Classic Poem

And whanne þe angelle from her parted was
And she aloon in hir tabernacle,
Right as the sonne persheth thorugh the glas,
Thorugh the cristall, byrell or spectacle
Withoutyn harme, right so by miracle
Into hir closet the Faders sapience
Entrede is withoutyn violence

Or any wemme vnto hir maydenhede
On any side, in party or in all.
For Godes sonne, takyng our manheed,
In hir hathe bilte his paleys prynci[p]all,
And vndir-pight this mansion rial
With seven pilers, as made is memorye,
And therin sette his reclynatorye:

Wheche is performed al of [pured] golde
Only to vs forto signyfye
That he all holy maked hath his holde
Withinne this mayde that callet is Marye.
And seven pillours that shulde this mayden gye
Been seven spirites (so as I can decerne)
Of God above, this mayde to gouerne.

For all the tresoure of his sapience
And all the wisdome of hevyn and erthe therto,
And all the richesse of spirituall science
In hir were sette and closyde eke also.
For she is the tour, withoutyn wordes moo,
And hous of yvour in wheche Salamon
Shette all the tresoure in his possession.

She was the castell of the cristall wall
That neuer man myght yet vnclose
Whiche the kyng that made and causyth all,
His dwellyng chefe by grace gan dispose.
And like as dewe descendeth on the rose
With siluer dropes, vpon the leves fayre
The fresche be[aute] ne may not apayre,

[Ne] as the rayne in Apryll or in May
Causying the vertu to renne oute of the rote,
The grete fayrenesse nought apayre may
On violeteg and on erbes soote:
Right so this grace, of al our grev[is] bote,
The grace of God, amydde the lyly white
The beaute causith, to be of more delyte.

And as the cocle, with hevyn[s] dew so clene
Of kynde engendreth white perles ronde,
And hathe no cheryshyng but the sonne shene
To his fostryng (as it is playnely founde):
Right so this mayde, of grace most habounde,
A perle hath [closed] within hir brest[e] white
That from the dethe myght al our raunsom quyte.

She was eke the gates with the lokeg br[i]ght
Sette in the northe of high deuocion,
Of wheche sumtyme the prophete had a sight:
Ezechiel in his avision:
Wheche stoode ay clos; in conclusion,
That neuer man entre shall ne pace
But God hymselfe to make his dwellyng place.

And right in sothe (as I reherse can)
So as the flees of Gedeon was wette
(Toforn he fawte [with] hem of Madian)
With hevynly dewe environ all bysette,
In signe onely he shall spede the bette.
Right so hathe Godde in hir his grace shewed,
Withe the Holy Goste when she was al bydewed;

In token playnly she sholde socour be
Vnto mankynde, manly forto fyght
Agayne the devill that hath in his powste
Al Madyan with his fel[le] myght.
But thorough the helpe of the mayden bryght
And thorughe the dwe of hir hevynly grace,
We shall this serpent from our bo[u]ndes chase.

She was of golde also the riche ourne
Kepyng the manna of our saluacion,
That all our wo may to ioy[e] tourne
With holsome foode of full perfection.
And eke she was, in sygnyficacion,
The yerde of Aron with frute and leves lade,
Of vertu moste to comfort vs and glade.

She was the auter of cedre, gold and stone,
Stedefast and trwe thorugh perfecion;
And as the cedre, conservyng ay in oon
Hir body clene from all corruppcion.
And for to make a full oblacion
Of euery vertu, to God in chastite
She shone as golde by perfyte charite.

And on this auter she made hir sacrifice
With fyre of love brynnyng also bryght
To God and man in euery manere wyse.
As done the sterres in the frosty nyght,
Hir frankensense gaffe so clere a light
Thorugh good ensample þat the perfite levyn
Of hir l[o]ving raught vnto hevyn.

