that brow aglow,\nLike ivory smooth, even as of yore,\nIt made my senses straying go,\nIt stung my heart aye more and more.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nMore than I liked did my fear rise.\nStock still I stood and dared not call;\nWith lips close shut and watchful eyes,\nI stood as quiet as hawk in hall.\nI thought her a spirit from the skies;\nI doubted what thing might befall;\nIf to escape me now she tries,\nHow shall my voice her flight forestall?\nThen graciously and gay withal,\nIn royal robes, so sweet, so slight,\nShe rose, so modest and so small,\nThat precious one in pearls bedight.\n\n\nPearl bedight full royally,\nAdown the bank with merry mien,\nCame the maiden, fresh as fleur-de-lys.\nHer surcoat linen must have been\nShining in whitest purity,\nSlashed at the sides and caught between\nWith the fairest pearls, it seemed to me,\nThat ever yet mine eyes had seen;\nWith large folds falling loose, I ween,\nArrayed with double pearls, her white\nKirtle, of the same linen sheen,\nWith precious pearls all round was dight.\n\n\nA crown with pearls bedight, the girl\nWas wearing, and no other stone;\nHigh pinnacled of clear white pearl,\nWrought as if pearls to flowers were grown.\nNo band nor fillet else did furl\nThe long locks all about her thrown.\nHer air demure as duke or earl,\nHer hue more white than walrus-bone;\nLike sheer gold thread the bright hair strown\nLoose on her shoulders, lying light.\nHer colour took a deeper tone\nWith bordering pearls so fair bedight.\n\n\nBedight was every hem, and bound,\nAt wrists, sides, and each aperture,\nWith pearls the whitest ever found,--\nWhite all her brave investiture;\nBut a wondrous pearl, a flawless round,\nUpon her breast was set full sure;\nA man's mind it might well astound,\nAnd all his wits to madness lure.\nI thought that no tongue might endure\nFully to tell of that sweet sight,\nSo was it perfect, clear and pure,\nThat precious pearl with pearls bedight.\n\n\nBedight in pearls, lest my joy cease,\nThat lovely one came down the shore;\nThe gladdest man from here to Greece,\nThe eagerest, was I, therefore;\nShe was nearer kin than aunt or niece,\nAnd thus my joy was much the more.\nShe spoke to me for my soul's peace,\nCourtesied with her quaint woman's lore,\nCaught off the shining crown she wore,\nAnd greeted me with glance alight.\nI blessed my birth; my bliss brimmed o'er\nTo answer her in pearls bedight.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\n\"O Pearl,\" I said, \"in pearls bedight,\nArt thou my pearl for which I mourn,\nLamenting all alone at night?\nWith hidden grief my heart is worn.\nSince thou through grass didst slip from sight,\nPensive and pained, I pass forlorn,\nAnd thou livest in a life of light,\nA world where enters sin nor scorn.\nWhat fate has hither my jewel borne,\nAnd left me in earth's strife and stir?\nOh, sweet, since we in twain were torn,\nI have been a joyless jeweler.\"\n\n\nThat Jewel then with gems besprent\nGlanced up at me with eyes of grey,\nPut on her pearl crown orient,\nAnd soberly began to say:\n\"You tell your tale with wrong intent,\nThinking your pearl gone quite away.\nLike a jewel within a coffer pent,\nIn this gracious garden bright and gay,\nYour pearl may ever dwell at play,\nWhere sin nor mourning come to her;\nIt were a joy to thee alway\nWert thou a gentle jeweler.\n\n\n\"But, Jeweler, if thou dost lose\nThy joy for a gem once dear to thee,\nMethinks thou dost thy mind abuse,\nBewildered by a fantasy;\nThou hast lost nothing save a rose\nThat flowered and failed by life's decree:\nBecause the coffer did round it close,\nA precious pearl it came to be.\nA thief thou hast dubbed thy destiny\nThat something for nothing gives thee, sir;\nThou blamest thy sorrow's remedy,\nThou art no grateful jeweler.\"\n\n\nLike jewels did her story fall,\nA jewel, every gentle clause;\n\"Truly,\" I said, \"thou best of all!\nMy great distress thy voice withdraws.\nI thought my pearl lost past recall,\nMy jewel shut within earth's jaws;\nBut now I shall keep festival,\nAnd dwell with it in bright wood-shaws;\nAnd love my Lord and all His laws,\nWho hath brought this bliss. Ah! if I were\nBeyond these waves, I should have cause\nTo be a joyful jeweler.\"\n\n\n\"Jeweler,\" said that Gem so dear,\n\"Why jest ye men, so mad ye be?\nThree sayings thou hast spoken clear,\nAnd unconsidered were all three;\nTheir meaning thou canst not come near,\nThy word before thy thought doth flee.\nFirst, thou believest me truly here,\nBecause with eyes thou mayst me see;\nSecond, with me in this country\nThou wilt dwell, whatever may deter;\nThird, that to cross here thou art free:\nThat may no joyful jeweler.\"\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nThe jeweler merits little praise,\nWho loves but what he sees with eye,\nAnd it were a discourteous phrase\nTo say our Lord would make a lie,\nWho surely pledged thy soul to raise,\nThough fate should cause thy flesh to die.