England's Antiphon, George MacDonald [ready to read books TXT] 📗

the modern synonym in the margin. Antique phrases I explain in foot-notes.

It must be borne in mind that our modern pronunciation can hardly fail in other cases as well to injure the melody of the verses.

The modern reader will often find it difficult to get a rhythm out of some of them. This may arise from any of several causes. In the first place many final e 's were then sounded which are now silent; and it is not easy to tell which of them to sound. Again, some words were pronounced as dissyllables which we treat as monosyllables, and others as monosyllables which we treat as dissyllables. I suspect besides, that some of the old writers were content to allow a prolonged syllable to stand for two short ones, a mode not without great beauty when sparingly and judiciously employed. Short supernumerary syllables were likewise allowed considerable freedom to come and go. A good deal must, however, be put down to the carelessness and presumption of the transcribers, who may very well have been incapable of detecting their own blunders. One of these ancient mechanics of literature caused Chaucer endless annoyance with his corruptions, as a humorous little poem, the last in his works, sufficiently indicates. From the same sources no doubt spring as well most of the variations of text in the manuscripts.

The first of the poems is chiefly a conversation between the Lord on the cross and his mother standing at its foot. A few prefatory remarks in explanation of some of its allusions will help my readers to enjoy it.

It was at one time a common belief, and the notion has not yet, I think, altogether vanished, that the dying are held back from repose by the love that is unwilling to yield them up. Hence, in the third stanza, the Lord prays his mother to let him die. In the fifth, he reasons against her overwhelming sorrows on the ground of the deliverance his sufferings will bring to the human race. But she can only feel her own misery.

To understand the seventh and eighth, it is necessary to know that, among other strange things accepted by the early Church, it was believed that the mother of Jesus had no suffering at his birth. This of course rendered her incapable of perfect sympathy with other mothers. It is a lovely invention, then, that he should thus commend mothers to his mother, telling her to judge of the pains of motherhood by those which she now endured. Still he fails to turn aside her thoughts. She is thinking still only of her own and her son's suffering, while he continues bent on making her think of others, until, at last, forth comes her prayer for all women. This seems to me a tenderness grand as exquisite.

The outburst of the chorus of the Faithful in the last stanza but one,-

When he rose, then fell her sorrow,

is as fine as anything I know in the region of the lyric.


"Stand well, mother, under rood;[1] the cross.
Behold thy son with gladé mood; cheerful.
Blithe mother mayst thou be."
"Son, how should I blithé stand?
I see thy feet, I see thy hand
Nailéd to the hard tree."

"Mother, do way thy wepynde: give over thy weeping.
I tholé death for mankind- suffer.
For my guilt thole I none."
"Son, I feel the dede stounde; death-pang.
The sword is at my heart's ground bottom.
That me byhet Simeon." foreshowed.

"Mother, mercy! let me die,
For Adam out of hell buy, for to buy Adam.
And his kin that is forlore." lost.
"Son, what shall me to rede?[2]
My pain paineth me to dede: death.
Let me die thee before!"

"Mother, thou rue all of thy bairn; rue thou ; all is only expletive
Thou wash away the bloody tern; wash thou; tears.
It doth me worse than my ded." hurts me more; death.
"Son, how may I terés werne? turn aside tears.
I see the bloody streamés erne flow.
From thy heart to my fet." feet.

"Mother, now I may thee seye, say to thee.
Better is that I one deye die.
Than all mankind to hellé go."
"Son, I see thy body byswongen, lashed.
Feet and hands throughout stongen: pierced through and through.
No wonder though me be woe." woe be to me.

"Mother, now I shall thee tell,
If I not die, thou goest to hell:
I thole death for thy sake." endure.
"Son, thou art so meek and mynde, thoughtful.
Ne wyt me not, it is my kind[3]
That I for thee this sorrow make."

"Mother, now thou mayst well leren learn.
What sorrow have that children beren, they have; bear.
What sorrow it is with childé gon." to go.
"Sorrow, I wis! I can thee tell!
But it be the pain of hell except.
More sorrow wot I none."

"Mother, rue of mother-care, take pity upon.
For now thou wost of mother-fare, knowest.
Though thou be clean 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,