EXETER GNOMES[Critical edition: Blanche Colton Williams,Gnomic Poetry in Anglo-Saxon, New York, 1914.There are two sets of gnomes or proverbs in Old English. The Exeter collection, from which these are taken, consists of three groups. The second group, which contains the justly popular lines about the Frisian wife, is typical of the whole set.]Group IIAll frost shall freeze,fire consume wood,Earth grow its fruits.Ice shall bridge water,Which shall carry its coverand cunningly lock75The herbs of earth.One only shall looseThe fetter of frost,the Father Almighty.Winter shall away,the weather be fair,The sun hot in summer.The sea shall be restless.The deep way of deathis the darkest of secrets.80Holly flames on the fire.Afar shall be scatteredThe goods of a dead man.Glory is best.A king shall with cupssecure his queen,Buy her with bracelets.Both shall at firstBe generous with gifts.Then shall grow in the man85The pride of war,and his wife shall prosper,Cherished by the folk;cheerful of mood,She shall keep all counseland in kindness of heartGive horses and treasure;before the train of heroesWith full measure of meadon many occasions90She shall lovingly greether gracious lord,Shall hold the cup highand hand him to drinkLike a worthy wife.Wisely shall counselThe two who holdtheir home together.The ship shall be nailed,the shield be bound,95The light linden-wood.When he lands in the haven,To the Frisian wifeis the welcome one dear:The boat is at handand her bread-winner home,Her own provider.She invites him inAnd washes his sea-stained garmentsand gives him new ones to wear:100It is pleasant on landwhen the loved one awaits you.Woman shall be wedded to man,and her wickedness oft shall disgrace him;Some are firm in their faith,some forward and curiousAnd shall love a strangerwhile their lord is afar.A sailor is long on his course,but his loved one awaits his coming,105Abides what can not be controlled,for the time will come at lastFor his home return, if his health permit,and the heaving watersHigh over his headdo not hold him imprisoned.THE FATES OF MEN[Text: Grein-Wülcker,Bibliothek der Angelsächischen Poesie, iii, 148. The poem is typical of a large group of Old English poems which give well-known sayings or proverbs. Other poems of this group areThe Gifts of Men,The Wonders of Creation,A Father’s Instructions to His Son, and the like.]Full often through the graceof God it happensThat man and wifeto the world bring forthA babe by birth;they brightly adorn it,And tend it and teach ittill the time comes on5With the passing of yearswhen the young child’s limbsHave grown in strengthand sturdy grace.It is fondled and fedby father and motherAnd gladdened with gifts.God alone knowsWhat fate shall be hisin the fast-moving years.10To one it chancesin his childhood daysTo be snatched awayby sudden deathIn woeful wise.The wolf shall devour him,The hoary heath-dweller.Heart-sick with grief,His mother shall mourn him;but man cannot change it.15One of hunger shall starve;one the storm shall drown.One the spear shall pierce;one shall perish in war.One shall lead his lifewithout light in his eyes,Shall feel his way fearing.Infirm in his step,One his wounds shall bewail,his woeful pains—20Mournful in mindshall lament his fate.One from the topof a tree in the woodsWithout feathers shall fall,but he flies none the less,Swoops in descenttill he seems no longerThe forest tree’s fruit:at its foot on the ground25He sinks in silence,his soul departed—On the roots now lieshis lifeless body.One shall fare afooton far-away paths,Shall bear on his backhis burdensome load,Tread the dewy trackamong tribes unfriendly30Amid foreign foemen.Few are aliveTo welcome the wanderer.The woeful faceOf the hapless outcastis hateful to men.One shall end lifeon the lofty gallows;Dead shall he hangtill the house of his soul,35His bloody bodyis broken and mangled:His eyes shall be pluckedby the plundering raven,The sallow-hued spoiler,while soulless he lies,And helpless to fightwith his hands in defenseAgainst the grim thief.Gone is his life.40With his skin plucked offand his soul departed,The body all bleachedshall abide its fate;The death-mist shall drown him—doomed to disgrace.The body of oneshall burn on the fire;The flame shall feedon the fated man,45And death shall descendfull sudden upon himIn the lurid glow.Loud weeps the motherAs her boy in the brandsis burned to ashes.One the sword shall slayas he sits in the mead-hallAngry with ale;it shall end his life,50Wine-sated warrior:his words were too reckless!One shall meet his deaththrough the drinking of beer,Maddened with mead,when no measure he setsTo the words of his mouththrough wisdom of mind;He shall lose his lifein loathsome wise,55Shall shamefully suffer,shut off from joy,And men shall know himby the name of self-slayer,Shall deplore with their mouthsthe mead-drinker’s fall.One his hardships of youththrough the help of GodOvercomes and bringshis burdens to naught,60And his age when it comesshall be crowned with joy;He shall prosper in pleasure,in plenty and wealth,With flourishing familyand flowing mead—For such worthy rewardsmay one well wish to live!Thus many the fortunesthe mighty Lord65All over the earthto everyone grants,Dispenses powersas his pleasure shall lead him.One is favored with fortune;one failure in life;One pleasure in youth;one prowess in war,The sternest of strife;one in striking and shooting70Earns his honors.And often in gamesOne is crafty and cunning.A clerk shall one be,Weighted with wisdom.Wonderful skillIs one granted to gainin the goldsmith’s art;Full often he decksand adorns in glory75A great king’s noble,who gives him rewards,Grants him broad lands,which he gladly receives.One shall give pleasureto people assembledOn the benches at beer,shall bring to them mirth,Where drinkers are drainingtheir draughts of joy.80One holding his harpin his hands, at the feetOf his lord shall sitand receive a reward;Fast shall his fingersfly o’er the strings;Daringly dancingand darting across,With his nails he shall pluck them.His need is great.85One shall make tamethe towering falcon,The hawk on his hand,till the haughty birdGrows quiet and gentle;jesses he makes him,Feeds in fettersthe feather-proud hawk,The daring air-treaderwith daintiest morsels,90Till the falcon performsthe feeder’s will:Hooded and belled,he obeys his master,Tamed and trainedas his teacher desires.Thus in wondrous wisethe Warden of GloryThrough every landhas allotted to men95Cunning and craft;his decrees go forthTo all men on earthof every race.For the graces grantedlet us give him thanks—For his manifold merciesto the men of earth.3. ELEGIAC GROUPTHE WANDERER[Text used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch. It is also given in Bright’sAnglo-Saxon Reader.Alliterative translations: Edward Fulton,Publications of the Modern Language Association of America, vol. xii (1898); Pancoast and Spaeth,Early English Poems, p. 65.Lines 77 ff. and 101 ff. have been compared to a passage in Keats’sHyperion(book ii, 34-38).]Oftenthe lonely onelongs for honors,The grace of God,though, grieved in his soul,Over the waste of the watersfar and wide he shallRow with his handsthrough the rime-cold sea,5Travel the exile tracks:full determined is fate!So the wanderer spake,his woes remembering,His misfortunes in fightingand the fall of his kinsmen:“Often aloneat early dawnI make my moan!Not a man now lives10To whom I can speak forthmy heart and soulAnd tell of its trials.In truth I know wellThat there belongs to a lordan illustrious trait,To fetter his feelingsfast in his breast,To keep his own counselthough cares oppress him.15The weary in heartagainstWyrdhas no helpNor may the troubled in thoughtattempt to get aid.Therefore the thanewho is thinking of gloryBinds in his breasthis bitterest thoughts.So I fasten with fetters,confine in my breast20My sorrows of soul,though sick oft at heart,In a foreign countryfar from my kinsmen.I long ago laidmy loyal patronIn sorrow under the sod;since then I have goneWeary with winter-careover the wave’s foamy track,25In sadness have soughta solace to findIn the home and the hallof a host and ring-giver,Who, mindful of mercyin the mead-hall free,In kindness would comfortand care for me friendless,Would treat me with tenderness.The tried man knows30How stern is sorrow,how distressing a comradeFor him who has fewof friends and loved ones:He trails the track of the exile;no treasure he has,But heart-chilling frost—no fame upon earth.He recalls his comradesand the costly hall-gifts35Of his gracious gold-friend,which he gave him in youthTo expend as he pleased:his pleasure has vanished!He who lacks for longhis lord’s advice,His love and his wisdom,learns full wellHow sorrow and slumbersoothe together40The way-worn wandererto welcome peace.He seems in his sleepto see his lord;He kisses and clasps him,and inclines on his kneeHis hands and his headas in happier daysWhen he experienced the pleasureof his prince’s favors.45From his sleep then awakensthe sorrowful wanderer;He sees full before himthe fallow waves,The sea-birds bathingand beating their wings,Frost and snow fallingwith freezing hail.Then heavier growsthe grief of his heart,50Sad after his dream;he sorrows anew.His kinsmen’s memoryhe calls to his mind,And eagerly greets it;in gladness he seesHis valiant comrades.Then they vanish away.In the soul of a sailorno songs burst forth,55No familiar refrains.Fresh is his careWho sends his soulo’er the sea full oft,Over the welling waveshis wearied heart.Hence I may not marvel,when I am mindful of life,That my sorrowing soulgrows sick and dark,60When I look at the livesof lords and earls,How they are suddenly snatchedfrom the seats of their power,In their princely pride.So passes this world,And droops and dieseach day and hour;And no man is sagewho knows not his share65Of winter in the world.The wise man is patient,Not too hot in his heart,nor too hasty in words,Nor too weak in war,nor unwise in his rashness,Nor too forward nor fain,nor fearful of death,Nor too eager and arroganttill he equal his boasting.70The wise man will waitwith his words of boastingTill, restraining his thoughts,he thoroughly knowsWhere his vain words of vauntingeventually will lead him.The sage man perceiveshow sorrowful it isWhen all the wealth of the worldlies wasted and scattered.75So now over the earthin every landStormed on by windsthe walls are standingRimy with hoar-frost,and the roofs of the houses;The wine-halls are wasted;far away are the rulers,Deprived of their pleasure.All the proud ones have fallen,80The warriors by the wall:some war has borne off,In its bloody embrace;some birds have carriedOver the high seas;to some the hoar wolfHas dealt their death;some with dreary facesBy earls have been exiledin earth-caves to dwell:85So has wasted this worldthrough the wisdom of God,Till the proud one’s pleasurehas perished utterly,And the oldwork of the giantsstands worthless and joyless.He who the waste of this wall-steadwisely considers,And looks down deepat the darkness of life,90Mournful in mind,remembers of oldMuch struggle and spoiland speaks these words:‘Where are the horses? Where are the heroes?Where are the high treasure-givers?Where are the proud pleasure-seekers?Where are the palace and its joys?Alas the bright wine-cup!Alas the burnie-warriors!95Alas the prince’s pride!How passes the timeUnder the shadow of nightas it never had been!Over the trusty troopnow towers full highA wall adornedwith wondrous dragons.The strength of the spearhas destroyed the earls,100War-greedy weapons,Wyrd inexorable;And the storms strike downon the stony cliffs;The snows descendand seize all the earthIn the dread of winter;then darkness comesAnd dusky night-shade.Down from the north105The hated hail-stormsbeat on heroes with fury.All on earth isirksome to man;Oft changes the work of the fates,the world under the firmament.Here treasure is fleeting;here true friends are fleeting;Here comrades are fleeting;here kinsmen are fleeting.110All idle and emptythe earth has become.’So says the sage one in mind,as he sits and secretly ponders.Good is the man who is true to his trust;never should he betray anger,Divulge the rage of his hearttill the remedy he knowsThat quickly will quiet his spirit.The quest of honor is a noble pursuit;115Glory be to God on high,who grants us our salvation!”1.These opening lines are typical of the group of poems usually known as the “Elegies”—this and the next four poems in the book. It is probable that the poems of this group have no relation with one another save in general tone—a deep melancholy that, though present in the other old English poems is blackest in these.15.Wyrd:the “Fate” of the Germanic peoples. The Anglo-Saxon’s life was overshadowed by the power of Wyrd, though Beowulf says that “a man may escape his Wyrd—if he be good enough.”87.Ancient fortifications and cities are often referred to in Anglo-Saxon poetry as “the old work of the giants.”THE SEAFARER[Edition used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch.Up to line 65 this is one of the finest specimens of Anglo-Saxon poetry. It expresses as few poems in English have done the spirit of adventure, thewanderlustof springtime. The author was a remarkable painter of the sea and its conditions. From line 65 to the end the poem consists of a very tedious homily that must surely be a later addition.The use of the first person throughout and the opposing sentiments expressed have caused several scholars to consider the first part of the poem a dialogue between a young man eager to go to sea and an old sailor. The divisions of the speeches suggested have been as follows:(By Hönncher)(By Kluge)(By Rieger)1-33a Sailor1-33 Sailor1-38a Sailor33b-38 Youth34-64 or 66 Youth33b-38 Youth39-43 Sailor39-47 Sailor44-52 Youth48-52 Youth53-57 Sailor53-57 Sailor58-64a Youth58-71 Youth71-end SailorSweet, in hisAnglo-Saxon Reader, objects to these theories since there are not only no headings or divisions in the manuscript to indicate such divisions, but there are no breaks or contrasts in the poem itself.