\nThou dost twist His words in crooked ways\nBelieving only what is nigh;\nThis is but pride and bigotry,\nThat a good man may ill assume,\nTo hold no matter trustworthy\nTill like a judge he hear and doom.\n\n\n\"Whate'er thy doom, dost thou complain\nAs man should speak to God most high?\nThou wouldst gladly dwell in this domain;\n'T were best, methinks, for leave to apply.\nEven so, perchance, thou pleadest in vain.\nAcross this water thou wouldst fly,--\nTo other end thou must attain.\nThy corpse to clay comes verily,--\nIn Paradise 't was ruined by\nOur forefather. Now in the womb\nOf dreary death each man must lie,\nEre God on this bank gives his doom.\"\n\n\n\"Doom me not, sweet, to my old fears\nAnd pain again wherein I pine.\nMy pearl that, long, long lost, appears,\nShall I again forego, in fine?\nMeet it, and miss it through more years?\nThou hast hurt me with that threat of thine.\nFor what serves treasure but for tears,\nOne must so soon his bliss resign?\nI reck not how my days decline,\nThough far from earth my soul seek room,\nParted from that dear pearl of mine.\nSave endless dole what is man's doom?\"\n\n\n\"No doom save pain and soul's distress?\"\nShe answered: \"Wherefore thinkst thou so?\nFor pain of parting with the less,\nMan often lets the greater go.\n'T were better thou thy fate shouldst bless,\nAnd love thy God, through weal and woe;\nFor anger wins not happiness;\nWho must, shall bear; bend thy pride low;\nFor though thou mayst dance to and fro,\nStruggle and shriek, and fret and fume,\nWhen thou canst stir not, swift nor slow,\nAt last, thou must endure His doom.\"\n\n\n\"Let God doom as He doth ordain;\nHe will not turn one foot aside;\nThy good deeds mount up but in vain,\nThou must in sorrow ever bide;\nStint of thy strife, cease to complain,\nSeek His compassion safe and wide,\nThy prayer His pity may obtain,\nTill Mercy all her might have tried.\nThy anguish He will heal and hide,\nAnd lightly lift away thy gloom;\nFor, be thou sore or satisfied,\nAll is for Him to deal and doom.\"\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nDoom me not, dearest damosel;\nIt is not for wrath nor bitterness,\nIf rash and raving thoughts I tell.\nFor sin my heart seethed in distress,\nLike bubbling water in a well.\nI cry God mercy, and confess.\nRebuke me not with words so fell;\nI have lost all that my life did bless;\nComfort my sorrow and redress,\nPiteously thinking upon this:\nGrief and my soul thou hast made express\nOne music,--thou who wert my bliss.\n\n\n\"My bliss and bale, thou hast been both,\nBut joy by great grief was undone;\nWhen thou didst vanish, by my troth,\nI knew not where my Pearl was gone.\nTo lose thee now I were most loth.\nDear, when we parted we were one;\nNow God forbid that we be wroth,\nWe meet beneath the moon or sun\nSo seldom. Gently thy words run,\nBut I am dust, my deeds amiss;\nThe mercy of Christ and Mary and John\nIs root and ground of all my bliss.\"\n\n\n\"A blissful life I see thee lead,\nThe while that I am sorrow's mate;\nHaply thou givest little heed\nWhat might my burning hurt abate.\nSince I may in thy presence plead,\nI do beseech thee thou narrate,\nSoberly, surely, word and deed,\nWhat life is thine, early and late?\nI am fain of thy most fair estate;\nThe high road of my joy is this,\nThat thou hast happiness so great;\nIt is the ground of all my bliss.\"\n\n\nShe said, \"May bliss to thee betide,\"\nHer face with beauty beaming clear,\n\"Welcome thou art here to abide,\nFor now thy speech is to me dear.\nMasterful mood and haughty pride,\nI warn thee win but hatred here;\nFor my Lord loveth not to chide\nAnd meek are all that to Him come near.\nWhen in His place thou shalt appear,\nTo kneel devout be not remiss,\nMy Lord the Lamb loveth such cheer,\nWho is the ground of all my bliss.\"\n\n\n\"Thou sayest a blissful life I know,\nAnd thou wouldst learn of its degree.\nThou rememberest when thy pearl fell low\nIn earth, I was but young to see;\nBut my Lord the Lamb, as if to show\nHis grace, took me His bride to be,\nCrowned me a queen in bliss to go\nThrough length of days eternally;\nAnd dowered with all His wealth is she\nWho is His love, and I am His;\nHis worthiness and royalty\nAre root and ground of all my bliss.\"\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n\n\"My blissful one, may this be true.\nPardon if I speak ill,\" I prayed:\n\"Art thou the queen o' the heaven's blue,\nTo whom earth's honour shall be paid?\nWe believe in Mary, of grace who grew,\nA mother, yet a blameless maid;\nTo wear her crown were only due\nTo one who purer worth displayed.\nFor perfectness by none gainsaid,\nWe call her the Phoenix of Araby,\nThat flies in faultless charm arrayed,\nLike to the Queen of courtesy.\"\n\n\n\"Courteous Queen,\" that bright one said,\nAnd, kneeling, lifted up her face:\n\"Matchless Mother and merriest Maid,\nBless\u00e8d Beginner of every grace.