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GLEANINGS

FROM THE

ENGLISH POETS.

Geoffry Chaucer.

(Born 1328.

Died 1400

THE Father of English Poetry, as Chaucer is called, was born in London in the year 1328. Very little is known of his parentage, but he seems to have lived in comfortable circumstances, having been educated at Cambridge and afterwards sent to travel in Italy. The literature of Italy and a meeting with Petrarch in Padua seem to have inspired the traveller to write in his own rude northern tongue. His life seems to have been fortunate beyond that of most poets. Edward III. made him Comptroller of Customs, and gave him a handsome house near Woodstock, where he lived amid all the luxuries of the age. About the same time he made the acquaintance of John of Gaunt, to whom he afterwards became related by marriage. So much did this connection raise his position, that he was afterwards sent to negotiate a marriage between the King and the Princess Mary of France. He mixed constantly in political affairs, and was one of the most stirring men of the time. In 1386 Chaucer became involved in the troubles which befell his patron, and had to flee to Holland. He soon made his peace, for in 1389 he was again taken into favour, and Henry IV. doubled his pension. In his sixtyfourth year he retired to Woodstock, to write his great poem, "The Canterbury Tales." He died in London on 25th October 1400, aged seventy-two years, and was the first poet who was buried in the since famous Poet's Corner, in Westminster Abbey.

THE GOOD PARSON.

(From the "Canterbury Tales.")

A GOOD man ther was of religiòun,
That was a pouré PERSONE of a toun:
But riche he was of holy thought and werk.
He was also a lerned man, a Clerk,
That Cristés gospel trewely woldé preche.
His parishens devoutly wolde he teche.
Benigne he was, and wonder diligent,

parsor

parishioners

A

And in adversitee ful patient:

give

And swiche he was yprevéd often sithes. proved, since
Ful loth were him to cursen for his tithes,
But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute,
Unto his pouré parishens aboute,
Of his offrìng, and eke of his substànce
He coude in litel thing have suffisance.

Wide was his parish, and houses fer asonder,
But he ne left nought for no rain ne thonder,

In sikenesse and in mischief to visìte

trouble

The ferrest in his parish, moche and lite, farthest, little Upon his fete, and in his hand a staf.

This noble ensample to his shepe he yaf,

gave

That first he wrought, and afterward he taught.
Out of the Gospel he the wordés caught,

And this figure he added yet therto,

That if gold rusté, what shuld iren do?

For if a preest be foule, on whom we trust,

No wonder is a lewed man to rust.

Wel ought a preest ensample for to yeve,

'give

By his cleennessé, how his shepe shulde live.
He setté not his benefice to hire,

And lette his shepe acombred in the mire,
And ran unto Londòn, unto Seint Poules,

left

To seken him a chanterie for soules, singing endowment Or with a brotherhede to be withold;

unpitying sparing, proud

But dwelt at home, and kepte wel his fold,
So that the wolf ne made it not miscarie.
He was a shepherd, and no mercenàrie.
And though he holy were, and vertuous,
He was to sinful men not dispitòus,
Ne of his speché dangerous ne digne,
But in his teching discrete and benigne.
To drawen folk to heven with fairéness,
By good ensample, was his besinesse :
But it were any persone obstinat,
What so he were of highe, or low estat,

Him wolde he snibben sharply for the nonés. occasion
A better preest I trowe that nowher non is.

He waited after no pompe ne reverence,
Ne makéd him no spicéd consciènce,
But Cristés lore, and his apostles twelve,
He taught, but first he folwed it himselve.

GOOD COUNSAIL.

truth

uncertainty

wealth, blind desire, benefit counsel

FLY fro the presse, and dwell with sothfastnesse,
Suffise unto thy good though it be small,
For horde hath hate, and climbing tikelnesse,
Prease hath envy, and wele is blent over all,
Savour no more than thee behové shall,
Rede well thy selfe that other folk canst rede,
And trouth thee shall deliver, it is no drede.
Peiné thee not ech crooked to redresse,
In trust of her that tourneth as a ball;
Great rest standèth in little businesse,
Beware also to spurne againe a nall,
Strive not as doth a crocké with a wall,
Demé thy selfe that demest others' dede,
And trouth thee shall deliver, it is no drede.
That thee is sent receive in buxomnesse,
The wrastling of this world asketh a fall,
Here is no home, here is but wildernesse,
Forth, pilgrime! forth, beast, out of thy stall!
Looke up on high, and thanké God of all!
Weivé thy lusts, and let thy ghost thee lede,
And trouth thee shall deliver, it is no drede.