“If we discard these theories,” he says, “the simplest view of the poem is that it is the monologue of an old sailor who first describes the hardships of the seafaring life, and then confesses its irresistible attraction, which he justifies, as it were, by drawing a parallel between the seafarer’s contempt for the luxuries of the life on land on the one hand and the aspirations of a spiritual nature on the other, of which the sea bird is to him the type. In dwelling on these ideals the poet loses sight of the seafarer and his half-heathen associations, and as inevitably rises to a contemplation of the cheering hopes of a future life afforded by Christianity.”The dullness and obscurity of the last part of the poem, however, and the obvious similarity to the homilies of the time make it very unlikely that the whole poem was written by one author.]I will sing of myselfa song that is true,Tell of my travelsand troublesome days,How often I endureddays of hardship;Bitter breast-careI have borne as my portion,5Have seen from my shipsorrowful shores,Awful welling of waves;oft on watch I have beenOn the narrow night-wakesat the neck of the ship,When it crashed into cliffs;with cold often pinchedWere my freezing feet,by frost bound tight10In its blighting clutch;cares then burned me,Hot around my heart.Hunger tore withinMy sea-weary soul.To conceive this is hardFor the landsman who liveson the lonely shore—How, sorrowful and sadon a sea ice-cold,15I eked out my exilethrough the awful winter. . . . . . . .deprived of my kinsmen,Hung about by icicles;hail flew in showers.There I heard naughtbut the howl of the sea,The ice-cold surgewith a swan-song at times;20The note of the gannetfor gayety served me,The sea-bird’s songfor sayings of people,For the mead-drink of menthe mew’s sad note.Storms beat on the cliffs,’mid the cry of gulls,Icy of feather;and the eagle screamed,25The dewy-winged bird.No dear friend comesWith merciful kindnessmy misery to conquer.Of this little can he judgewho has joy in his life,And, settled in the city,is sated with wine,And proud and prosperous—how painful it is30When I wearily wanderon the waves full oft!Night shadows descended;it snowed from the north;The world was fettered with frost;hail fell to the earth,The coldest of corns.Yet course now desiresWhich surge in my heartfor the high seas,35That I test the terrorsof the tossing waves;My soul constantly kindlesin keenest impatienceTo fare itself forthand far off henceTo seek the strandsof stranger tribes.There is no one in this worldso o’erweening in power,40So good in his giving,so gallant in his youth,So daring in his deeds,so dear to his lord,But that he leaves the landand longs for the sea.By the grace of Godhe will gain or lose;Nor hearkens he to harpnor has heart for gift-treasures,45Nor in the wiles of a wifenor in the world rejoices.Save in the welling of wavesno whit takes he pleasure;But he ever has longingwho is lured by the sea.The forests are in flowerand fair are the hamlets;The woods are in bloom,the world is astir:50Everything urgesone eager to travel,Sends the seekerof seas afarTo try his fortuneon the terrible foam.The cuckoo warnsin its woeful call;The summer-ward sings,sorrow foretelling,55Heavy to the heart.Hard is it to knowFor the man of pleasure,what many with patienceEndure who darethe dangers of exile!In my bursting breastnow burns my heart,My spirit salliesover the sea-floods wide,60Sails o’er the waves,wanders afarTo the bounds of the worldand back at once,Eagerly, longingly;the lone flyer beckonsMy soul unceasinglyto sail o’er the whale-path,Overthe waves of the sea.64.At this point the dull homiletic passage begins. Much of it is quite untranslatable. A free paraphrase may be seen in Cook and Tinker,Translations from Old English Poetry, p. 47.THE WIFE’S LAMENT[Text used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch, p. 146.The meaning of some parts of this poem is very obscure—especially lines 18-21 and 42-47. No satisfactory explanation of them has been given. There is probably no relation except in general theme between it andThe Husband’s Message.]Sorrowfully I singmy song of woe,My tale of trials.In truth I may sayThat the buffets I have bornesince my birth in the worldWere never more than now,either new or old.5Ever the evilsof exile I endure!Long since went my lordfrom the land of his birth,Over the welling waves.Woeful at dawn I askedWhere lingers my lord,in what land does he dwell?Then I fared into far landsand faithfully sought him,10A weary wandererin want of comfort.His treacherous tribesmencontrived a plot,Dark and dastardly,to drive us apartThe width of a world,where with weary heartsWe live in loneliness,and longing consumes me.15My master commanded meto make my home here.Alas, in this landmy loved ones are few,My faithful friends!Hence I feel great sorrowThat the man well-matchedwith me I have foundTo be sad in souland sorrowful in mind,20Concealing his thoughtsand thinking of murder,Though blithe in his bearing.Oft we bound us by oathThat the day of our deathshould draw us apart,Nothing less end our love.Alas, all is changed!Now is as naught,as if never it were,25Our faith and our friendship.Far and near I shallEndure the hateof one dear to my heart!He condemned me to dwellin a darksome wood,Under an oak-treein an earth-cave drear.Old is the earth-hall.I am anxious with longing.30Dim are the dales,dark the hills tower,Bleak the tribe-dwellings,with briars entangled,Unblessed abodes.Here bitterly I have sufferedThe faring of my lord afar.Friends there are on earthLiving in love,in lasting bliss,35While, wakeful at dawn,I wander aloneUnder the oak-treethe earth-cave near.Sadly I sit therethe summer-long day,Wearily weepingmy woeful exile,My many miseries.Hence I may not ever40Cease my sorrowing,my sad bewailing,Nor all the longingsof my life of woe.Always may the young manbe mournful of spirit,Unhappy of heart,and have as his portionMany sorrows of soul,unceasing breast-cares,45Though now blithe of behavior.Unbearable likewiseBe his joys in the world.Wide be his exileTo far-away folk-landswhere my friend sits alone,A stranger under stone-cliffs,by storm made hoary,A weary-souled wanderer,by waters encompassed,50In his lonely lodging.My lover enduresUnmeasured mind-care:he remembers too oftA happier home.To him is fate cruelWho lingers and longs forthe loved one’s return!THE HUSBAND’S MESSAGE[Text used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch.The piece of wood on which the message is written speaks throughout the poem. It is impossible to tell whether the sender of the message is husband or lover of the woman addressed.Some scholars consider theriddle on “The Reed,” number LX, as the true beginning of this poem. It precedes the “Message” in the manuscript. Hicketeir (Anglia, xi, 363) thinks that it does not belong with that riddle, but that it is itself a riddle. He cites the Runes, in lines 51-2, especially as evidence. Trautmann (Angliaxvi, 207) thinks that it is part of a longer poem, in which the puzzling relation would be straightened out.]FirstI shall freelyconfide to youThetale of this tablet of wood.As a tree I grew upOnthe coast of Mecealde,close by the sea.Frequentlythenceto foreign lands5Iset forth in travel,the salt streams triedInthe keel of the shipat a king’s behest.Full oft on the bosomof a boat I have dwelt,Fared over the foama friend to see,Wherever my masteron a mission sent me,10Over the crest of the wave.I am come here to youOn the deck of a shipand in duty inquireHow now in your heartyou hold and cherishThe love of my lord.Loyalty unwaveringI affirm without fearyou will find in his heart.15The maker of this messagecommands me to bid thee,O bracelet-adorned one,to bring to thy mindAnd impress on thy heartthe promises of loveThat ye two in the old daysoften exchangedWhile at home in your hallsunharmed you might still20Live in the land,love one another,Dwell in the same country.He was driven by feudFrom the powerful people.He prays now, most earnestlyThat you learn with delightyou may launch on the sea-streamWhen from the height of the hillyou hear from afar25The melancholy callof the cuckoo in the wood.Let not thereafterany living manPrevent thy voyageor prevail against it.Seek now the shore,the sea-mew’s home!Embark on the boatthat bears thee south,30Where far over the foamthou shalt find thy lord,—Where lingers thy loverin longing and hope.In the width of the worldnot a wish or desireMore strongly stirs him(he instructs me to say)Than that gracious Godshould grant you to live35Ever afterat ease together,To distribute treasuresto retainers and friends,To give rings of gold.Of gilded cupsAnd of proud possessionsa plenty he has,And holds his homefar hence with strangers,40His fertile fields,where follow him manyHigh-spirited heroes—though here my liege-lord,Forced by the fates,took flight on a shipAnd on the watery waveswent forth aloneTo fare on the flood-way:fain would he escape,45Stir up the sea-streams.By strife thy lord hathWon the fight against woe.No wish will he haveFor horses or jewelsor the joys of mead-drinking,Nor any earl’s treasureson earth to be found,O gentle lord’s daughter,if he have joy in thee,50As by solemn vowsye have sworn to each other.I set as a signS and Rtogether,E, A, W, and D,as an oath to assure youThat he stays for thee stilland stands by his troth;And as long as he livesit shall last unbroken,—55Which often of oldwith oaths ye have plighted.1-6.The text here is so corrupt that an almost complete reconstruction has been necessary.51.In the manuscript these letters appear as runes. For illustrations of the appearance of runes, see the introductory note to “Cynewulf and his School,”p. 95, below. What these runes stood for, or whether they were supposed to possess unusual or magic power is purely a matter of conjecture.THE RUIN[Text used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch.This description of a ruin with hot baths is generally assumed to be of the Roman city of Bath. The fact that the poet uses unusual words and unconventional lines seems to indicate that he wrote with his eye on the object.]Wondrous is its wall-stonelaid waste by the fates.The burg-steads are burst,broken the work of the giants.The roofs are in ruins,rotted away the towers,The fortress-gate fallen,with frost on the mortar.5Broken are the battlements,low bowed and decaying,Eaten under by age.The earth holds fastThe master masons:low mouldering they lieIn the hard grip of the grave,till shall grow up and perishA hundred generations.Hoary and stained with red,10Through conquest of kingdoms,unconquered this wall endured,Stood up under storm.The high structure has fallen.Still remains its wall-stone,struck down by weapons.They have fallen. . . . . . . . .Grounddown by grim fate. . . . . . . .15Splendidlyit shone. . . . . . . .Thecunning creation. . . . . . . .. . . . . . . .fromits clay covering is bent;Mind. . . . . .the swift one drawn.The bold ones in counselbound in rings19The wall-foundations with wires,wondrously together.20Bright were the burgher’s homes,the bath halls many,Gay with high gables—a great martial sound,Many mead-halls,where men took their pleasure,Till an end came to all,through inexorable fate.The people all have perished;pestilence came on them:25Death stole them all,the staunch band of warriors.Their proud works of warnow lie waste and deserted;This fortress has fallen.Its defenders lie low,Its repairmen perished.Thus the palace stands dreary,And its purple expanse;despoiled of its tiles30Is the roof of the dome.The ruin sank to earth,Broken in heaps—there where heroes of yore,Glad-hearted and gold-bedecked,in gorgeous array,Wanton with wine-drinkin war-trappings shone:They took joy in jewelsand gems of great price,35In treasure untoldand in topaz-stones,In the firm-built fortressof a far-stretching realm.The stone courts stood;hot streams poured forth,Wondrously welled out.The wall encompassed allIn its bright embrace.Baths were there then,40Hot all within—a healthful convenience.They let then pour. . . . . . . . . .Over the hoary stonesthe heated streams,Such as never were seenby our sires till then.Hringmere was its name. . . . . . . . . .45The baths were there then;then is . . . . . .. . . . . . . . .That is a royal thingIn a house . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . .14-18.The text is too corrupt to permit of reconstruction. A literal translation of the fragmentary lines has been given in order to show the student something of the loss we have suffered in not having the whole of this finely conceived lament for fallen grandeur. The line numbers are those of Kluge’s text.