\"\nThen she arose, and softly stayed,\nAnd spoke to me across that space:\n\"Sir, many seek gain here, and are paid,\nBut defrauders are none within this place;\nThat Empress may all heaven embrace,\nAnd earth and hell in her empery;\nHer from her heritage none will chase,\nFor she is Queen of courtesy.\"\n\n\n\"The court of the kingdom of God doth thrive\nOnly because of this wondrous thing:\nEach one who therein may arrive,\nOf the realm is either queen or king;\nAnd no one the other doth deprive,\nBut is fain of his fellow's guerdoning,\nAnd would wish each crown might be worth five,\nIf possible were their bettering.\nBut my Lady, from whom our Lord did spring,\nRules over all our company,\nAnd for that we all rejoice and sing,\nSince she is Queen of courtesy.\"\n\n\n\"Of courtesy, as says St. Paul,\nMembers of Christ we may be seen.\nAs head and arm and leg, and all,\nBound to the body close have been,\nEach Christian soul himself may call\nA living limb of his Lord, I ween.\nAnd see how neither hate nor gall\n'Twixt limb and limb may intervene;\nThe head shows neither spite nor spleen,\nThough arm and finger jewelled be,\nSo fare we all in love serene,\nAs kings and queens by courtesy.\"\n\n\n\"Courtesy flowers thy folk among,\nAnd charity, I well believe.\nIf foolish words flow from my tongue,\nLet not my speech thy spirit grieve.\nA queen in heaven while yet so young,\nToo high thou dost thyself upheave.\nThen what reward from strife were wrung?\nWhat worship more might he achieve\nWho lived in penance morn and eve,\nThrough bodily pain in bliss to be?\nHonour more high might he receive,\nThan be crowned king by courtesy?\"\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\n\n\"That courtesy rewards no deed\nIf all be true that thou dost say;\nOur life not two years didst thou lead\nNor learned to please God, nor to pray,\nNo Paternoster knew nor creed,\nAnd made a queen on the first day!\nI may not think, so God me speed!\nThat God from right would swerve away;\nAs a countess, damsel, by my fay!\nTo live in heaven were a fair boon,\nOr like a lady of less array,\nBut a queen! Ah, no! it is too soon.\"\n\n\n\"With Him there is no soon nor late,\"\nReplied to me that worthy wight;\n\"True always is His high mandate;\nHe doth no evil, day nor night.\nHear Matthew in the mass narrate,\nIn the Gospel of the God of might,\nHis parable portrays the state\nOf the Kingdom of Heaven, clear as light:\n'My servants,' saith He, 'I requite\nAs a lord who will his vineyard prune;\nThe season of the year is right,\nAnd labourers must be hired soon.'\"\n\n\n\"Right soon the hirelings all may see\nHow the master with the dawn arose;\nTo hire his labourers forth went he,\nAnd workmen stout and strong he chose.\nFor a penny a day they all agree,\nEven as the master doth propose,\nThey toil and travail lustily,\nPrune, bind, and with a ditch enclose.\nThen to the market-place he goes,\nAnd finds men idle at high noon:\n'How can a man stand here who knows\nThe vineyards should be tilled so soon?'\"\n\n\n\"'Soon as day dawned we hither won,\nAnd no man hath our labour sought;\nWe have been standing since rose the sun\nAnd no one bids us to do aught.'\n'Enter my vineyard every one,'\nThe master answered quick as thought:\n'The work that each by night has done\nI will truly pay, withholding naught.'\nAmong the vines they went and wrought,\nWhile morning, noon and afternoon,\nMore labourers the master brought,\nUntil the night must gather soon.\"\n\n\n\"Soon fell the time of evensong.\nAn hour before the sun was set,\nHe saw more idlers, young and strong;\nHis voice was sober with regret:\n'Why stand ye idle all day long?'\n'No man,' they said, 'hath hired us yet.'\n'Go to my vineyard, fear no wrong;\nEach man an honest wage shall get.'\nThe day grew dark and darker yet,\n\"Before the rising of the moon;\nThe master who would pay his debt,\nBade summon all the hirelings soon.\"\n\n\n\n\nX\n\n\n\"The lord soon called his steward: 'Go\nBring in the men quick as ye may;\nGive them the wages that I owe,\nAnd, lest they aught against me say,\nRange them along here in a row,\nTo each alike his penny pay;\nStart with the last who standeth low,\nAnd to the first proceed straightway,'\nAnd then the first began to pray,\nComplaining they had travailed sore:\n'These wrought but one hour of the day,\nWe think we should receive the more.'\"\n\n\n\"'More have we served,' they muttered low,\n'Who have endured the long day's heat,\nThan these who not two hours toiled so;\nWhy should their claim with ours compete?'\nSaid the master: 'I pay all I owe;\nFriend, no injustice shalt thou meet;\nTake that which is thine own and go.\nFor a penny we settled in the street;\nWhy dost thou now for more entreat?\nThou wast well satisfied before.\nOnce made, a bargain is complete;\nWhy shouldst thou, threatening, ask for more?\"\n\n\n\"'What can be more within my gift\nThan what I will with mine to do?\nLet not thine eyes to evil shift,\nBecause I trusty am, and true.'