Thomas the Rhymer.

each

fortune

nail

earthen pitcher

judge

humility

forsake, spirit

About 1300.

THOMAS OF ERCILDOUNE, commonly called Thomas the Rhymer, lived about the year 1300, and was born at his father's patrimonial estate of Ercildoune or Earlston, now a small village in Scotland. Few personages are more renowned than he in tradition, having been, shortly after his death, placed in the highest position both as a poet and a prophet. The popular tale bears "that he was carried away to Fairyland at an early age, where he acquired the knowledge and gifts which made him so famous. After seven years' residence there he was permitted to return to earth, and astonish his countrymen by his powers and prophecies. After some time, while making merry in his Tower of Ercildoune, a person came running in and told him that a hart and hind were slowly parading the street of the village; Thomas rose, and left his house, and followed the animals to the forest, whence he never returned."

INCIPIT PROPHESIA THOMÆ DE ERSELDOUN.

In a lande as I was lent,

In the gryking of the day

lying pceping

Ay alone as I went,

In Huntle bankys me for to play;
I saw the throstyl, and the jay,
Ye mawes movyde of her song,
Ye wodwale sange notes gay,
That al the wod about range.
In that longyng as I lay,
Undir nethe a dern tre,
I was war of a lady gay,
Come rydyng ouyr a fair le :
Zogh I suld sitt to domysday,
With my tong to wrabbe and wry,
Certenly all hyr aray,

It beth neuyer discryuyd for me.
Hyr palfra was dappyll gray,
Sycke on say neuer none;
As the son in somers day,

mavis

wood

shady

aware

lonely lea though twist

such, saw

[blocks in formation]

Certes bot I may speke with that lady bright,

Myd my hert will breke in three ;

I schal me hye with all my might,

haste

Hyr to mete at Eldyn Tre.
Thomas rathly up him rase,
And ran ouer mountayn hye,
If it be sothe the story says,
He met her euyn at Eldyn Tre.
Thomas knelyd down on his kne
Undir nethe the grenewood spray,
And sayd, Lovely lady, thou rue on me,
Queen of Heaven as you may well be.
Tak thy leue, Thomas, at son and mone,
At gresse, and at euery tre,
This twelmonth sall you with me gone,
Medyl erth you sall not se.

quickly

even

pity

leave

every

Alas, he seyd, ful wo is me,

I trow my dedes will werke me care,
Jesu, my sole tak to ye,

Whedir so euyr my body sal fare.
She rode furth with all her mizt,
Undir nethe the derne lee,
It was as derke as at midnizt,
And euyr in water unto the kne;
Through the space of days thre,
He herde but swowyng of a flode;
Thomas sayd, Ful wo is me,
Now I spyll for fawte of fode;
To a garden she lede him tyte,
There was fruyte in grete plente,
Peyres and appless ther wer rype,
The date and the damese,

The figge and als fylbert tre;

The nyghtyngale bredyng in her neste,
The papigaye about gan fle,

The throstylcock sang wald hafe no rest.
He pressed to pulle fruyt with his hand,
As man for faute that was faynt;
She sayd, Thomas, lat al stand,
Or els the deuyl wil the ataynt.
Sche seyd, Thomas, I thee hyzt,
To lay thy hede upon my kne,
And thou shalt see fayrer syght,
Than euyr sawe man in their kintre.
Sees thou, Thomas, yon fayr way,

might

below ground

ever

dashing

faint, want

soon

want

haste

That lyggs ouyr yone fayr playn?

lies

Yonder is the way to heuyn for ay,

Whan synful sawles haf derayed their payne. suffered

That lygges lawe undir the ryse?

Sees thou, Thomas, yon secund way

Streight is the way, sothly to say,

To the joyes of paradyce.

rising

Sees thou, Thomas, yon thyrd way,
That lygges ouyr yon how?

Wide is the way, sothly to say,

To the brynyng fyres of helle.

Sees thou, Thomas, yone fair castell,
That standes ouyr yone fair hill?

Of town and tower it beereth the belle,

hollow

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