EXETER GNOMES[Critical edition: Blanche Colton Williams,Gnomic Poetry in Anglo-Saxon, New York, 1914.There are two sets of gnomes or proverbs in Old English. The Exeter collection, from which these are taken, consists of three groups. The second group, which contains the justly popular lines about the Frisian wife, is typical of the whole set.]Group IIAll frost shall freeze,fire consume wood,Earth grow its fruits.Ice shall bridge water,Which shall carry its coverand cunningly lock75The herbs of earth.One only shall looseThe fetter of frost,the Father Almighty.Winter shall away,the weather be fair,The sun hot in summer.The sea shall be restless.The deep way of deathis the darkest of secrets.80Holly flames on the fire.Afar shall be scatteredThe goods of a dead man.Glory is best.A king shall with cupssecure his queen,Buy her with bracelets.Both shall at firstBe generous with gifts.Then shall grow in the man85The pride of war,and his wife shall prosper,Cherished by the folk;cheerful of mood,She shall keep all counseland in kindness of heartGive horses and treasure;before the train of heroesWith full measure of meadon many occasions90She shall lovingly greether gracious lord,Shall hold the cup highand hand him to drinkLike a worthy wife.Wisely shall counselThe two who holdtheir home together.The ship shall be nailed,the shield be bound,95The light linden-wood.When he lands in the haven,To the Frisian wifeis the welcome one dear:The boat is at handand her bread-winner home,Her own provider.She invites him inAnd washes his sea-stained garmentsand gives him new ones to wear:100It is pleasant on landwhen the loved one awaits you.Woman shall be wedded to man,and her wickedness oft shall disgrace him;Some are firm in their faith,some forward and curiousAnd shall love a strangerwhile their lord is afar.A sailor is long on his course,but his loved one awaits his coming,105Abides what can not be controlled,for the time will come at lastFor his home return, if his health permit,and the heaving watersHigh over his headdo not hold him imprisoned.
[Critical edition: Blanche Colton Williams,Gnomic Poetry in Anglo-Saxon, New York, 1914.There are two sets of gnomes or proverbs in Old English. The Exeter collection, from which these are taken, consists of three groups. The second group, which contains the justly popular lines about the Frisian wife, is typical of the whole set.]
[Critical edition: Blanche Colton Williams,Gnomic Poetry in Anglo-Saxon, New York, 1914.
There are two sets of gnomes or proverbs in Old English. The Exeter collection, from which these are taken, consists of three groups. The second group, which contains the justly popular lines about the Frisian wife, is typical of the whole set.]
All frost shall freeze,fire consume wood,Earth grow its fruits.Ice shall bridge water,Which shall carry its coverand cunningly lock75The herbs of earth.One only shall looseThe fetter of frost,the Father Almighty.Winter shall away,the weather be fair,The sun hot in summer.The sea shall be restless.The deep way of deathis the darkest of secrets.80Holly flames on the fire.Afar shall be scatteredThe goods of a dead man.Glory is best.A king shall with cupssecure his queen,Buy her with bracelets.Both shall at firstBe generous with gifts.Then shall grow in the man85The pride of war,and his wife shall prosper,Cherished by the folk;cheerful of mood,She shall keep all counseland in kindness of heartGive horses and treasure;before the train of heroesWith full measure of meadon many occasions90She shall lovingly greether gracious lord,Shall hold the cup highand hand him to drinkLike a worthy wife.Wisely shall counselThe two who holdtheir home together.The ship shall be nailed,the shield be bound,95The light linden-wood.When he lands in the haven,To the Frisian wifeis the welcome one dear:The boat is at handand her bread-winner home,Her own provider.She invites him inAnd washes his sea-stained garmentsand gives him new ones to wear:100It is pleasant on landwhen the loved one awaits you.Woman shall be wedded to man,and her wickedness oft shall disgrace him;Some are firm in their faith,some forward and curiousAnd shall love a strangerwhile their lord is afar.A sailor is long on his course,but his loved one awaits his coming,105Abides what can not be controlled,for the time will come at lastFor his home return, if his health permit,and the heaving watersHigh over his headdo not hold him imprisoned.
All frost shall freeze,fire consume wood,
Earth grow its fruits.Ice shall bridge water,
Which shall carry its coverand cunningly lock
75The herbs of earth.One only shall loose
The fetter of frost,the Father Almighty.
Winter shall away,the weather be fair,
The sun hot in summer.The sea shall be restless.
The deep way of deathis the darkest of secrets.
80Holly flames on the fire.Afar shall be scattered
The goods of a dead man.Glory is best.
A king shall with cupssecure his queen,
Buy her with bracelets.Both shall at first
Be generous with gifts.Then shall grow in the man
85The pride of war,and his wife shall prosper,
Cherished by the folk;cheerful of mood,
She shall keep all counseland in kindness of heart
Give horses and treasure;before the train of heroes
With full measure of meadon many occasions
90She shall lovingly greether gracious lord,
Shall hold the cup highand hand him to drink
Like a worthy wife.Wisely shall counsel
The two who holdtheir home together.
The ship shall be nailed,the shield be bound,
95The light linden-wood.
When he lands in the haven,
To the Frisian wifeis the welcome one dear:
The boat is at handand her bread-winner home,
Her own provider.She invites him in
And washes his sea-stained garmentsand gives him new ones to wear:
100It is pleasant on landwhen the loved one awaits you.
Woman shall be wedded to man,and her wickedness oft shall disgrace him;
Some are firm in their faith,some forward and curious
And shall love a strangerwhile their lord is afar.
A sailor is long on his course,but his loved one awaits his coming,
105Abides what can not be controlled,for the time will come at last
For his home return, if his health permit,and the heaving waters
High over his headdo not hold him imprisoned.
THE FATES OF MEN[Text: Grein-Wülcker,Bibliothek der Angelsächischen Poesie, iii, 148. The poem is typical of a large group of Old English poems which give well-known sayings or proverbs. Other poems of this group areThe Gifts of Men,The Wonders of Creation,A Father’s Instructions to His Son, and the like.]Full often through the graceof God it happensThat man and wifeto the world bring forthA babe by birth;they brightly adorn it,And tend it and teach ittill the time comes on5With the passing of yearswhen the young child’s limbsHave grown in strengthand sturdy grace.It is fondled and fedby father and motherAnd gladdened with gifts.God alone knowsWhat fate shall be hisin the fast-moving years.10To one it chancesin his childhood daysTo be snatched awayby sudden deathIn woeful wise.The wolf shall devour him,The hoary heath-dweller.Heart-sick with grief,His mother shall mourn him;but man cannot change it.15One of hunger shall starve;one the storm shall drown.One the spear shall pierce;one shall perish in war.One shall lead his lifewithout light in his eyes,Shall feel his way fearing.Infirm in his step,One his wounds shall bewail,his woeful pains—20Mournful in mindshall lament his fate.One from the topof a tree in the woodsWithout feathers shall fall,but he flies none the less,Swoops in descenttill he seems no longerThe forest tree’s fruit:at its foot on the ground25He sinks in silence,his soul departed—On the roots now lieshis lifeless body.One shall fare afooton far-away paths,Shall bear on his backhis burdensome load,Tread the dewy trackamong tribes unfriendly30Amid foreign foemen.Few are aliveTo welcome the wanderer.The woeful faceOf the hapless outcastis hateful to men.One shall end lifeon the lofty gallows;Dead shall he hangtill the house of his soul,35His bloody bodyis broken and mangled:His eyes shall be pluckedby the plundering raven,The sallow-hued spoiler,while soulless he lies,And helpless to fightwith his hands in defenseAgainst the grim thief.Gone is his life.40With his skin plucked offand his soul departed,The body all bleachedshall abide its fate;The death-mist shall drown him—doomed to disgrace.The body of oneshall burn on the fire;The flame shall feedon the fated man,45And death shall descendfull sudden upon himIn the lurid glow.Loud weeps the motherAs her boy in the brandsis burned to ashes.One the sword shall slayas he sits in the mead-hallAngry with ale;it shall end his life,50Wine-sated warrior:his words were too reckless!One shall meet his deaththrough the drinking of beer,Maddened with mead,when no measure he setsTo the words of his mouththrough wisdom of mind;He shall lose his lifein loathsome wise,55Shall shamefully suffer,shut off from joy,And men shall know himby the name of self-slayer,Shall deplore with their mouthsthe mead-drinker’s fall.One his hardships of youththrough the help of GodOvercomes and bringshis burdens to naught,60And his age when it comesshall be crowned with joy;He shall prosper in pleasure,in plenty and wealth,With flourishing familyand flowing mead—For such worthy rewardsmay one well wish to live!Thus many the fortunesthe mighty Lord65All over the earthto everyone grants,Dispenses powersas his pleasure shall lead him.One is favored with fortune;one failure in life;One pleasure in youth;one prowess in war,The sternest of strife;one in striking and shooting70Earns his honors.And often in gamesOne is crafty and cunning.A clerk shall one be,Weighted with wisdom.Wonderful skillIs one granted to gainin the goldsmith’s art;Full often he decksand adorns in glory75A great king’s noble,who gives him rewards,Grants him broad lands,which he gladly receives.One shall give pleasureto people assembledOn the benches at beer,shall bring to them mirth,Where drinkers are drainingtheir draughts of joy.80One holding his harpin his hands, at the feetOf his lord shall sitand receive a reward;Fast shall his fingersfly o’er the strings;Daringly dancingand darting across,With his nails he shall pluck them.His need is great.85One shall make tamethe towering falcon,The hawk on his hand,till the haughty birdGrows quiet and gentle;jesses he makes him,Feeds in fettersthe feather-proud hawk,The daring air-treaderwith daintiest morsels,90Till the falcon performsthe feeder’s will:Hooded and belled,he obeys his master,Tamed and trainedas his teacher desires.Thus in wondrous wisethe Warden of GloryThrough every landhas allotted to men95Cunning and craft;his decrees go forthTo all men on earthof every race.For the graces grantedlet us give him thanks—For his manifold merciesto the men of earth.
[Text: Grein-Wülcker,Bibliothek der Angelsächischen Poesie, iii, 148. The poem is typical of a large group of Old English poems which give well-known sayings or proverbs. Other poems of this group areThe Gifts of Men,The Wonders of Creation,A Father’s Instructions to His Son, and the like.]
Full often through the graceof God it happensThat man and wifeto the world bring forthA babe by birth;they brightly adorn it,And tend it and teach ittill the time comes on5With the passing of yearswhen the young child’s limbsHave grown in strengthand sturdy grace.It is fondled and fedby father and motherAnd gladdened with gifts.God alone knowsWhat fate shall be hisin the fast-moving years.10To one it chancesin his childhood daysTo be snatched awayby sudden deathIn woeful wise.The wolf shall devour him,The hoary heath-dweller.Heart-sick with grief,His mother shall mourn him;but man cannot change it.15One of hunger shall starve;one the storm shall drown.One the spear shall pierce;one shall perish in war.One shall lead his lifewithout light in his eyes,Shall feel his way fearing.Infirm in his step,One his wounds shall bewail,his woeful pains—20Mournful in mindshall lament his fate.One from the topof a tree in the woodsWithout feathers shall fall,but he flies none the less,Swoops in descenttill he seems no longerThe forest tree’s fruit:at its foot on the ground25He sinks in silence,his soul departed—On the roots now lieshis lifeless body.One shall fare afooton far-away paths,Shall bear on his backhis burdensome load,Tread the dewy trackamong tribes unfriendly30Amid foreign foemen.Few are aliveTo welcome the wanderer.The woeful faceOf the hapless outcastis hateful to men.One shall end lifeon the lofty gallows;Dead shall he hangtill the house of his soul,35His bloody bodyis broken and mangled:His eyes shall be pluckedby the plundering raven,The sallow-hued spoiler,while soulless he lies,And helpless to fightwith his hands in defenseAgainst the grim thief.Gone is his life.40With his skin plucked offand his soul departed,The body all bleachedshall abide its fate;The death-mist shall drown him—doomed to disgrace.The body of oneshall burn on the fire;The flame shall feedon the fated man,45And death shall descendfull sudden upon himIn the lurid glow.Loud weeps the motherAs her boy in the brandsis burned to ashes.One the sword shall slayas he sits in the mead-hallAngry with ale;it shall end his life,50Wine-sated warrior:his words were too reckless!One shall meet his deaththrough the drinking of beer,Maddened with mead,when no measure he setsTo the words of his mouththrough wisdom of mind;He shall lose his lifein loathsome wise,55Shall shamefully suffer,shut off from joy,And men shall know himby the name of self-slayer,Shall deplore with their mouthsthe mead-drinker’s fall.One his hardships of youththrough the help of GodOvercomes and bringshis burdens to naught,60And his age when it comesshall be crowned with joy;He shall prosper in pleasure,in plenty and wealth,With flourishing familyand flowing mead—For such worthy rewardsmay one well wish to live!Thus many the fortunesthe mighty Lord65All over the earthto everyone grants,Dispenses powersas his pleasure shall lead him.One is favored with fortune;one failure in life;One pleasure in youth;one prowess in war,The sternest of strife;one in striking and shooting70Earns his honors.And often in gamesOne is crafty and cunning.A clerk shall one be,Weighted with wisdom.Wonderful skillIs one granted to gainin the goldsmith’s art;Full often he decksand adorns in glory75A great king’s noble,who gives him rewards,Grants him broad lands,which he gladly receives.One shall give pleasureto people assembledOn the benches at beer,shall bring to them mirth,Where drinkers are drainingtheir draughts of joy.80One holding his harpin his hands, at the feetOf his lord shall sitand receive a reward;Fast shall his fingersfly o’er the strings;Daringly dancingand darting across,With his nails he shall pluck them.His need is great.85One shall make tamethe towering falcon,The hawk on his hand,till the haughty birdGrows quiet and gentle;jesses he makes him,Feeds in fettersthe feather-proud hawk,The daring air-treaderwith daintiest morsels,90Till the falcon performsthe feeder’s will:Hooded and belled,he obeys his master,Tamed and trainedas his teacher desires.Thus in wondrous wisethe Warden of GloryThrough every landhas allotted to men95Cunning and craft;his decrees go forthTo all men on earthof every race.For the graces grantedlet us give him thanks—For his manifold merciesto the men of earth.