\n'Thus I,' said Christ, 'all men shall sift.\nThe last shall be the first of you;\nAnd the first last, however swift,\nFor many are called, but chosen, few.'\nAnd thus poor men may have their due,\nThat late and little burden bore;\nTheir work may vanish like the dew,\nThe mercy of God is much the more.\"\n\n\n\"More gladness have I, herewithin,\nOf flower of life, and noble name,\nThan all men in the world might win,\nWho thought their righteous deeds to name.\nNathless even now did I begin;\nTo the vineyard as night fell I came,\nBut my Lord would not account it sin;\nHe paid my wages without blame.\nYet others did not fare the same,\nWho toiled and travailed there before,\nAnd of their hire might nothing claim,\nPerchance shall not for a year more.\"\n\n\nThen more, and openly, I spake:\n\"From thy tale no reason can I wring;\nGod's righteousness doth ever wake,\nElse Holy Writ is a fabled thing.\nFrom the Psalter one verse let us take,\nThat may to a point this teaching bring:\n'Thou requitest each for his deed's sake,\nThou high and all-foreknowing King.'\nIf one man to his work did cling\nAll day, and thou wert paid before,\nMost wage falls to least labouring,\nAnd ever the less receives the more.\"\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\n\n\"Of more or less where God doth reign,\nThere is no chance,\" she gently said,\n\"For, whether large or small his gain,\nHere every man alike is paid.\nNo niggard churl our High Chieftain,\nBut lavishly His gifts are made,\nLike streams from a moat that flow amain,\nOr rushing waves that rise unstayed.\nFree were his pardon whoever prayed\nHim who to save man's soul did vow,\nUnstinted his bliss, and undelayed,\nFor the grace of God is great enow.\"\n\n\n\"But now thou wouldst my wit checkmate,\nMaking my wage as wrong appear;\nThou say'st that I am come too late,\nOf so large hire to be worthy here;\nYet sawest thou ever small or great,\nLiving in prayer and holy fear,\nWho did not forfeit at some date\nThe meed of heaven to merit clear?\nNay much the rather, year by year,\nAll bend from right and to evil bow;\nMercy and grace their way must steer,\nFor the grace of God is great enow.\"\n\n\n\"But enow of grace have the innocent\nNew-born, before the sacred shrine,\nThey are sealed with water in sacrament,\nAnd thus are brought into the vine.\nAnon the day with darkness blent,\nDeath by its might makes to decline;\nWho wrought no wrong ere hence they went,\nThe gentle Lord receives, in fine;\nThey obeyed His will, they bore His sign,\nWhy should He not their claim allow?\nYea, and reward them, I opine,\nFor the grace of God is great enow.\"\n\n\n\"'T is known enow that all mankind\nAt first were formed for perfect bliss;\nOur forefather that boon resigned,\nAll for an apple's sake, I wis;\nWe fell condemned, for folly blind,\nTo suffer sore in hell's abyss;\nBut One a remedy did find\nLest we our hope of heaven should miss.\nHe suffered on the cross for this,\nRed blood ran from His crown\u00e8d brow;\nHe saved us by that pain of His,\nFor the grace of God is great enow.\"\n\n\n\"Enow there flowed from out that well,\nBlood and water from His broad wound:\nThe blood bought us from bale of hell,\nAnd from second death deliverance found.\nThe water is baptism, truth to tell,\nThat followed-the spear so sharply ground,\nAnd washes away the guilt most fell\nOf those that Adam in death had drowned.\nNow is there nothing in earth's great round,\nTo bar from the bliss wherewith God did endow\nMankind,--restored to us safe and sound,\nFor the grace of God is great enow.\"\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\n\n\"Grace enow a man may get\nBy penitence, though he sin again;\nBut with long sorrow and regret,\nHe must bear punishment and pain;\nBut righteous reason will not let\nThe innocent be hurt in vain;\nGod never gave His judgment yet,\nThat they should suffer who show no stain.\nThe sinful soul of mercy fain\nFinds pardon if he will repent,\nBut he who sinless doth remain\nIs surely saved, being innocent.\"\n\n\n\"Two men are saved of God's good grace,\nWho severally have done His will:\nThe righteous man shall see His face,\nThe innocent dwells with Him still.\nIn the Psalter thou may'st find a case:\n'Lord, who shall climb to Thy high hill,\nOr rest within Thy Holy Place?'\nThe psalmist doth the sense fulfill:\n'Who with his hands did never ill,\nHis heart to evil never lent,\nThere to ascend he shall have skill;'\nSo surely saved is the innocent.\"\n\n\n\"That the righteous is saved I hold certain;\nBefore God's palace he shall stand\nWho never took man's life in vain,\nWho never to flatter his fellow planned.\nOf the righteous, the Wise Man writeth plain\nHow kindly our King doth him command;\nIn ways full strait he doth restrain,\nYet shows him the kingdom great and grand,\nAs who saith: 'Behold! yon lovely land!\nThou may'st win it, if so thy will be bent.'\nBut with never peril on either hand,\nSurely saved is the innocent.