She was the trone where that Salamon
For worthynesse sette his rial see
With golde and yvory, that so bright shone,
That al aboute the beaute men may se.
The golde was loue, the yvory chastyte,
And twelf leouns so huge, grete and large,
That of this werke baren vp the charge,

Of the olde lawe werne the propheteg twelffe,
That longe aforne gan beholde and see
That Salamon (Goddys sonne hymself)
Shulde in þis maide bild his rial see.
So that, in sothe, hir clene virginyte
To be a mothir sholde no thyng lette.
Amydde hir breste he his trone sette.

She was also the woman that saint John
Sawe in the hevyn so richely apere,
Clad in a sonne [þe] whiche brighter shon
Than Phebus dothe in his large spere.
And twelf sterres that passyngly were clere
(So as to hym playnely dyd seme)
Were sette above in hir diademe.

And, as hym thought, at hir feet there stode
A large mone, bryght and nothyng pale:
In fygure onely þat, she that is so goode
To swage the bitter of our [olde] bale,
The sonne of [rightwisnesse] made to avale
Downe to the erthe to gouerne vs and gye.
And eke the moone [to] us doth signifie

All Holy Chirche, large to beholde,
Whiche in this mayde had his orygynall,
Whanne that finally, with hise rightis olde
The Synagoog of Iues had a fall.
For in this mayde the first faythefull wall
Of Holy Chirche God gan first to bilde
Whan with his sonne he made hir goo with chylde.

And to reforme the rudeness vtterly
Of blynde folkes that ko[u]th not perceyve
How that Marye myght [so] kyndely
A mayde be and a chylde conceyve.
And, if h[e]m l[i]st reason to receyve,
They may ensamples right inowe fynde
Of this matier, accordyng vnto kynde:

O blynde man thorough thyne inyquyte
Why hast thou lost thy reason and thy sight,
That thou of malise list not for to see
How Criste Ihesu thorough his gret might
To his disciples helde the waye right
Thoroughe the gates shette by gret defence,
Withoutyn brekyng or any violence?

Why myght he not, of his magnificence,
Within a mayde make his mansion
And she yet stonde in the excellence
Of maydynhede, from all corrupcion?
Ye be to blynde in your discrecion,
That l[i]st nat se also howe he rose
Frome dethe to lyfe [in] his sepulcre close.

And herewithal thou maiste also aduerte
How he in sothe, of his myghty grace,
Made Petre oute of prison sterte,
And where hym l[i]st frely [for] to pace;
And yet the dores were shette of the place.
What wondre than though, God by myracle
Within a mayde made his habitacle:

She beyng close and perfytely shette
With all the bondeg of virginyte,
For, sothefastely, hir clennesse was not lette
In no kynnes kynde nor her chastite,
But encreseth and fayrere for to see
That Goddes son liste to light adowne,
With this mayde to make his mansion.

Eke Hildefons tellyth of a tree
In stede of frute that beryth byrdeg smalle
Fro yere to yere by kynde (as men may see)
Withoutyn meddelyng of femall or of male,
This is verrey sothe, playnely and not tale.
Than wondir nat though Crist were bore betwene
The chaste sydeg of a maydyn clene.

[Eke certyn] briddes called vultures
Withoutyn medelyng conceyved by nature,
As bokes sayen withoute any lees,
And of her lyfe an hundreth yere endure.
Than [siþ] the lorde of euery creature
Causeth all, no wondre þat I sayde
þat she w[as] conceyved of a [clene] mayde.

Eke Pl[y]nius in Bokes Naturell
Wryteg of a roche, grete and large also,
That will remove with a fyngre small,
But if a man do all his might therto
It will not stirre, nethir to ne froo.
Right so this mayde, that th[u]s of vertu moste
With a fyngre of the Holy Goste

And with a touche of his myghty grace
Conceyvede hath sothefast God and man,
That neuer myght remove from hir place
Of thilke avowe: that she first began
To be a mayde, as ferforthe as she can,
In hert and will, as any roche stable
That frome his grownde is not removable.