Full often through the graceof God it happens
That man and wifeto the world bring forth
A babe by birth;they brightly adorn it,
And tend it and teach ittill the time comes on
5With the passing of yearswhen the young child’s limbs
Have grown in strengthand sturdy grace.
It is fondled and fedby father and mother
And gladdened with gifts.God alone knows
What fate shall be hisin the fast-moving years.
10To one it chancesin his childhood days
To be snatched awayby sudden death
In woeful wise.The wolf shall devour him,
The hoary heath-dweller.Heart-sick with grief,
His mother shall mourn him;but man cannot change it.
15One of hunger shall starve;one the storm shall drown.
One the spear shall pierce;one shall perish in war.
One shall lead his lifewithout light in his eyes,
Shall feel his way fearing.Infirm in his step,
One his wounds shall bewail,his woeful pains—
20Mournful in mindshall lament his fate.
One from the topof a tree in the woods
Without feathers shall fall,but he flies none the less,
Swoops in descenttill he seems no longer
The forest tree’s fruit:at its foot on the ground
25He sinks in silence,his soul departed—
On the roots now lieshis lifeless body.
One shall fare afooton far-away paths,
Shall bear on his backhis burdensome load,
Tread the dewy trackamong tribes unfriendly
30Amid foreign foemen.Few are alive
To welcome the wanderer.The woeful face
Of the hapless outcastis hateful to men.
One shall end lifeon the lofty gallows;
Dead shall he hangtill the house of his soul,
35His bloody bodyis broken and mangled:
His eyes shall be pluckedby the plundering raven,
The sallow-hued spoiler,while soulless he lies,
And helpless to fightwith his hands in defense
Against the grim thief.Gone is his life.
40With his skin plucked offand his soul departed,
The body all bleachedshall abide its fate;
The death-mist shall drown him—doomed to disgrace.
The body of oneshall burn on the fire;
The flame shall feedon the fated man,
45And death shall descendfull sudden upon him
In the lurid glow.Loud weeps the mother
As her boy in the brandsis burned to ashes.
One the sword shall slayas he sits in the mead-hall
Angry with ale;it shall end his life,
50Wine-sated warrior:his words were too reckless!
One shall meet his deaththrough the drinking of beer,
Maddened with mead,when no measure he sets
To the words of his mouththrough wisdom of mind;
He shall lose his lifein loathsome wise,
55Shall shamefully suffer,shut off from joy,
And men shall know himby the name of self-slayer,
Shall deplore with their mouthsthe mead-drinker’s fall.
One his hardships of youththrough the help of God
Overcomes and bringshis burdens to naught,
60And his age when it comesshall be crowned with joy;
He shall prosper in pleasure,in plenty and wealth,
With flourishing familyand flowing mead—
For such worthy rewardsmay one well wish to live!
Thus many the fortunesthe mighty Lord
65All over the earthto everyone grants,
Dispenses powersas his pleasure shall lead him.
One is favored with fortune;one failure in life;
One pleasure in youth;one prowess in war,
The sternest of strife;one in striking and shooting
70Earns his honors.And often in games
One is crafty and cunning.A clerk shall one be,
Weighted with wisdom.Wonderful skill
Is one granted to gainin the goldsmith’s art;
Full often he decksand adorns in glory
75A great king’s noble,who gives him rewards,
Grants him broad lands,which he gladly receives.
One shall give pleasureto people assembled
On the benches at beer,shall bring to them mirth,
Where drinkers are drainingtheir draughts of joy.
80One holding his harpin his hands, at the feet
Of his lord shall sitand receive a reward;
Fast shall his fingersfly o’er the strings;
Daringly dancingand darting across,
With his nails he shall pluck them.His need is great.
85One shall make tamethe towering falcon,
The hawk on his hand,till the haughty bird
Grows quiet and gentle;jesses he makes him,
Feeds in fettersthe feather-proud hawk,
The daring air-treaderwith daintiest morsels,
90Till the falcon performsthe feeder’s will:
Hooded and belled,he obeys his master,
Tamed and trainedas his teacher desires.
Thus in wondrous wisethe Warden of Glory
Through every landhas allotted to men
95Cunning and craft;his decrees go forth
To all men on earthof every race.
For the graces grantedlet us give him thanks—
For his manifold merciesto the men of earth.
3. ELEGIAC GROUPTHE WANDERER[Text used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch. It is also given in Bright’sAnglo-Saxon Reader.Alliterative translations: Edward Fulton,Publications of the Modern Language Association of America, vol. xii (1898); Pancoast and Spaeth,Early English Poems, p. 65.Lines 77 ff. and 101 ff. have been compared to a passage in Keats’sHyperion(book ii, 34-38).]Oftenthe lonely onelongs for honors,The grace of God,though, grieved in his soul,Over the waste of the watersfar and wide he shallRow with his handsthrough the rime-cold sea,5Travel the exile tracks:full determined is fate!So the wanderer spake,his woes remembering,His misfortunes in fightingand the fall of his kinsmen:“Often aloneat early dawnI make my moan!Not a man now lives10To whom I can speak forthmy heart and soulAnd tell of its trials.In truth I know wellThat there belongs to a lordan illustrious trait,To fetter his feelingsfast in his breast,To keep his own counselthough cares oppress him.15The weary in heartagainstWyrdhas no helpNor may the troubled in thoughtattempt to get aid.Therefore the thanewho is thinking of gloryBinds in his breasthis bitterest thoughts.So I fasten with fetters,confine in my breast20My sorrows of soul,though sick oft at heart,In a foreign countryfar from my kinsmen.I long ago laidmy loyal patronIn sorrow under the sod;since then I have goneWeary with winter-careover the wave’s foamy track,25In sadness have soughta solace to findIn the home and the hallof a host and ring-giver,Who, mindful of mercyin the mead-hall free,In kindness would comfortand care for me friendless,Would treat me with tenderness.The tried man knows30How stern is sorrow,how distressing a comradeFor him who has fewof friends and loved ones:He trails the track of the exile;no treasure he has,But heart-chilling frost—no fame upon earth.He recalls his comradesand the costly hall-gifts35Of his gracious gold-friend,which he gave him in youthTo expend as he pleased:his pleasure has vanished!He who lacks for longhis lord’s advice,His love and his wisdom,learns full wellHow sorrow and slumbersoothe together40The way-worn wandererto welcome peace.He seems in his sleepto see his lord;He kisses and clasps him,and inclines on his kneeHis hands and his headas in happier daysWhen he experienced the pleasureof his prince’s favors.45From his sleep then awakensthe sorrowful wanderer;He sees full before himthe fallow waves,The sea-birds bathingand beating their wings,Frost and snow fallingwith freezing hail.Then heavier growsthe grief of his heart,50Sad after his dream;he sorrows anew.His kinsmen’s memoryhe calls to his mind,And eagerly greets it;in gladness he seesHis valiant comrades.Then they vanish away.In the soul of a sailorno songs burst forth,55No familiar refrains.Fresh is his careWho sends his soulo’er the sea full oft,Over the welling waveshis wearied heart.Hence I may not marvel,when I am mindful of life,That my sorrowing soulgrows sick and dark,60When I look at the livesof lords and earls,How they are suddenly snatchedfrom the seats of their power,In their princely pride.So passes this world,And droops and dieseach day and hour;And no man is sagewho knows not his share65Of winter in the world.The wise man is patient,Not too hot in his heart,nor too hasty in words,Nor too weak in war,nor unwise in his rashness,Nor too forward nor fain,nor fearful of death,Nor too eager and arroganttill he equal his boasting.70The wise man will waitwith his words of boastingTill, restraining his thoughts,he thoroughly knowsWhere his vain words of vauntingeventually will lead him.The sage man perceiveshow sorrowful it isWhen all the wealth of the worldlies wasted and scattered.75So now over the earthin every landStormed on by windsthe walls are standingRimy with hoar-frost,and the roofs of the houses;The wine-halls are wasted;far away are the rulers,Deprived of their pleasure.All the proud ones have fallen,80The warriors by the wall:some war has borne off,In its bloody embrace;some birds have carriedOver the high seas;to some the hoar wolfHas dealt their death;some with dreary facesBy earls have been exiledin earth-caves to dwell:85So has wasted this worldthrough the wisdom of God,Till the proud one’s pleasurehas perished utterly,And the oldwork of the giantsstands worthless and joyless.He who the waste of this wall-steadwisely considers,And looks down deepat the darkness of life,90Mournful in mind,remembers of oldMuch struggle and spoiland speaks these words:‘Where are the horses? Where are the heroes?Where are the high treasure-givers?Where are the proud pleasure-seekers?Where are the palace and its joys?Alas the bright wine-cup!Alas the burnie-warriors!95Alas the prince’s pride!How passes the timeUnder the shadow of nightas it never had been!Over the trusty troopnow towers full highA wall adornedwith wondrous dragons.The strength of the spearhas destroyed the earls,100War-greedy weapons,Wyrd inexorable;And the storms strike downon the stony cliffs;The snows descendand seize all the earthIn the dread of winter;then darkness comesAnd dusky night-shade.Down from the north105The hated hail-stormsbeat on heroes with fury.All on earth isirksome to man;Oft changes the work of the fates,the world under the firmament.Here treasure is fleeting;here true friends are fleeting;Here comrades are fleeting;here kinsmen are fleeting.110All idle and emptythe earth has become.’So says the sage one in mind,as he sits and secretly ponders.Good is the man who is true to his trust;never should he betray anger,Divulge the rage of his hearttill the remedy he knowsThat quickly will quiet his spirit.The quest of honor is a noble pursuit;115Glory be to God on high,who grants us our salvation!”1.These opening lines are typical of the group of poems usually known as the “Elegies”—this and the next four poems in the book. It is probable that the poems of this group have no relation with one another save in general tone—a deep melancholy that, though present in the other old English poems is blackest in these.15.Wyrd:the “Fate” of the Germanic peoples. The Anglo-Saxon’s life was overshadowed by the power of Wyrd, though Beowulf says that “a man may escape his Wyrd—if he be good enough.”87.Ancient fortifications and cities are often referred to in Anglo-Saxon poetry as “the old work of the giants.”
[Text used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch. It is also given in Bright’sAnglo-Saxon Reader.Alliterative translations: Edward Fulton,Publications of the Modern Language Association of America, vol. xii (1898); Pancoast and Spaeth,Early English Poems, p. 65.Lines 77 ff. and 101 ff. have been compared to a passage in Keats’sHyperion(book ii, 34-38).]