\"\n\n\n\"Of the righteous saved, hear one man say--\nDavid, who in the Psalter cried:\n'O Lord, call never Thy servant to pay,\nFor no man living is justified.'\nSo thou, if thou shalt come one day\nTo the court that each cause must decide,\nFor mercy with justice thou may'st pray\nThrough this same text that I espied.\nBut may He on the bloody cross that died,\nHis holy hands with hard nails rent,\nGive thee to pass when thou art tried,\nSaved, not as righteous, but innocent.\"\n\n\n\"Of the sinless saved the tale is told,--\nRead in the Book where it is said:\nWhen Jesus walked, among men of old,\nThe people a passage to Him made;\nBringing their bairns for Him to hold,\nFor the blessing of His hand they prayed.\nThe twelve reproved them: 'Overbold\nTo seek the Master;' and sternly stayed.\nBut Jesus said: 'Be ye not afraid;\nSuffer the children, nor prevent;\nGod's kingdom is for such arrayed.'\nSurely saved are the innocent.\"\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\n\n\"Christ called to Him the innocents mild,\nAnd said His kingdom no man might win,\nUnless he came thither as a child,--Not\notherwise might he enter in,\nHarmless, faithful, undefiled,\nWith never a spot of soiling sin,--For\nthese whom the world has not beguiled\nGladly shall one the gate unpin.\nThere shall that endless bliss begin,\nThe merchant sought, and straight was led\nTo barter all stuffs men weave and spin,\nTo buy him a pearl unblemished.\"\n\n\n\"'This pearl unblemished, bought so dear,\nFor which the merchant his riches gave,\nIs like the kingdom of heaven clear;'\nSo said the Father of world and wave.\nIt is a flawless, perfect sphere,\nPolished and pure, and bright and brave;\nAs on my heart it doth appear,\nIt is common to all who to virtue clave.\nMy Lord, the Lamb Who died to save,\nHere set it in token of His blood shed\nFor peace. Then let the wild world rave,\nBut buy thee this pearl unblemish\u00e8d.\"\n\n\n\"O Pearl unblemished, in pure pearls dressed,\nThat beareth,\" said I, \"the pearl of price,\nWho formed thy figure-and thy vest?\nTruly he wrought with cunning nice;\nFor thy beauty, above nature's best,\nPasseth Pygmalion's artifice;\nNor Aristotle the lore possessed\nTo depict in words so fair device.\nThan fleur-de-lys thou art fairer thrice,\nAngel-mannered and courtly bred,--\nTell to me truly: in Paradise\nWhat meaneth the pearl unblemished?\"\n\n\n\"My spotless Lamb, who all doth heal,\"\nShe answered, \"my dear Destiny,\nChose me in marriage bond to seal;\nUnfit, He graced me regally,\nFrom your world's woe come into weal.\nHe called me of His courtesy:\n'Come hither to me, my lover leal,\nFor mote nor spot is none in thee.'\nHe gave me my might and great beauty;\nHe washed my weeds in His blood so red,\nAnd crowned me, forever clean to be,\nAnd clothed me in pearls unblemish\u00e8d.\"\n\n\n\"Unblemished bride, bright to behold,\nThat royalty hath so rich and rare,\nWhat is this Lamb, that thou hast told\nHow for wedded wife He called thee there?\nAbove all others dost thou make bold,\nAs His chosen lady His life to share?\nSo many, comely in combs of gold,\nFor Christ have lived in strife and care,\nMust these to a lower place repair,\nThat never any with Him may wed,\nSave only thyself, so proud and fair,\nPeerless Queen, and unblemished?\"\n\n\n\n\nXIV\n\n\n\"Unblemished,\" answered she again,\n\"Without a spot of black or gray,\nWith honour may I this maintain;\nBut 'peerless Queen' I did not say.\nBrides of the Lamb in bliss we reign,\nAn hundred and forty thousand gay,\nAs in the Apocalypse is made plain,\nSaint John beheld them on a day;\nOn the hill of Zion he saw them stay,\nIn vision his spirit looked on them,\nFor the wedding clad in bright-array,\nAt the city of New Jerusalem.\"\n\n\n\"Of Jerusalem in speech I tell;\nAnd what He is if thou wouldst see--\nMy Lamb, my Lord, my dear Jewel,\nMy Joy, my Love, my Bliss so free,--\nThe prophet Isaiah writeth well\nOf His most mild humility:\n'Guiltless, when men upon Him fell\nFor never a fault nor felony,\nAs a sheep to the slaughter led was He;\nQuiet, the while the crowd contemn,\nAs a lamb in the shearer's hands might be,\nHe was judged by Jews in Jerusalem.'\"\n\n\n\"In Jerusalem was my Lover slain,\nRent on the rood by ruffians bold;\nTo bear our ills He was full fain,\nTo suffer our sorrows manifold;\nBuffeted until blood did stain\nThat face so lovely to behold;\nHe took upon Him all sin and pain,\nEven He of Whom not one sin is told;\nOn the rude cross stretched faint and cold,\nHe let men deride him and condemn;\nMeek as a lamb, betrayed and sold,\nHe died for us in Jerusalem.\"\n\n\n\"At Jerusalem, Jordan and Galilee,\nWherever Saint John came to baptize,\nHis words with Isaiah's words agree.\nOn Jesus he lifted up his eyes,\nSpeaking of Him this prophecy:\n'Behold the Lamb of God!' he cries:\n'Who bears the world's sins, this is He!\nThe guilt of all upon Him lies,\nThough He wrought evil in no wise.