ET joyned John the crysolyt,
The seventhe gemme in fundament ;
The aghtthe the beryl cler and quyt;
The topasye twynne-how the nente endent ;
The crysopase the tenthe is tyght;
The jacyngh the enleventhe gent;
The twelfthe the gentyleste in uch a plyt,
The amatyst purpre with ynde blente;
The wal abof the bantels bent,
O jasporye, as glas that glysnande schon;
I knew hit by his devysement,
In the apocalyppez the apostel Johñ.
S John devysed yet sagh I thare,—
Thise twelve degres wern brode and stayre;
The cyte stod abof ful sware,
As longe as brode as hyghe ful fayre;
The stretez of golde as glasse al bare;
The wal of jasper that glent as glayre;
The wonez with-inne enurned ware
Wyth alle kynnez perre that moght repayre.
Thenne helde uch sware of this manayre,
Twelve forlonge space er ever hit fon,
Of heght, of brede, of lenthe to cayre,
To these joined John the chrysolite,
the seventh of those foundation-stones; the eighth the beryl so white and clear; the twin-hued topaz was set there ninth; the chrysoprasus came then tenth ;
eleventh gleamed the jacinth fair,
the twelfth, the goodliest in each plight,
the amethyst, purple with blue of Inde.
The wall above the pillars bent
was all of jasper that gleamed as glass;
I knew it from the Apocalypse,
as John the Apostle hath pictured it.
S John hath pictured, I saw withal,
broad and steep were those twelve steps;
the city stood above full square,
the length as great as breadth and height;
with streets of gold as clear as glass;
with wall of jasper; as amber it gleamed.
The mansions there were all adorned
with each kind of jewel that might be found.
Each side of that square city held
twelve furlongs' space, ere ever it ceased,
in height, in breadth, and eke in length,
as saw it measured the Apostle John.
S John hym wrytez yet more I syghe,- § XVIII
Uch pane of that place had thre yatez,
So twelve in pourseut I con asspye,
The ortalez pyked o ryche p atez,
And uch yate of a margyrye,
A parfyt perle that never fatez;
Uchon in scrypture a name con plye,
Of Israel barnez folewande her datez,
That is to say as her byrth-whatez;
The aldest ay fyrst theron wacz done.
Such lyght ther lemed in alle the stratez,
Hem nedde nawther sunne ne mone.
F sunne ne mone had thay no nede;
The self god wacz her lompe lyght;
The lombe her lantyrne withouten drede;
Thurgh hym blysned the borgh al bryght.
Thurgh woghe and wone my lokyng yede,
For sotyle cler noght lette no lyght;
The hyghe trone ther moght ye hede
With all the apparaylmente umbe-pyghte,
As John the apostel in termez tyghte;
The hyghe godez self hit set upone.
A rever of the trone ther ran out-ryghte,
Wacz bryghter then bothe the sunne and mone.
S John doth write, yet saw I more,—
on each side of that burgh three gates, yea, twelve in order I espied,
the portals decked with plates full rich,
and each gate was a single pearl,—
a perfect pearl that never dims.
Each bore thereon a name inscribed
of Israel's children, in order of time,
that is to say, as their births befell,
aye the elder came the first.
Such light there gleamed in all the streets,
no need was there of sun or moon.
F sun or moon had they no need;
God's self was there the lamp so bright;
the Lamb their lantern that never failed;
through Him the city brightly gleamed;
through wall and mansion pierced my gaze,—
nothing there hindered, all was so clear.
The high throne there ye might have seen,
engirt with all the fair array,
as John the Apostle described in words;
and thereon sat high God Himself.
A river from that throne ran out;
'twas brighter than both sun and moon.
UNNE ne mone schon never so swete,
ne out
As that foysoun flode out of that flet,
Swythe hit swange thurgh uch a strete,
Withouten fylthe other galle other glet.
Kyrk therinne wacz non yete,
Chapel ne temple that ever wacz set;
The almyghty wacz her mynyster mete,
The lombe the sakerfyse ther to reget;
The yates stoken wacz never yet,
Bot ever more upen at uche a lone;
Ther entrez non to take reset,
That berez any spot an-under mone.
'HE mone may ther of acroche no myghte; To spotty ho is; of body to grym ;
And also ther ne is never nyght,
What schulde the mone ther compas clym,
And to even wyth that worthly lyght,
That schynez upon the brokez brym?
The planetez arn in to pouer a plyght,
And the selfe sunne ful fer to dym.
Aboute that water arn tres ful schym,
That twelve frytez of lyf con bere ful sone,
And twelve sythez on yer thay beren ful frym,
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