[Text used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch. It is also given in Bright’sAnglo-Saxon Reader.
Alliterative translations: Edward Fulton,Publications of the Modern Language Association of America, vol. xii (1898); Pancoast and Spaeth,Early English Poems, p. 65.
Lines 77 ff. and 101 ff. have been compared to a passage in Keats’sHyperion(book ii, 34-38).]
Oftenthe lonely onelongs for honors,The grace of God,though, grieved in his soul,Over the waste of the watersfar and wide he shallRow with his handsthrough the rime-cold sea,5Travel the exile tracks:full determined is fate!So the wanderer spake,his woes remembering,His misfortunes in fightingand the fall of his kinsmen:“Often aloneat early dawnI make my moan!Not a man now lives10To whom I can speak forthmy heart and soulAnd tell of its trials.In truth I know wellThat there belongs to a lordan illustrious trait,To fetter his feelingsfast in his breast,To keep his own counselthough cares oppress him.15The weary in heartagainstWyrdhas no helpNor may the troubled in thoughtattempt to get aid.Therefore the thanewho is thinking of gloryBinds in his breasthis bitterest thoughts.So I fasten with fetters,confine in my breast20My sorrows of soul,though sick oft at heart,In a foreign countryfar from my kinsmen.I long ago laidmy loyal patronIn sorrow under the sod;since then I have goneWeary with winter-careover the wave’s foamy track,25In sadness have soughta solace to findIn the home and the hallof a host and ring-giver,Who, mindful of mercyin the mead-hall free,In kindness would comfortand care for me friendless,Would treat me with tenderness.The tried man knows30How stern is sorrow,how distressing a comradeFor him who has fewof friends and loved ones:He trails the track of the exile;no treasure he has,But heart-chilling frost—no fame upon earth.He recalls his comradesand the costly hall-gifts35Of his gracious gold-friend,which he gave him in youthTo expend as he pleased:his pleasure has vanished!He who lacks for longhis lord’s advice,His love and his wisdom,learns full wellHow sorrow and slumbersoothe together40The way-worn wandererto welcome peace.He seems in his sleepto see his lord;He kisses and clasps him,and inclines on his kneeHis hands and his headas in happier daysWhen he experienced the pleasureof his prince’s favors.45From his sleep then awakensthe sorrowful wanderer;He sees full before himthe fallow waves,The sea-birds bathingand beating their wings,Frost and snow fallingwith freezing hail.Then heavier growsthe grief of his heart,50Sad after his dream;he sorrows anew.His kinsmen’s memoryhe calls to his mind,And eagerly greets it;in gladness he seesHis valiant comrades.Then they vanish away.In the soul of a sailorno songs burst forth,55No familiar refrains.Fresh is his careWho sends his soulo’er the sea full oft,Over the welling waveshis wearied heart.Hence I may not marvel,when I am mindful of life,That my sorrowing soulgrows sick and dark,60When I look at the livesof lords and earls,How they are suddenly snatchedfrom the seats of their power,In their princely pride.So passes this world,And droops and dieseach day and hour;And no man is sagewho knows not his share65Of winter in the world.The wise man is patient,Not too hot in his heart,nor too hasty in words,Nor too weak in war,nor unwise in his rashness,Nor too forward nor fain,nor fearful of death,Nor too eager and arroganttill he equal his boasting.70The wise man will waitwith his words of boastingTill, restraining his thoughts,he thoroughly knowsWhere his vain words of vauntingeventually will lead him.The sage man perceiveshow sorrowful it isWhen all the wealth of the worldlies wasted and scattered.75So now over the earthin every landStormed on by windsthe walls are standingRimy with hoar-frost,and the roofs of the houses;The wine-halls are wasted;far away are the rulers,Deprived of their pleasure.All the proud ones have fallen,80The warriors by the wall:some war has borne off,In its bloody embrace;some birds have carriedOver the high seas;to some the hoar wolfHas dealt their death;some with dreary facesBy earls have been exiledin earth-caves to dwell:85So has wasted this worldthrough the wisdom of God,Till the proud one’s pleasurehas perished utterly,And the oldwork of the giantsstands worthless and joyless.He who the waste of this wall-steadwisely considers,And looks down deepat the darkness of life,90Mournful in mind,remembers of oldMuch struggle and spoiland speaks these words:‘Where are the horses? Where are the heroes?Where are the high treasure-givers?Where are the proud pleasure-seekers?Where are the palace and its joys?Alas the bright wine-cup!Alas the burnie-warriors!95Alas the prince’s pride!How passes the timeUnder the shadow of nightas it never had been!Over the trusty troopnow towers full highA wall adornedwith wondrous dragons.The strength of the spearhas destroyed the earls,100War-greedy weapons,Wyrd inexorable;And the storms strike downon the stony cliffs;The snows descendand seize all the earthIn the dread of winter;then darkness comesAnd dusky night-shade.Down from the north105The hated hail-stormsbeat on heroes with fury.All on earth isirksome to man;Oft changes the work of the fates,the world under the firmament.Here treasure is fleeting;here true friends are fleeting;Here comrades are fleeting;here kinsmen are fleeting.110All idle and emptythe earth has become.’So says the sage one in mind,as he sits and secretly ponders.Good is the man who is true to his trust;never should he betray anger,Divulge the rage of his hearttill the remedy he knowsThat quickly will quiet his spirit.The quest of honor is a noble pursuit;115Glory be to God on high,who grants us our salvation!”
Oftenthe lonely onelongs for honors,
The grace of God,though, grieved in his soul,
Over the waste of the watersfar and wide he shall
Row with his handsthrough the rime-cold sea,
5Travel the exile tracks:full determined is fate!
So the wanderer spake,his woes remembering,
His misfortunes in fightingand the fall of his kinsmen:
“Often aloneat early dawn
I make my moan!Not a man now lives
10To whom I can speak forthmy heart and soul
And tell of its trials.In truth I know well
That there belongs to a lordan illustrious trait,
To fetter his feelingsfast in his breast,
To keep his own counselthough cares oppress him.
15The weary in heartagainstWyrdhas no help
Nor may the troubled in thoughtattempt to get aid.
Therefore the thanewho is thinking of glory
Binds in his breasthis bitterest thoughts.
So I fasten with fetters,confine in my breast
20My sorrows of soul,though sick oft at heart,
In a foreign countryfar from my kinsmen.
I long ago laidmy loyal patron
In sorrow under the sod;since then I have gone
Weary with winter-careover the wave’s foamy track,
25In sadness have soughta solace to find
In the home and the hallof a host and ring-giver,
Who, mindful of mercyin the mead-hall free,
In kindness would comfortand care for me friendless,
Would treat me with tenderness.The tried man knows
30How stern is sorrow,how distressing a comrade
For him who has fewof friends and loved ones:
He trails the track of the exile;no treasure he has,
But heart-chilling frost—no fame upon earth.
He recalls his comradesand the costly hall-gifts
35Of his gracious gold-friend,which he gave him in youth
To expend as he pleased:his pleasure has vanished!
He who lacks for longhis lord’s advice,
His love and his wisdom,learns full well
How sorrow and slumbersoothe together
40The way-worn wandererto welcome peace.
He seems in his sleepto see his lord;
He kisses and clasps him,and inclines on his knee
His hands and his headas in happier days
When he experienced the pleasureof his prince’s favors.
45From his sleep then awakensthe sorrowful wanderer;
He sees full before himthe fallow waves,
The sea-birds bathingand beating their wings,
Frost and snow fallingwith freezing hail.
Then heavier growsthe grief of his heart,
50Sad after his dream;he sorrows anew.
His kinsmen’s memoryhe calls to his mind,
And eagerly greets it;in gladness he sees
His valiant comrades.Then they vanish away.
In the soul of a sailorno songs burst forth,
55No familiar refrains.Fresh is his care
Who sends his soulo’er the sea full oft,
Over the welling waveshis wearied heart.
Hence I may not marvel,when I am mindful of life,
That my sorrowing soulgrows sick and dark,
60When I look at the livesof lords and earls,
How they are suddenly snatchedfrom the seats of their power,
In their princely pride.So passes this world,
And droops and dieseach day and hour;
And no man is sagewho knows not his share
65Of winter in the world.The wise man is patient,
Not too hot in his heart,nor too hasty in words,
Nor too weak in war,nor unwise in his rashness,
Nor too forward nor fain,nor fearful of death,
Nor too eager and arroganttill he equal his boasting.
70The wise man will waitwith his words of boasting
Till, restraining his thoughts,he thoroughly knows
Where his vain words of vauntingeventually will lead him.
The sage man perceiveshow sorrowful it is
When all the wealth of the worldlies wasted and scattered.
75So now over the earthin every land
Stormed on by windsthe walls are standing
Rimy with hoar-frost,and the roofs of the houses;
The wine-halls are wasted;far away are the rulers,
Deprived of their pleasure.All the proud ones have fallen,
80The warriors by the wall:some war has borne off,
In its bloody embrace;some birds have carried
Over the high seas;to some the hoar wolf
Has dealt their death;some with dreary faces
By earls have been exiledin earth-caves to dwell:
85So has wasted this worldthrough the wisdom of God,
Till the proud one’s pleasurehas perished utterly,
And the oldwork of the giantsstands worthless and joyless.
He who the waste of this wall-steadwisely considers,
And looks down deepat the darkness of life,
90Mournful in mind,remembers of old
Much struggle and spoiland speaks these words:
‘Where are the horses? Where are the heroes?
Where are the high treasure-givers?
Where are the proud pleasure-seekers?Where are the palace and its joys?
Alas the bright wine-cup!Alas the burnie-warriors!
95Alas the prince’s pride!How passes the time
Under the shadow of nightas it never had been!
Over the trusty troopnow towers full high
A wall adornedwith wondrous dragons.
The strength of the spearhas destroyed the earls,
100War-greedy weapons,Wyrd inexorable;
And the storms strike downon the stony cliffs;
The snows descendand seize all the earth
In the dread of winter;then darkness comes
And dusky night-shade.Down from the north
105The hated hail-stormsbeat on heroes with fury.
All on earth isirksome to man;
Oft changes the work of the fates,the world under the firmament.
Here treasure is fleeting;here true friends are fleeting;
Here comrades are fleeting;here kinsmen are fleeting.
110All idle and emptythe earth has become.’
So says the sage one in mind,as he sits and secretly ponders.
Good is the man who is true to his trust;never should he betray anger,
Divulge the rage of his hearttill the remedy he knows
That quickly will quiet his spirit.The quest of honor is a noble pursuit;
115Glory be to God on high,who grants us our salvation!”
1.These opening lines are typical of the group of poems usually known as the “Elegies”—this and the next four poems in the book. It is probable that the poems of this group have no relation with one another save in general tone—a deep melancholy that, though present in the other old English poems is blackest in these.15.Wyrd:the “Fate” of the Germanic peoples. The Anglo-Saxon’s life was overshadowed by the power of Wyrd, though Beowulf says that “a man may escape his Wyrd—if he be good enough.”87.Ancient fortifications and cities are often referred to in Anglo-Saxon poetry as “the old work of the giants.”
1.These opening lines are typical of the group of poems usually known as the “Elegies”—this and the next four poems in the book. It is probable that the poems of this group have no relation with one another save in general tone—a deep melancholy that, though present in the other old English poems is blackest in these.
15.Wyrd:the “Fate” of the Germanic peoples. The Anglo-Saxon’s life was overshadowed by the power of Wyrd, though Beowulf says that “a man may escape his Wyrd—if he be good enough.”
87.Ancient fortifications and cities are often referred to in Anglo-Saxon poetry as “the old work of the giants.”