\nThe branches springing from that stem\nWho can recount? 'T is He who dies\nFor our sake in Jerusalem.'\"\n\n\n\"In Jerusalem my Lover sweet\nTwice as a lamb did thus appear,\nEven as the prophets both repeat,\nSo meek the mien that He did wear;\nThe third time also, as is meet,\nIn the Revelation is written clear.\nReading a book on His high seat\nMidmost the throne that saints ensphere,\nThe Apostle John beheld Him near;\nThat book seven sacred seals begem;\nAnd at that sight all folk felt fear\nIn hell, in earth and Jerusalem.\"\n\n\n\n\nXV\n\n\nThis Jerusalem Lamb had never stain\nOf other hue than perfect white,\nThat showeth neither streak nor strain\nOf soil, but is like wool to sight;\nAnd souls that free of sin remain\nThe Lamb receiveth with delight;\nAnd, though each day a group we gain,\nThere comes no strife for room nor right,\nNor rivalry our bliss to blight.\nThe more the merrier, I profess.\nIn company our love grows bright,\nIn honour more and never less.\n\n\n\"Lessening of bliss no comer brings\nTo us who bear this pearl at breast;\nNor show they flaws nor tarnishings\nWho wear such pure pearls like a crest.\nThough round our corpses the clay clings,\nAnd though ye mourn us without rest,\nKnowledge have we of goodly things.\nThrough the first death our hope we test;\nGrief goes; at each mass we are blest\nBy the Lamb Who gives us happiness;\nThe bliss of each is bright and best,\nAnd no one's honour is the less.\"\n\n\n\"That thou my tale the less may doubt,\nIn the Revelation 'tis told, and more:\n'I saw,' says John, 'a goodly rout\nThe hill of Zion covering o'er,\nThe Lamb, with maidens round about,\nAn hundred thousand and forty and four,\nAnd each brow, fairly written out,\nThe Lamb's name and His Father's bore.\nThen a sound from heaven I heard outpour,\nAs streams, full laden, foam and press,\nOr as thunders among dark crags roar,\nThe tumult was, and nothing less.\"\n\n\n\"'Nathless, though high that shout might ring,\nAnd loud the voices sounding near,\nA strain full new I heard them sing,\nAnd sweet and strange it was to hear.\nLike harper's hands upon the string\nWas that new song they sang so clear;\nThe noble notes went vibrating,\nAnd gentle words came to my ear.\nClose by God's throne, without one fear,\nWhere the four beasts His power confess,\nAnd the elders stand so grave of cheer,\nThey sang their new song, none the less.\"\n\n\n\"'Nathless is none with skill so fine,\nFor all the crafts that ever he knew,\nThat of that song might sing a line;\nSave these that hold the Lamb in view;\nFrom earth brought to that land divine,\nAs first fruits that to God are due,\nThey serve the Lamb and bear His sign,\nAs like Himself in face and hue;\nFor never lying nor tale untrue\nDefiled their lips in life's distress;'\nWhatever might move them, they but drew\nNearer the Master, none the less.\"\n\n\n\"Nevertheless, speak out I must,\nMy Pearl, though queries rude I pose.\nTo try thy fair wit were unjust\nWhom Christ to His own chamber chose.\nBehold, I am but dung and dust,\nAnd thou a rare and radiant rose,\nAbiding here in life, and lust\nOf loveliness that ever grows.\nA hind that no least cunning knows,\nI needs must my one doubt express;\nThough boisterous as the wind that blows,\nLet my prayer move thee none the less.\"\n\n\n\n\nXVI\n\n\nYet, none the less, on thee I call,\nIf thou wilt listen verily,\nAs thou art glorious over all,\nHearken the while I question thee.\nWithin some splendid castle wall,\nHave ye not dwellings fair to see?\nOf David's city, rich, royal,\nJerusalem, thou tellest me.\nIn Palestine its place must be;\nIn wildwood such none ever saw.\nSince spotless is your purity,\nYour dwellings should be free from flaw.\n\n\n\"Now this most fair and flawless rout,\nThronging thousands, as thou dost tell,\nThey must possess, beyond a doubt,\nA sightly city wherein to dwell.\n'T were strange that they should live without;\nFor so bright a band it were not well;\nYet I see no building hereabout.\nDost thou linger as in a woodland cell,\nAlone and hidden, for the spell\nOf rushing stream and shining shaw?\nIf thou hast a dwelling beyond this dell,\nNow show me that city free from flaw.\"\n\n\n\"Not flawless the city in Juda's land,\"\nThat gentle one gently to me spake,\n\"But the Lamb did bless it when He planned\nTo suffer there sorely for man's sake.\nThat is the old city we understand,\nAnd there the bonds of old guilt did break;\nBut the new, alighted from God's hand,\nThe Apostle John for his theme did take.\nThe Lamb Who is white with never a flake\nOf black, did thither His fair folk draw;\nFor His flock no fenced fold need He make,\nNor moat for His city free from flaw.\"\n\n\n\"To figure flawlessly what may mean\nJerusalems twain: the first of those\nWas 'the Sight of Peace' as it is seen\nIn the word of God, for the gospel shows\nHow there our peace made sure hath been,\nSince to suffer therein the Saviour chose;\nIn the other is always peace to glean,\nPeace that never an ending knows.