—Tr. by Way.
A special development of the fable is the mock-epic "Reynard the Fox", one of the most noteworthy developments in literature of the Middle Ages. It is an elaborate, semi-epic set of stories in which Reynard is the embodiment of cunning and discreet valor, while his great enemy, Isegrim, the wolf, represents stupid strength. From the beginning of this set of fables, there is a tone of satirical comment on men and their affairs. In the later developments of the story, elaborate allegories are introduced, and monotonous moralizings take the place of the earlier, simpler humor.
The fable reached its greatest development in France, but allEurope shared in making and delighting in it.
Our extracts are taken from Caxton's translation of the Flemish form of the legend.
Then spoke Erswynde, the wolf's wife, "Ach! Fell Reynard, no man can keep himself from thee, thou canst so well utter thy words and thy falseness; but it shall be evil, rewarded in the end. How broughtest thou me once, into the well, where the two buckets hung by one cord running through one pulley which went one up and another down? Thou sattest in one bucket beneath in the pit in great dread. I came thither and heard thee sigh and make sorrow, and asked thee how thou camest there. Thou saidst that thou hadst there so many good fishes eaten out of the water that thy belly wouldst burst. I said, 'tell me how I shall come to thee.' Then saidst thou: 'Aunt, spring into that bucket that hangeth there, and thou shalt come anon to me.' I did so, and I went downward and ye came upward, and then I was all angry. Thou saidst, 'thus fareth the world, that one goeth up and another goeth down.' Then sprang ye forth and went your way, and I abode there alone, sitting an whole day, sore and hungry and acold. And thereto had I many a stroke ere I could get thence." "Aunt," said the fox, "though the strokes did you harm, I had leifer ye had them than I, for ye may better bear them, for one of us must needs have had them. I taught you good; will you understand it and think on it, that ye another time take heed and believe no man over hastily, is he friend or cousin. For every man seeketh his own profit. They be now fools that do not so, and especially when they be in jeopardy of their lives."
The wolf said, "I may well forbear your mocks and your scorns, and also your fell, venomous words' strong thief that you are. Ye said that I was almost dead for hunger when ye helped me in my need. That is falsely lied; for it was but a bone that ye gave to me; ye had eaten away all the flesh that was thereon. And ye mock me and say that I am hungry here where I stand. That touched my worship too nigh. What many a spighty word have ye brought forth with false lesings.[1] And that I have conspired the king's death, for the treasure that you have said to him is in Hulsterlo. And ye have also my wife shamed and slandered that she shall never recover it. And I should ever be disworshipped thereby if I avenged it not. I have forborne you long, but now ye shall not escape me. I cannot make here of great proof, but I say here before my lord, and before all them that been here, that thou art a false traitor and a murderer, and that I shall prove and make good on thy body within lists in the field, and that, body against body. And then shall our strife have an end. And thereto I cast to thee my glove, and take thou it up. I shall have right of thee or die therefor.
[1] Lyings.
Reynard the Fox thought, "how came I on this company? We been not both alike.[1] I shall not well con[2] stand against this strong thief. All my proof is now come to an end."
[1] Of equal strength. [2] Know how to.
Yet, thought the fox, "I have good advantage. The claws of his fore feet been off and his feet been yet sore thereof, when for my sake he was unshod. He shall be somewhat the weaker."
Then said the fox, "who that sayeth that I am a traitor or a murderer? I say he lieth falsely, and that art thou especially Isegrym. Thou bringest me there as I would be. This have I oft desired. Lo! there is my pledge that all thy words been false and that I shall defend me and make good that thou liest.
The king received the pledges and amitted[1] the battle, and asked borrows[2] of them both, that on the morn they should come and perform their battle and do as they ought to do. Then the Bear and the Cat were borrows for the wolf, and for the Fox were borrows Grymbert,[3] the dasse,[4] and Bytelnys.[5]
[1] Admitted. [2] Pledges. [3] The badger. [4] A small fox. [5] The elder daughter of the apes.