THE SEAFARER[Edition used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch.Up to line 65 this is one of the finest specimens of Anglo-Saxon poetry. It expresses as few poems in English have done the spirit of adventure, thewanderlustof springtime. The author was a remarkable painter of the sea and its conditions. From line 65 to the end the poem consists of a very tedious homily that must surely be a later addition.The use of the first person throughout and the opposing sentiments expressed have caused several scholars to consider the first part of the poem a dialogue between a young man eager to go to sea and an old sailor. The divisions of the speeches suggested have been as follows:(By Hönncher)(By Kluge)(By Rieger)1-33a Sailor1-33 Sailor1-38a Sailor33b-38 Youth34-64 or 66 Youth33b-38 Youth39-43 Sailor39-47 Sailor44-52 Youth48-52 Youth53-57 Sailor53-57 Sailor58-64a Youth58-71 Youth71-end SailorSweet, in hisAnglo-Saxon Reader, objects to these theories since there are not only no headings or divisions in the manuscript to indicate such divisions, but there are no breaks or contrasts in the poem itself.“If we discard these theories,” he says, “the simplest view of the poem is that it is the monologue of an old sailor who first describes the hardships of the seafaring life, and then confesses its irresistible attraction, which he justifies, as it were, by drawing a parallel between the seafarer’s contempt for the luxuries of the life on land on the one hand and the aspirations of a spiritual nature on the other, of which the sea bird is to him the type. In dwelling on these ideals the poet loses sight of the seafarer and his half-heathen associations, and as inevitably rises to a contemplation of the cheering hopes of a future life afforded by Christianity.”The dullness and obscurity of the last part of the poem, however, and the obvious similarity to the homilies of the time make it very unlikely that the whole poem was written by one author.]I will sing of myselfa song that is true,Tell of my travelsand troublesome days,How often I endureddays of hardship;Bitter breast-careI have borne as my portion,5Have seen from my shipsorrowful shores,Awful welling of waves;oft on watch I have beenOn the narrow night-wakesat the neck of the ship,When it crashed into cliffs;with cold often pinchedWere my freezing feet,by frost bound tight10In its blighting clutch;cares then burned me,Hot around my heart.Hunger tore withinMy sea-weary soul.To conceive this is hardFor the landsman who liveson the lonely shore—How, sorrowful and sadon a sea ice-cold,15I eked out my exilethrough the awful winter. . . . . . . .deprived of my kinsmen,Hung about by icicles;hail flew in showers.There I heard naughtbut the howl of the sea,The ice-cold surgewith a swan-song at times;20The note of the gannetfor gayety served me,The sea-bird’s songfor sayings of people,For the mead-drink of menthe mew’s sad note.Storms beat on the cliffs,’mid the cry of gulls,Icy of feather;and the eagle screamed,25The dewy-winged bird.No dear friend comesWith merciful kindnessmy misery to conquer.Of this little can he judgewho has joy in his life,And, settled in the city,is sated with wine,And proud and prosperous—how painful it is30When I wearily wanderon the waves full oft!Night shadows descended;it snowed from the north;The world was fettered with frost;hail fell to the earth,The coldest of corns.Yet course now desiresWhich surge in my heartfor the high seas,35That I test the terrorsof the tossing waves;My soul constantly kindlesin keenest impatienceTo fare itself forthand far off henceTo seek the strandsof stranger tribes.There is no one in this worldso o’erweening in power,40So good in his giving,so gallant in his youth,So daring in his deeds,so dear to his lord,But that he leaves the landand longs for the sea.By the grace of Godhe will gain or lose;Nor hearkens he to harpnor has heart for gift-treasures,45Nor in the wiles of a wifenor in the world rejoices.Save in the welling of wavesno whit takes he pleasure;But he ever has longingwho is lured by the sea.The forests are in flowerand fair are the hamlets;The woods are in bloom,the world is astir:50Everything urgesone eager to travel,Sends the seekerof seas afarTo try his fortuneon the terrible foam.The cuckoo warnsin its woeful call;The summer-ward sings,sorrow foretelling,55Heavy to the heart.Hard is it to knowFor the man of pleasure,what many with patienceEndure who darethe dangers of exile!In my bursting breastnow burns my heart,My spirit salliesover the sea-floods wide,60Sails o’er the waves,wanders afarTo the bounds of the worldand back at once,Eagerly, longingly;the lone flyer beckonsMy soul unceasinglyto sail o’er the whale-path,Overthe waves of the sea.64.At this point the dull homiletic passage begins. Much of it is quite untranslatable. A free paraphrase may be seen in Cook and Tinker,Translations from Old English Poetry, p. 47.
[Edition used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch.Up to line 65 this is one of the finest specimens of Anglo-Saxon poetry. It expresses as few poems in English have done the spirit of adventure, thewanderlustof springtime. The author was a remarkable painter of the sea and its conditions. From line 65 to the end the poem consists of a very tedious homily that must surely be a later addition.The use of the first person throughout and the opposing sentiments expressed have caused several scholars to consider the first part of the poem a dialogue between a young man eager to go to sea and an old sailor. The divisions of the speeches suggested have been as follows:(By Hönncher)(By Kluge)(By Rieger)1-33a Sailor1-33 Sailor1-38a Sailor33b-38 Youth34-64 or 66 Youth33b-38 Youth39-43 Sailor39-47 Sailor44-52 Youth48-52 Youth53-57 Sailor53-57 Sailor58-64a Youth58-71 Youth71-end SailorSweet, in hisAnglo-Saxon Reader, objects to these theories since there are not only no headings or divisions in the manuscript to indicate such divisions, but there are no breaks or contrasts in the poem itself.“If we discard these theories,” he says, “the simplest view of the poem is that it is the monologue of an old sailor who first describes the hardships of the seafaring life, and then confesses its irresistible attraction, which he justifies, as it were, by drawing a parallel between the seafarer’s contempt for the luxuries of the life on land on the one hand and the aspirations of a spiritual nature on the other, of which the sea bird is to him the type. In dwelling on these ideals the poet loses sight of the seafarer and his half-heathen associations, and as inevitably rises to a contemplation of the cheering hopes of a future life afforded by Christianity.”The dullness and obscurity of the last part of the poem, however, and the obvious similarity to the homilies of the time make it very unlikely that the whole poem was written by one author.]
[Edition used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch.
Up to line 65 this is one of the finest specimens of Anglo-Saxon poetry. It expresses as few poems in English have done the spirit of adventure, thewanderlustof springtime. The author was a remarkable painter of the sea and its conditions. From line 65 to the end the poem consists of a very tedious homily that must surely be a later addition.
The use of the first person throughout and the opposing sentiments expressed have caused several scholars to consider the first part of the poem a dialogue between a young man eager to go to sea and an old sailor. The divisions of the speeches suggested have been as follows:
Sweet, in hisAnglo-Saxon Reader, objects to these theories since there are not only no headings or divisions in the manuscript to indicate such divisions, but there are no breaks or contrasts in the poem itself.
“If we discard these theories,” he says, “the simplest view of the poem is that it is the monologue of an old sailor who first describes the hardships of the seafaring life, and then confesses its irresistible attraction, which he justifies, as it were, by drawing a parallel between the seafarer’s contempt for the luxuries of the life on land on the one hand and the aspirations of a spiritual nature on the other, of which the sea bird is to him the type. In dwelling on these ideals the poet loses sight of the seafarer and his half-heathen associations, and as inevitably rises to a contemplation of the cheering hopes of a future life afforded by Christianity.”
The dullness and obscurity of the last part of the poem, however, and the obvious similarity to the homilies of the time make it very unlikely that the whole poem was written by one author.]
I will sing of myselfa song that is true,Tell of my travelsand troublesome days,How often I endureddays of hardship;Bitter breast-careI have borne as my portion,5Have seen from my shipsorrowful shores,Awful welling of waves;oft on watch I have beenOn the narrow night-wakesat the neck of the ship,When it crashed into cliffs;with cold often pinchedWere my freezing feet,by frost bound tight10In its blighting clutch;cares then burned me,Hot around my heart.Hunger tore withinMy sea-weary soul.To conceive this is hardFor the landsman who liveson the lonely shore—How, sorrowful and sadon a sea ice-cold,15I eked out my exilethrough the awful winter. . . . . . . .deprived of my kinsmen,Hung about by icicles;hail flew in showers.There I heard naughtbut the howl of the sea,The ice-cold surgewith a swan-song at times;20The note of the gannetfor gayety served me,The sea-bird’s songfor sayings of people,For the mead-drink of menthe mew’s sad note.Storms beat on the cliffs,’mid the cry of gulls,Icy of feather;and the eagle screamed,25The dewy-winged bird.No dear friend comesWith merciful kindnessmy misery to conquer.Of this little can he judgewho has joy in his life,And, settled in the city,is sated with wine,And proud and prosperous—how painful it is30When I wearily wanderon the waves full oft!Night shadows descended;it snowed from the north;The world was fettered with frost;hail fell to the earth,The coldest of corns.Yet course now desiresWhich surge in my heartfor the high seas,35That I test the terrorsof the tossing waves;My soul constantly kindlesin keenest impatienceTo fare itself forthand far off henceTo seek the strandsof stranger tribes.There is no one in this worldso o’erweening in power,40So good in his giving,so gallant in his youth,So daring in his deeds,so dear to his lord,But that he leaves the landand longs for the sea.By the grace of Godhe will gain or lose;Nor hearkens he to harpnor has heart for gift-treasures,45Nor in the wiles of a wifenor in the world rejoices.Save in the welling of wavesno whit takes he pleasure;But he ever has longingwho is lured by the sea.The forests are in flowerand fair are the hamlets;The woods are in bloom,the world is astir:50Everything urgesone eager to travel,Sends the seekerof seas afarTo try his fortuneon the terrible foam.The cuckoo warnsin its woeful call;The summer-ward sings,sorrow foretelling,55Heavy to the heart.Hard is it to knowFor the man of pleasure,what many with patienceEndure who darethe dangers of exile!In my bursting breastnow burns my heart,My spirit salliesover the sea-floods wide,60Sails o’er the waves,wanders afarTo the bounds of the worldand back at once,Eagerly, longingly;the lone flyer beckonsMy soul unceasinglyto sail o’er the whale-path,Overthe waves of the sea.
I will sing of myselfa song that is true,
Tell of my travelsand troublesome days,
How often I endureddays of hardship;
Bitter breast-careI have borne as my portion,
5Have seen from my shipsorrowful shores,
Awful welling of waves;oft on watch I have been
On the narrow night-wakesat the neck of the ship,
When it crashed into cliffs;with cold often pinched
Were my freezing feet,by frost bound tight
10In its blighting clutch;cares then burned me,
Hot around my heart.Hunger tore within
My sea-weary soul.To conceive this is hard
For the landsman who liveson the lonely shore—
How, sorrowful and sadon a sea ice-cold,
15I eked out my exilethrough the awful winter
. . . . . . . .deprived of my kinsmen,
Hung about by icicles;hail flew in showers.
There I heard naughtbut the howl of the sea,
The ice-cold surgewith a swan-song at times;
20The note of the gannetfor gayety served me,
The sea-bird’s songfor sayings of people,
For the mead-drink of menthe mew’s sad note.
Storms beat on the cliffs,’mid the cry of gulls,
Icy of feather;and the eagle screamed,
25The dewy-winged bird.No dear friend comes
With merciful kindnessmy misery to conquer.
Of this little can he judgewho has joy in his life,
And, settled in the city,is sated with wine,
And proud and prosperous—how painful it is
30When I wearily wanderon the waves full oft!
Night shadows descended;it snowed from the north;
The world was fettered with frost;hail fell to the earth,
The coldest of corns.
Yet course now desires
Which surge in my heartfor the high seas,
35That I test the terrorsof the tossing waves;
My soul constantly kindlesin keenest impatience
To fare itself forthand far off hence
To seek the strandsof stranger tribes.
There is no one in this worldso o’erweening in power,
40So good in his giving,so gallant in his youth,
So daring in his deeds,so dear to his lord,
But that he leaves the landand longs for the sea.
By the grace of Godhe will gain or lose;
Nor hearkens he to harpnor has heart for gift-treasures,
45Nor in the wiles of a wifenor in the world rejoices.
Save in the welling of wavesno whit takes he pleasure;
But he ever has longingwho is lured by the sea.
The forests are in flowerand fair are the hamlets;
The woods are in bloom,the world is astir:
50Everything urgesone eager to travel,
Sends the seekerof seas afar
To try his fortuneon the terrible foam.
The cuckoo warnsin its woeful call;
The summer-ward sings,sorrow foretelling,
55Heavy to the heart.Hard is it to know
For the man of pleasure,what many with patience
Endure who darethe dangers of exile!
In my bursting breastnow burns my heart,
My spirit salliesover the sea-floods wide,
60Sails o’er the waves,wanders afar
To the bounds of the worldand back at once,
Eagerly, longingly;the lone flyer beckons
My soul unceasinglyto sail o’er the whale-path,
Overthe waves of the sea.