This clerke also, this wyse Pl[y]nius,
Saythe in Tawrygge ther is an erthe fovnde
That of nature is so vertuouse
That [it] will cure euery maner wovnde.
Right so Marye was the erthe ifounde
That God oute-chees by eleccion
To bere the frute of our redempcion:

That shulde be helpe and eke medycyne
To all our woundeg when thay ake or smerte,
And all our greves and our hertys fyne,
Fro the dethe to make vs to asterte,
With holsome bavme pershyng to the hert
That shall to [helþe] sodenly restore
Our festrede sores that thay shall ake no more.

And ferthermore, this auctor can eke telle
Withinne his boke (whoso loke aright):
To Iubiter sacrede is a welle
That whan [it] hath quenched brondeg bright
Eft ayen it [yeveth] hem newe light:
Whoso l[i]st asaye, sothe as he shal fynde.
What wondre than though, the God of Kynde

Amyddes this well, fro fylthe of synne colde,
Full of vertu, with fayre stremys clere
His loogyng toke and his myghty holde;
And thorough his grace set it new afyre
With the Holy Goste, that, withoutyn werre,
Thow she were colde from euery flesshlihede
She brent in love hatter than the glede.

And in Falisco (as hym liste to wryte)
Is a well that causithe eke of newe
Whan [that] thay drynke oxen to be white
And sodenly forto chaunge her hewe.
What merveile than though, the well trwe,
The well of helthe and of lyfe eterne,
The Lorde of all (so as I can discerne)

His stremes shede into this mayde fre
To make hir whitest, as in holynesse,
That bothe shulde mayde and modir be,
And euere in one, kepyng hir clennesse
Withoutyn chaunge: so that hir whitnesse
Ne fadith never, in beaute ne in colour,
Of maydenhede to bere bothe lefe and flowre.

And who that will dispute in this matier
I holde hym madde or ellys oute of mynde.
For if he haue his eene hole and clere
He shall mow see (preef I nowe by kynde):
For he that made bothe leef and lynde,
And with oo worde this waste worlde wilde,
Might make a mayde for to goo with chylde.

And he that made the high[e], cristall hevyn,
The firmament and also euery spere,
The golden axeltre and the sterres seven,
Cithera so lustly for to apere,
And reed Mars with his sterne chere,
Myght he nat eke, onely for our sake,
Withinne a mayde, of man the kynde take?

And he that causith fouleg in the eyre
In hir kynde to waxe and multiplie,
And fisshes eke with fynnes syluer fayre
In depe wawes to gouerne hem and gye,
And dothe oon lyve and another dye,
And giffith bestes her foode vpon the grovnde
And in her kynde dothe hem to abounde,

Sythen he is Lorde and causith all thyng
To haue beyng (if I shall not feyne)
And is the Prince and the worthy Kyng
That all enbraseth in his myghty cheyne,
Why myght he nat, by power souereygne,
At his free cho[i]se that all may save and lese,
To his mothir a clene mayden chese?

Who causith frute oute of the harde tree
By vertu onely that spryngeth from the rote
To growe and wexe, lyche as men may see,
With levys grene and newe blosmes sote?
[Hit is oure Lorde] that for our alþer bote
Wolde of a mayde (as I reherse can)
Mekely be borne withoute touche of man.

For he that dothe the tendre branches spryng
And fresshe floures in the grene mede
That werne in wyntir dede and eke droupyng,
Of bawme voyde and of all lustyhede,
Myght he nat make his greyne to growe and sprede
Withinne hir brest that was bothe mayde and wyfe,
Wherof is made the sothefaste brede of lyfe?

And he that graved of his grete myght
Withoutyn poyntell in the hard[e] stone
And in the tables, with lettres fayre and bryght,
His ten precepteg and byddynges eueryche one,
The same Lorde, of his power aloon,
Hath made this mayde here on erthe lowe
A chylde conceyve and no man to knawe.

And he that made [þe] busche to apere
All on flame with ferfull sparkelleg shene
When Moyses beganne to aproche nere,
And yet no harme came to the bowes grene,
The same Lorde hath concerved clene
His habitacle and hir erbor swete
In this mayde from all flesshely hete.