\nTo that city bright the spirit goes\nWhen the flesh hath fallen beneath death's law;\nThere glorious gladness forever grows\nFor His fair folk that are free from flaw.\"\n\n\n\"Flawless maid so mild and meek,\"\nThen said I to that lovely flower:\n\"Let me that stately city seek,\nAnd let me see thy blissful bower.\"\nThat bright one said, \"Thou art too weak,\nThou may'st not enter to its tower;\nYet of the Lamb I did bespeak\nThis goodly gift, that He would dower\nThine eyes with the sight for one short hour,--\nFrom without,--within none ever saw;\nTo step in that street thou hast no power,\nUnless thy soul were free from flaw.\"\n\n\n\n\nXVII\n\n\n\"This flawless sight I will not hide;\nUp toward the brook's head thou must go,\nWhile I will follow on this side,\nTill yonder hill the city show.\"\nAnd then I would no longer bide,\nBut stole through branches, bending low,\nTill from the summit I espied,\nThrough green boughs swaying to and fro,\nAfar, the city, all aglow,\nThat brighter than bright sunbeams shone.\nIn writing it is pictured so,\nIn the Revelation of St. John.\n\n\nAs John the Apostle saw the sight,\nI saw that city, standing near\nJerusalem, so royal dight,\nAs if from Heaven alighted here.\nThe city all of gold burned bright,\nLike gleaming glass that glistens clear.\nWith precious stones beneath set right:\nFoundations twelve of gems most dear,\nWrought wondrous richly, tier on tier.\nEach base was of a separate stone\nAs, perfectly, it doth appear\nIn the Revelation of St. John.\n\n\nJohn named the stones that he had seen,\nI knew the order that he made;\nThe first a jasper must have been,\nThat on the lowest base was laid,\nBeneath the rest it glinted green;\nA sapphire in the second grade;\nChalcedony, from blemish clean,\nIn the third course was fair arrayed;\nFourth, emerald, of greenest shade,\nFifth, sardonyx, was raised thereon;\nThe sixth a ruby, as is said\nIn the Revelation of St. John.\n\n\nJohn joined to these the chrysolite,\nThe seventh gem in that basement;\nThe eighth, a beryl, clear and white;\nThe topaz, ninth, its luster lent;\nTenth, chrysophrase, both soft and bright;\nEleventh, the jacinth, translucent;\nAnd twelfth, and noblest to recite,\nAmethyst, blue with purple blent.\nThe wall above those basements went\nJasper, like glass that glistening shone;\nI saw, as the story doth present,--\nThe Revelation of St. John.\n\n\nI saw, as John doth clear devise:\nThe great stones rose like a broad stair;\nAbove, the city, to my eyes,\nIn height, length, breadth appeared four-square;\nThe jasper wall shone amber-wise,\nThe golden streets as glass gleamed fair;\nThe dwellings glowed in glorious guise\nWith every stone most rich and rare.\nEach length of bright wall builded there\nFor full twelve furlongs' space stretched on,\nAnd height, length, breadth all equal were:\n\"I saw one mete it,\" writeth John.\n\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\n\nAs John doth write more met mine eye:\nWithin each wall were set three gates;\nTwelve in succession I could spy,\nPortals adorned with bright gold plates;\nEach gate a single pearl saw I,\nA perfect pearl, as John relates.\nOn each a name was written high\nOf Israel's sons after their dates,\nThe oldest first, as the story states.\nWithin those streets by night or noon,\nLight beams that not one hour abates;\nThey needed neither sun nor moon.\n\n\nOf sun or moon they had no need;\nFor God Himself was their lamp light,\nThe Lamb their lantern was indeed;\nFrom Him the city shone all bright.\nThrough wall and dwelling my looks might speed,\nSuch clearness could not hinder sight.\nOf the high throne ye might take heed,\nWith draperies of radiant white,\nAs John the Apostle doth endite;\nHigh God Himself did sit thereon.\nFrom the throne a river welled outright\nWas brighter than both sun and moon.\n\n\nSun nor moon shone never so sweet\nAs the full flood of that bright stream;\nSwiftly it swept through every street,\nUntainted did the water gleam.\nChapel nor church mine eyes did meet;\nTherein is no temple as I deem;\nThe Almighty is their minster meet,\nThe Lamb their sacrifice supreme.\nThe gates with neither bolt nor beam,\nWide open stand at night and noon;\nTo enter there let no man dream\nWhom sin hath stained beneath the moon.\n\n\nThe moon may there win no least might,\nShe is too spotty, grey and grim;\nTherein, moreover, is never night,\nWhy should the moon fill full her rim\nTo rival the all-glorious light\nThat beams upon the river's brim?\nThe planets are in poorest plight;\nThe sun itself is far too dim.\nBeside the stream trees tall and trim\nBear living fruits that none doth prune;\nTwelve times a year bends low each limb,\nRenewed with fruitage every moon.\n\n\nBeneath the moon full well might fail\nThe heart of mortal to endure\nThe marvel that did mine eyes assail,\nFashioned the fancy to allure.