64.At this point the dull homiletic passage begins. Much of it is quite untranslatable. A free paraphrase may be seen in Cook and Tinker,Translations from Old English Poetry, p. 47.
64.At this point the dull homiletic passage begins. Much of it is quite untranslatable. A free paraphrase may be seen in Cook and Tinker,Translations from Old English Poetry, p. 47.
THE WIFE’S LAMENT[Text used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch, p. 146.The meaning of some parts of this poem is very obscure—especially lines 18-21 and 42-47. No satisfactory explanation of them has been given. There is probably no relation except in general theme between it andThe Husband’s Message.]Sorrowfully I singmy song of woe,My tale of trials.In truth I may sayThat the buffets I have bornesince my birth in the worldWere never more than now,either new or old.5Ever the evilsof exile I endure!Long since went my lordfrom the land of his birth,Over the welling waves.Woeful at dawn I askedWhere lingers my lord,in what land does he dwell?Then I fared into far landsand faithfully sought him,10A weary wandererin want of comfort.His treacherous tribesmencontrived a plot,Dark and dastardly,to drive us apartThe width of a world,where with weary heartsWe live in loneliness,and longing consumes me.15My master commanded meto make my home here.Alas, in this landmy loved ones are few,My faithful friends!Hence I feel great sorrowThat the man well-matchedwith me I have foundTo be sad in souland sorrowful in mind,20Concealing his thoughtsand thinking of murder,Though blithe in his bearing.Oft we bound us by oathThat the day of our deathshould draw us apart,Nothing less end our love.Alas, all is changed!Now is as naught,as if never it were,25Our faith and our friendship.Far and near I shallEndure the hateof one dear to my heart!He condemned me to dwellin a darksome wood,Under an oak-treein an earth-cave drear.Old is the earth-hall.I am anxious with longing.30Dim are the dales,dark the hills tower,Bleak the tribe-dwellings,with briars entangled,Unblessed abodes.Here bitterly I have sufferedThe faring of my lord afar.Friends there are on earthLiving in love,in lasting bliss,35While, wakeful at dawn,I wander aloneUnder the oak-treethe earth-cave near.Sadly I sit therethe summer-long day,Wearily weepingmy woeful exile,My many miseries.Hence I may not ever40Cease my sorrowing,my sad bewailing,Nor all the longingsof my life of woe.Always may the young manbe mournful of spirit,Unhappy of heart,and have as his portionMany sorrows of soul,unceasing breast-cares,45Though now blithe of behavior.Unbearable likewiseBe his joys in the world.Wide be his exileTo far-away folk-landswhere my friend sits alone,A stranger under stone-cliffs,by storm made hoary,A weary-souled wanderer,by waters encompassed,50In his lonely lodging.My lover enduresUnmeasured mind-care:he remembers too oftA happier home.To him is fate cruelWho lingers and longs forthe loved one’s return!
[Text used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch, p. 146.The meaning of some parts of this poem is very obscure—especially lines 18-21 and 42-47. No satisfactory explanation of them has been given. There is probably no relation except in general theme between it andThe Husband’s Message.]
[Text used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch, p. 146.
The meaning of some parts of this poem is very obscure—especially lines 18-21 and 42-47. No satisfactory explanation of them has been given. There is probably no relation except in general theme between it andThe Husband’s Message.]
Sorrowfully I singmy song of woe,My tale of trials.In truth I may sayThat the buffets I have bornesince my birth in the worldWere never more than now,either new or old.5Ever the evilsof exile I endure!Long since went my lordfrom the land of his birth,Over the welling waves.Woeful at dawn I askedWhere lingers my lord,in what land does he dwell?Then I fared into far landsand faithfully sought him,10A weary wandererin want of comfort.His treacherous tribesmencontrived a plot,Dark and dastardly,to drive us apartThe width of a world,where with weary heartsWe live in loneliness,and longing consumes me.15My master commanded meto make my home here.Alas, in this landmy loved ones are few,My faithful friends!Hence I feel great sorrowThat the man well-matchedwith me I have foundTo be sad in souland sorrowful in mind,20Concealing his thoughtsand thinking of murder,Though blithe in his bearing.Oft we bound us by oathThat the day of our deathshould draw us apart,Nothing less end our love.Alas, all is changed!Now is as naught,as if never it were,25Our faith and our friendship.Far and near I shallEndure the hateof one dear to my heart!He condemned me to dwellin a darksome wood,Under an oak-treein an earth-cave drear.Old is the earth-hall.I am anxious with longing.30Dim are the dales,dark the hills tower,Bleak the tribe-dwellings,with briars entangled,Unblessed abodes.Here bitterly I have sufferedThe faring of my lord afar.Friends there are on earthLiving in love,in lasting bliss,35While, wakeful at dawn,I wander aloneUnder the oak-treethe earth-cave near.Sadly I sit therethe summer-long day,Wearily weepingmy woeful exile,My many miseries.Hence I may not ever40Cease my sorrowing,my sad bewailing,Nor all the longingsof my life of woe.Always may the young manbe mournful of spirit,Unhappy of heart,and have as his portionMany sorrows of soul,unceasing breast-cares,45Though now blithe of behavior.Unbearable likewiseBe his joys in the world.Wide be his exileTo far-away folk-landswhere my friend sits alone,A stranger under stone-cliffs,by storm made hoary,A weary-souled wanderer,by waters encompassed,50In his lonely lodging.My lover enduresUnmeasured mind-care:he remembers too oftA happier home.To him is fate cruelWho lingers and longs forthe loved one’s return!
Sorrowfully I singmy song of woe,
My tale of trials.In truth I may say
That the buffets I have bornesince my birth in the world
Were never more than now,either new or old.
5Ever the evilsof exile I endure!
Long since went my lordfrom the land of his birth,
Over the welling waves.Woeful at dawn I asked
Where lingers my lord,in what land does he dwell?
Then I fared into far landsand faithfully sought him,
10A weary wandererin want of comfort.
His treacherous tribesmencontrived a plot,
Dark and dastardly,to drive us apart
The width of a world,where with weary hearts
We live in loneliness,and longing consumes me.
15My master commanded meto make my home here.
Alas, in this landmy loved ones are few,
My faithful friends!Hence I feel great sorrow
That the man well-matchedwith me I have found
To be sad in souland sorrowful in mind,
20Concealing his thoughtsand thinking of murder,
Though blithe in his bearing.Oft we bound us by oath
That the day of our deathshould draw us apart,
Nothing less end our love.Alas, all is changed!
Now is as naught,as if never it were,
25Our faith and our friendship.Far and near I shall
Endure the hateof one dear to my heart!
He condemned me to dwellin a darksome wood,
Under an oak-treein an earth-cave drear.
Old is the earth-hall.I am anxious with longing.
30Dim are the dales,dark the hills tower,
Bleak the tribe-dwellings,with briars entangled,
Unblessed abodes.Here bitterly I have suffered
The faring of my lord afar.Friends there are on earth
Living in love,in lasting bliss,
35While, wakeful at dawn,I wander alone
Under the oak-treethe earth-cave near.
Sadly I sit therethe summer-long day,
Wearily weepingmy woeful exile,
My many miseries.Hence I may not ever
40Cease my sorrowing,my sad bewailing,
Nor all the longingsof my life of woe.
Always may the young manbe mournful of spirit,
Unhappy of heart,and have as his portion
Many sorrows of soul,unceasing breast-cares,
45Though now blithe of behavior.Unbearable likewise
Be his joys in the world.Wide be his exile
To far-away folk-landswhere my friend sits alone,
A stranger under stone-cliffs,by storm made hoary,
A weary-souled wanderer,by waters encompassed,
50In his lonely lodging.My lover endures
Unmeasured mind-care:he remembers too oft
A happier home.To him is fate cruel
Who lingers and longs forthe loved one’s return!
THE HUSBAND’S MESSAGE[Text used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch.The piece of wood on which the message is written speaks throughout the poem. It is impossible to tell whether the sender of the message is husband or lover of the woman addressed.Some scholars consider theriddle on “The Reed,” number LX, as the true beginning of this poem. It precedes the “Message” in the manuscript. Hicketeir (Anglia, xi, 363) thinks that it does not belong with that riddle, but that it is itself a riddle. He cites the Runes, in lines 51-2, especially as evidence. Trautmann (Angliaxvi, 207) thinks that it is part of a longer poem, in which the puzzling relation would be straightened out.]FirstI shall freelyconfide to youThetale of this tablet of wood.As a tree I grew upOnthe coast of Mecealde,close by the sea.Frequentlythenceto foreign lands5Iset forth in travel,the salt streams triedInthe keel of the shipat a king’s behest.Full oft on the bosomof a boat I have dwelt,Fared over the foama friend to see,Wherever my masteron a mission sent me,10Over the crest of the wave.I am come here to youOn the deck of a shipand in duty inquireHow now in your heartyou hold and cherishThe love of my lord.Loyalty unwaveringI affirm without fearyou will find in his heart.15The maker of this messagecommands me to bid thee,O bracelet-adorned one,to bring to thy mindAnd impress on thy heartthe promises of loveThat ye two in the old daysoften exchangedWhile at home in your hallsunharmed you might still20Live in the land,love one another,Dwell in the same country.He was driven by feudFrom the powerful people.He prays now, most earnestlyThat you learn with delightyou may launch on the sea-streamWhen from the height of the hillyou hear from afar25The melancholy callof the cuckoo in the wood.Let not thereafterany living manPrevent thy voyageor prevail against it.Seek now the shore,the sea-mew’s home!Embark on the boatthat bears thee south,30Where far over the foamthou shalt find thy lord,—Where lingers thy loverin longing and hope.In the width of the worldnot a wish or desireMore strongly stirs him(he instructs me to say)Than that gracious Godshould grant you to live35Ever afterat ease together,To distribute treasuresto retainers and friends,To give rings of gold.Of gilded cupsAnd of proud possessionsa plenty he has,And holds his homefar hence with strangers,40His fertile fields,where follow him manyHigh-spirited heroes—though here my liege-lord,Forced by the fates,took flight on a shipAnd on the watery waveswent forth aloneTo fare on the flood-way:fain would he escape,45Stir up the sea-streams.By strife thy lord hathWon the fight against woe.No wish will he haveFor horses or jewelsor the joys of mead-drinking,Nor any earl’s treasureson earth to be found,O gentle lord’s daughter,if he have joy in thee,50As by solemn vowsye have sworn to each other.I set as a signS and Rtogether,E, A, W, and D,as an oath to assure youThat he stays for thee stilland stands by his troth;And as long as he livesit shall last unbroken,—55Which often of oldwith oaths ye have plighted.1-6.The text here is so corrupt that an almost complete reconstruction has been necessary.51.In the manuscript these letters appear as runes. For illustrations of the appearance of runes, see the introductory note to “Cynewulf and his School,”p. 95, below. What these runes stood for, or whether they were supposed to possess unusual or magic power is purely a matter of conjecture.
[Text used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch.The piece of wood on which the message is written speaks throughout the poem. It is impossible to tell whether the sender of the message is husband or lover of the woman addressed.Some scholars consider theriddle on “The Reed,” number LX, as the true beginning of this poem. It precedes the “Message” in the manuscript. Hicketeir (Anglia, xi, 363) thinks that it does not belong with that riddle, but that it is itself a riddle. He cites the Runes, in lines 51-2, especially as evidence. Trautmann (Angliaxvi, 207) thinks that it is part of a longer poem, in which the puzzling relation would be straightened out.]
[Text used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch.
The piece of wood on which the message is written speaks throughout the poem. It is impossible to tell whether the sender of the message is husband or lover of the woman addressed.
Some scholars consider theriddle on “The Reed,” number LX, as the true beginning of this poem. It precedes the “Message” in the manuscript. Hicketeir (Anglia, xi, 363) thinks that it does not belong with that riddle, but that it is itself a riddle. He cites the Runes, in lines 51-2, especially as evidence. Trautmann (Angliaxvi, 207) thinks that it is part of a longer poem, in which the puzzling relation would be straightened out.]