And he that made the yerde of Moyses
Of a serpent to take the lykenesse
In the hall amonge all the prees
Where Pharao his people did oppresse,
And in deserte (the Byble beryth witnesse)
The ryver made to rynne oute of a stoon
The thurste to staunche of his people anoon,

And ouere this, for to verefye
His grete myght, Sampson the stronge man
(As Iudicum dothe playnely specyfye)
Dranke the water that from the kanell ranne;
And he that made the flodeg of Iordan
To turne agayne for love of Iosue
That al his peple myght[e] clerly see:

And how the wawes gan asondre breke
And like an hyll stande high alofte;
And he that made the asse for to speke
To Balaham, for he rode vnsoffte,
Why myght he not (by power previd ofte)
Sithe he the yrne made on the water hove,
Be of a mayde borne for man[ne]s love?

And he that made an angell for to take
Abacuk by his lytyll here
And sodenly brought hym to the lake
In Babylone whiche was so far;
And to visite, lygyng in his feer,
Danyell amonge the bestes rage,
Till he to hym brought[e] the potage.

(The dores shet of the stronge pr[i]sovne)
For to asswage of hungre al his payne,
And in a moment to his mansion
Full sodenly restored hym agayne:
Why myght he not (as wel in certeyne),
The same Lorde, of a mayde than
Take flesshe and blod and become man?

And he that made the sonne at Gabaon
To stonde and [s]chyne vpon the bryght shelde
Of Iosue and taward Achalon
The mone also, as all the host behelde,
The long[e] day while thay faught in the felde
Agayne the kynges of myghty Ammorie
That his people clerly myght[e] see,

And he that made the shade to retourne
In the orlage of kyng Egechye
By ten degrees, only to performe
The heest[e] made to hym of Isaye,
Why myght he not, þis Lorde that all doth gye,
Of a mayde, by the same skylle,
Frely be borne at his owne wille?

And he that fedde with fyve loveg small
Fyve thousand in solitarie place,
Fer in desert sittyng in a valle,
Thorough the foyson and plente of his grace:
The same Lorde, why myght he not purchase
Withinne a mayde, duryng hir maydenhede,
Whan that hym l[i]ste to take his manhede?

For as the be dothe wax and hony shede
At the evyn (who taketh hede therto),
Right so Marye, flouryng in maydenhede,
Bare in hir wombe God and man also,
And yet in sothe she was bothe too
(I dar afferme) in oo person ifer:
A mayde clene and Cristis mothir dere.

For as the beem shynyng from aferre
Shedyng his light (as men may well aspye)
Withoutyn harme or hyndryng to the sterre,
And so as manna fel doun fro the sky,
Right so this floure that callet is Marye,
With wombe halowed into chastyte,
Conceyved hath in hir virgynyte.

And as the barnacle in the harde tre
Of kynde bredith, and the vyne floure
Causyth the wyne, [in] floures for to be
Thorough Bachus myght, [of] grapes gouernour,
Right so, in sothe, mankyndeg Savyour
As the bernacle, or floure oute of the vyne,
Spronge of Marye, she beyng a virgyne.

And as a worme vndre the harde stone
Of erthe comyth withoutyn engendrure,
And as the Fenyx (of which ther is but one)
To asshes brent renuyth by nature,
Right so this Lorde that all hathe in cure,
Our kynde, agayne, fro synne to renewe
Toke flesshe and blode in this maydyn trewe.

And as the snawe fro Iubiter dothe falle
Thorough the force of [Sagitarrius] bowe,
And Zepherus dothe the flores calle,
On white blosmes when [that] he dothe blowe,
Right so in sothe, the grace alight lowe
Of the Holy Goste, like a wynde cherschyng,
Amydde this mayde to make his dwellyng,

And to the floure ne ded noo duresse,
But perfitely concervyde hir beaute
From euery storme of flesshely lustynesse,
Euere ylike of fayrnesse fresche to see:
As by ensamples moo than two or three
H[e]r to serve, as thay haue herde devyse,
Whiche, as me semyth, [ought] inow suffice.