\nI stood as still as a startled quail,\nFor wonder of its fair figure,\nI felt no rest and no travail,\nRavished before such radiance pure.\nI say, and with conviction sure,\nHad the eyes of man received that boon,\nThough wisest clerks sought for his cure,\nHis life were lost beneath the moon.\n\n\n\n\nXIX\n\n\nNow, even as the full moon might rise\nEre daylight doth to darkness fall,\nSudden I saw with still surprise\nWithin that shining city-wall,\nThe streets full-thronged in wondrous wise,\nSilent, with never a herald's call,\nWith virgins in the selfsame guise\nAs my beloved, sweet and small.\nEach head was crowned with coronal,\nPearl-wrought, and every robe was white;\nOn each breast bound, imperial,\nThe Pearl of Price with great delight.\n\n\nWith great delight together going\nOn glassy golden streets they tread;\nTo a hundred thousand swiftly growing,\nAnd all alike were they garmented:\nThe gladdest face who could be knowing?\nThe Lamb did proudly pass ahead,\nHis seven horns of clear red gold glowing,\nHis robes like pearls high valu\u00e8d.\nOn toward the throne their way they thread,\nNone crowded in that band so bright,\nBut mild as maidens when mass is said,\nSo fared they forth with great delight.\n\n\nThe great delight His coming gave,\nIt were too much for me to tell.\nWhen He approached the Elders grave,\nProne there before His feet they fell;\nLegions of summoned angels brave\nSwayed censers of the sweetest smell;\nWith music like a mighty wave,\nAll sang in praise of that gay Jewel.\nThe hymn might strike through earth to hell\nThat with joy those hosts of heaven recite;\nTo praise the Lamb I liked full well,\nAmid the group in great delight.\n\n\nDelighted, I would fain devise\nHis loveliness, with mind intent:\nFirst was He, blithest, best to prize,\nOf all on whom man's speech is spent;\nSo nobly white His draperies,\nSuch grace His simple glances lent;\nBut a wide, wet wound my gaze descries\nBeneath His heart, through His skin rent;\nDown His white side the blood was sent.\nAlas! I thought, what scorn or spite\nCould any human heart have bent\nIn such a deed to take delight?\n\n\nThe Lamb's delight might no man doubt,\nThough that wide wound His hurt displayed,\nFrom His fair face looked lovely out\nGlad glances, glorious, unafraid,\nI looked upon His shining rout,\nWith fullest life so bright arrayed,\nMy little queen there moved about,\nI had thought beside me in the glade.\nAh Lord! how much of mirth she made!\nAmong her peers she was so white!\nThe stream I surely needs must wade,\nFor longing love, in great delight.\n\n\n\n\nXX\n\n\nDelight that flooded eye and ear\nMy mortal mind beatified;\nWhen I saw her, I must reach my dear,\nThough she beyond the brook abide.\nNothing, I thought, could keep me here,\nNo crippling blow hold my strength tied;\nI would plunge, whatever interfere,\nAnd swim the stream, though there I died.\nBut ere the water I had tried,\nEven as I would my vow fulfill,\nFrom my purpose I was turned aside;\nIt was not to my Prince's will.\n\n\nMy wilful purpose pleased not Him,\nThat I with headlong zeal essayed;\nThough I was rash of thought and limb,\nYet suddenly my deed was stayed.\nAs I sprang forward to the brim,\nThe action in my dreaming made\nMe waken in my arbour trim.\nMy head upon the mound was laid\nWhere my pearl to the grass once strayed.\nI stretched my body, frightened, chill,\nAnd, sighing, to myself I said:\n\"Now all be to the Prince's will.\"\n\n\nAgainst my will was I exiled\nFrom that bright region, fair and fain,\nFrom that life, glad and undefiled,\nAnd longing dulled my sense again;\nI swooned in sorrow for the child,\nNeeds must my heart cry and complain:\n\"O Pearl, dear was thy counsel mild,\nIn this true vision of my brain!\nIf very truth divide us twain;\nIf thou goest crowned, secure from ill,\nWell for me in my prison-pain\nThat thou art to the Prince's will.\"\n\n\nTo the Prince's will had my heart bent,\nAnd sought but what to me was given,\nHeld fast to that, with true intent,\nAs my Pearl prayed me out of heaven;\nDid I to God my thoughts present,\nMore in His mysteries had I thriven.\nBut a man will seek more than is sent,\nTill from his hand his hope be riven.\nThus from my joy was I forth driven,\nFrom the life upon that holy hill.\nOh, fools, that with the Lord have striven,\nOr proffered gifts against his will!\n\n\nThe Prince's will to serve aright\nThe Christian may full well divine;\nFor I have found Him, day and night,\nA God, a Lord, a Friend in fine.\nUpon this mound my soul hath sight,\nWhere I for piteous sorrow pine;\nMy Pearl to God I pledge and plight,\nWith Christ's dear blessing and with mine,--\nHis, who, in form of bread and wine,\nThe priest doth daily show us still.\nHis servants may we be, or shine,\nPure pearls, according to his will.","title":"The Pearl: A Middle English Poem, A Modern Version in the Metre of the Original","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":9311}