FirstI shall freelyconfide to youThetale of this tablet of wood.As a tree I grew upOnthe coast of Mecealde,close by the sea.Frequentlythenceto foreign lands5Iset forth in travel,the salt streams triedInthe keel of the shipat a king’s behest.Full oft on the bosomof a boat I have dwelt,Fared over the foama friend to see,Wherever my masteron a mission sent me,10Over the crest of the wave.I am come here to youOn the deck of a shipand in duty inquireHow now in your heartyou hold and cherishThe love of my lord.Loyalty unwaveringI affirm without fearyou will find in his heart.15The maker of this messagecommands me to bid thee,O bracelet-adorned one,to bring to thy mindAnd impress on thy heartthe promises of loveThat ye two in the old daysoften exchangedWhile at home in your hallsunharmed you might still20Live in the land,love one another,Dwell in the same country.He was driven by feudFrom the powerful people.He prays now, most earnestlyThat you learn with delightyou may launch on the sea-streamWhen from the height of the hillyou hear from afar25The melancholy callof the cuckoo in the wood.Let not thereafterany living manPrevent thy voyageor prevail against it.Seek now the shore,the sea-mew’s home!Embark on the boatthat bears thee south,30Where far over the foamthou shalt find thy lord,—Where lingers thy loverin longing and hope.In the width of the worldnot a wish or desireMore strongly stirs him(he instructs me to say)Than that gracious Godshould grant you to live35Ever afterat ease together,To distribute treasuresto retainers and friends,To give rings of gold.Of gilded cupsAnd of proud possessionsa plenty he has,And holds his homefar hence with strangers,40His fertile fields,where follow him manyHigh-spirited heroes—though here my liege-lord,Forced by the fates,took flight on a shipAnd on the watery waveswent forth aloneTo fare on the flood-way:fain would he escape,45Stir up the sea-streams.By strife thy lord hathWon the fight against woe.No wish will he haveFor horses or jewelsor the joys of mead-drinking,Nor any earl’s treasureson earth to be found,O gentle lord’s daughter,if he have joy in thee,50As by solemn vowsye have sworn to each other.I set as a signS and Rtogether,E, A, W, and D,as an oath to assure youThat he stays for thee stilland stands by his troth;And as long as he livesit shall last unbroken,—55Which often of oldwith oaths ye have plighted.
FirstI shall freelyconfide to you
Thetale of this tablet of wood.As a tree I grew up
Onthe coast of Mecealde,close by the sea.
Frequentlythenceto foreign lands
5Iset forth in travel,the salt streams tried
Inthe keel of the shipat a king’s behest.
Full oft on the bosomof a boat I have dwelt,
Fared over the foama friend to see,
Wherever my masteron a mission sent me,
10Over the crest of the wave.I am come here to you
On the deck of a shipand in duty inquire
How now in your heartyou hold and cherish
The love of my lord.Loyalty unwavering
I affirm without fearyou will find in his heart.
15The maker of this messagecommands me to bid thee,
O bracelet-adorned one,to bring to thy mind
And impress on thy heartthe promises of love
That ye two in the old daysoften exchanged
While at home in your hallsunharmed you might still
20Live in the land,love one another,
Dwell in the same country.He was driven by feud
From the powerful people.He prays now, most earnestly
That you learn with delightyou may launch on the sea-stream
When from the height of the hillyou hear from afar
25The melancholy callof the cuckoo in the wood.
Let not thereafterany living man
Prevent thy voyageor prevail against it.
Seek now the shore,the sea-mew’s home!
Embark on the boatthat bears thee south,
30Where far over the foamthou shalt find thy lord,—
Where lingers thy loverin longing and hope.
In the width of the worldnot a wish or desire
More strongly stirs him(he instructs me to say)
Than that gracious Godshould grant you to live
35Ever afterat ease together,
To distribute treasuresto retainers and friends,
To give rings of gold.Of gilded cups
And of proud possessionsa plenty he has,
And holds his homefar hence with strangers,
40His fertile fields,where follow him many
High-spirited heroes—though here my liege-lord,
Forced by the fates,took flight on a ship
And on the watery waveswent forth alone
To fare on the flood-way:fain would he escape,
45Stir up the sea-streams.By strife thy lord hath
Won the fight against woe.No wish will he have
For horses or jewelsor the joys of mead-drinking,
Nor any earl’s treasureson earth to be found,
O gentle lord’s daughter,if he have joy in thee,
50As by solemn vowsye have sworn to each other.
I set as a signS and Rtogether,
E, A, W, and D,as an oath to assure you
That he stays for thee stilland stands by his troth;
And as long as he livesit shall last unbroken,—
55Which often of oldwith oaths ye have plighted.
1-6.The text here is so corrupt that an almost complete reconstruction has been necessary.51.In the manuscript these letters appear as runes. For illustrations of the appearance of runes, see the introductory note to “Cynewulf and his School,”p. 95, below. What these runes stood for, or whether they were supposed to possess unusual or magic power is purely a matter of conjecture.
1-6.The text here is so corrupt that an almost complete reconstruction has been necessary.
51.In the manuscript these letters appear as runes. For illustrations of the appearance of runes, see the introductory note to “Cynewulf and his School,”p. 95, below. What these runes stood for, or whether they were supposed to possess unusual or magic power is purely a matter of conjecture.
THE RUIN[Text used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch.This description of a ruin with hot baths is generally assumed to be of the Roman city of Bath. The fact that the poet uses unusual words and unconventional lines seems to indicate that he wrote with his eye on the object.]Wondrous is its wall-stonelaid waste by the fates.The burg-steads are burst,broken the work of the giants.The roofs are in ruins,rotted away the towers,The fortress-gate fallen,with frost on the mortar.5Broken are the battlements,low bowed and decaying,Eaten under by age.The earth holds fastThe master masons:low mouldering they lieIn the hard grip of the grave,till shall grow up and perishA hundred generations.Hoary and stained with red,10Through conquest of kingdoms,unconquered this wall endured,Stood up under storm.The high structure has fallen.Still remains its wall-stone,struck down by weapons.They have fallen. . . . . . . . .Grounddown by grim fate. . . . . . . .15Splendidlyit shone. . . . . . . .Thecunning creation. . . . . . . .. . . . . . . .fromits clay covering is bent;Mind. . . . . .the swift one drawn.The bold ones in counselbound in rings19The wall-foundations with wires,wondrously together.20Bright were the burgher’s homes,the bath halls many,Gay with high gables—a great martial sound,Many mead-halls,where men took their pleasure,Till an end came to all,through inexorable fate.The people all have perished;pestilence came on them:25Death stole them all,the staunch band of warriors.Their proud works of warnow lie waste and deserted;This fortress has fallen.Its defenders lie low,Its repairmen perished.Thus the palace stands dreary,And its purple expanse;despoiled of its tiles30Is the roof of the dome.The ruin sank to earth,Broken in heaps—there where heroes of yore,Glad-hearted and gold-bedecked,in gorgeous array,Wanton with wine-drinkin war-trappings shone:They took joy in jewelsand gems of great price,35In treasure untoldand in topaz-stones,In the firm-built fortressof a far-stretching realm.The stone courts stood;hot streams poured forth,Wondrously welled out.The wall encompassed allIn its bright embrace.Baths were there then,40Hot all within—a healthful convenience.They let then pour. . . . . . . . . .Over the hoary stonesthe heated streams,Such as never were seenby our sires till then.Hringmere was its name. . . . . . . . . .45The baths were there then;then is . . . . . .. . . . . . . . .That is a royal thingIn a house . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . .14-18.The text is too corrupt to permit of reconstruction. A literal translation of the fragmentary lines has been given in order to show the student something of the loss we have suffered in not having the whole of this finely conceived lament for fallen grandeur. The line numbers are those of Kluge’s text.
[Text used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch.This description of a ruin with hot baths is generally assumed to be of the Roman city of Bath. The fact that the poet uses unusual words and unconventional lines seems to indicate that he wrote with his eye on the object.]
[Text used: Kluge,Angelsächsisches Lesebuch.
This description of a ruin with hot baths is generally assumed to be of the Roman city of Bath. The fact that the poet uses unusual words and unconventional lines seems to indicate that he wrote with his eye on the object.]
Wondrous is its wall-stonelaid waste by the fates.The burg-steads are burst,broken the work of the giants.The roofs are in ruins,rotted away the towers,The fortress-gate fallen,with frost on the mortar.5Broken are the battlements,low bowed and decaying,Eaten under by age.The earth holds fastThe master masons:low mouldering they lieIn the hard grip of the grave,till shall grow up and perishA hundred generations.Hoary and stained with red,10Through conquest of kingdoms,unconquered this wall endured,Stood up under storm.The high structure has fallen.Still remains its wall-stone,struck down by weapons.They have fallen. . . . . . . . .Grounddown by grim fate. . . . . . . .15Splendidlyit shone. . . . . . . .Thecunning creation. . . . . . . .. . . . . . . .fromits clay covering is bent;Mind. . . . . .the swift one drawn.The bold ones in counselbound in rings19The wall-foundations with wires,wondrously together.20Bright were the burgher’s homes,the bath halls many,Gay with high gables—a great martial sound,Many mead-halls,where men took their pleasure,Till an end came to all,through inexorable fate.The people all have perished;pestilence came on them:25Death stole them all,the staunch band of warriors.Their proud works of warnow lie waste and deserted;This fortress has fallen.Its defenders lie low,Its repairmen perished.Thus the palace stands dreary,And its purple expanse;despoiled of its tiles30Is the roof of the dome.The ruin sank to earth,Broken in heaps—there where heroes of yore,Glad-hearted and gold-bedecked,in gorgeous array,Wanton with wine-drinkin war-trappings shone:They took joy in jewelsand gems of great price,35In treasure untoldand in topaz-stones,In the firm-built fortressof a far-stretching realm.The stone courts stood;hot streams poured forth,Wondrously welled out.The wall encompassed allIn its bright embrace.Baths were there then,40Hot all within—a healthful convenience.They let then pour. . . . . . . . . .Over the hoary stonesthe heated streams,Such as never were seenby our sires till then.Hringmere was its name. . . . . . . . . .45The baths were there then;then is . . . . . .. . . . . . . . .That is a royal thingIn a house . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . .
Wondrous is its wall-stonelaid waste by the fates.
The burg-steads are burst,broken the work of the giants.
The roofs are in ruins,rotted away the towers,
The fortress-gate fallen,with frost on the mortar.
5Broken are the battlements,low bowed and decaying,
Eaten under by age.The earth holds fast
The master masons:low mouldering they lie
In the hard grip of the grave,till shall grow up and perish
A hundred generations.Hoary and stained with red,
10Through conquest of kingdoms,unconquered this wall endured,
Stood up under storm.The high structure has fallen.
Still remains its wall-stone,struck down by weapons.
They have fallen. . . . . . . . .
Grounddown by grim fate. . . . . . . .
15Splendidlyit shone. . . . . . . .
Thecunning creation. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .fromits clay covering is bent;
Mind. . . . . .the swift one drawn.
The bold ones in counselbound in rings
19The wall-foundations with wires,wondrously together.
20Bright were the burgher’s homes,the bath halls many,
Gay with high gables—a great martial sound,
Many mead-halls,where men took their pleasure,
Till an end came to all,through inexorable fate.
The people all have perished;pestilence came on them:
25Death stole them all,the staunch band of warriors.
Their proud works of warnow lie waste and deserted;
This fortress has fallen.Its defenders lie low,
Its repairmen perished.Thus the palace stands dreary,
And its purple expanse;despoiled of its tiles
30Is the roof of the dome.The ruin sank to earth,
Broken in heaps—there where heroes of yore,
Glad-hearted and gold-bedecked,in gorgeous array,
Wanton with wine-drinkin war-trappings shone:
They took joy in jewelsand gems of great price,
35In treasure untoldand in topaz-stones,
In the firm-built fortressof a far-stretching realm.
The stone courts stood;hot streams poured forth,
Wondrously welled out.The wall encompassed all
In its bright embrace.Baths were there then,
40Hot all within—a healthful convenience.
They let then pour. . . . . . . . . .
Over the hoary stonesthe heated streams,
Such as never were seenby our sires till then.
Hringmere was its name. . . . . . . . . .
45The baths were there then;then is . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . .That is a royal thing
In a house . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . .
14-18.The text is too corrupt to permit of reconstruction. A literal translation of the fragmentary lines has been given in order to show the student something of the loss we have suffered in not having the whole of this finely conceived lament for fallen grandeur. The line numbers are those of Kluge’s text.
14-18.The text is too corrupt to permit of reconstruction. A literal translation of the fragmentary lines has been given in order to show the student something of the loss we have suffered in not having the whole of this finely conceived lament for fallen grandeur. The line numbers are those of Kluge’s text.