French mediaeval literature includes many tales less elaborate in form and less "heroic" in subject than the epics and romances and without the satire and humor of the fables. The best of them are the love stories, and of these the most beautiful is "Aucassin and Nicolette", by an unknown trouvere of the thirteenth century. It is an alternation of prose narrative and dainty narrative lyrics. The story is that of two lovers parted temporarily by the pride and cruelty of the youth's father. But, remaining true to each other, they are, after many vicissitudes, happily united. Our extracts are from Bourdillon's beautiful translation.
Sec. 1.—Who were fain good verse to hear,Of the aged captives' cheer,Of two children fair and feat,Aucassin and Nicolette,—What great sorrows suffered he,And what deeds did valiantlyFor his love, so bright of blee?Sweet the song, and fair the say,Dainty and of deft array.So astonied wight is none,Nor so doleful nor undone,None that doth so sorely ail,If he hear, shall not be hale,And made glad again for bliss,So sweet it is!
The hero refuses to become a knight and go to war unless his father will give him Nicolette for wife.
Sec. 8.—Aucassin was of Beaucaire,And abode in castle fair.None can move him to forgetDainty-fashioned NicoletteWhom his sire to him denies;And his mother sternly cries:"Out on thee! what wilt thou, loon?Nicolette is blithe and boon?Castaway from Carthage she!Bought of Paynim compayne!If with woman thou wilt mate,Take thee wife of high estate!""Mother, I can else do ne'er!Nicolette is debonair;Her lithe form, her face, her bloom,Do the heart of me illume.Fairly mine her love may beSo sweet is she!"
This the father refuses to do, and has Nicolette shut up in a tower. But the son stubbornly persists. At last it is agreed that if Aucassin returns from fighting he may see and kiss his lover.
Sec. 9.—Aucassin heard of the kissWhich on return shall be his.Had one given him of pure goldMarks a hundred thousand told,Not so blithe of hear he were.Rich array he bade them bear:They made ready for his wear.He put on a hauberk lined,Helmet on his head did bind,Girt his sword with hilt pure gold,Mounted on his charger bold;Spear and buckler then he took;At his two feet cast a look:They trod in the stirrups trim.Wondrous proud he carried himHis dear love he thought upon,And his good horse spurred anon,Who right eagerly went on.Through the gate he rode straightway,Into the fray.
Aucassin was greatly successful, but on his return his father would not keep his promise, and shut him up in prison.
Sec. 12.— Aucassin was put in prison, as you have listened and heard, and Nicolette on the other hand, was in the chamber. It was in the summer-time, in the month of May, when the days are warm, long, and bright, and the nights still and cloudless. Nicolette lay one night on her bed and saw the moon shine bright through a window, and heard the nightingale sing in the garden, and then she bethought her of Aucassin, her friend, whom she loved so much. She began to consider of the Count Garin of Beaucaire, who hated her to death; and she thought to herself that she would remain there no longer; since if she were betrayed, and the Count Garin knew it, he would make her to die an evil death. She perceived that the old woman who was with her was asleep. She got up, and put on a gown which she had, of cloth-of-silk and very good; and she took bedclothes and towels, and tied one to another, and made a rope as long as she could, and tied it to the pillar of the window, and let herself down into the garden; and she took her dress in one hand before and in the other behind, and tucked it up, because of the dew which she saw thick on the grass, and she went away down in the garden.
Her hair was golden and in little curls, and her eyes blue-gray and laughing, and- her face oval, and her nose high and well set, and her lips vermeil, so as is no rose nor cherry in summertime, and her teeth white and small, and her bosom was firm, and heaved her dress as if it had been two walnuts; and atween the sides she was so slender that you could have clasped her in your two hands; and the daisy blossoms which she broke off with the toes of her feet, which lay fallen over on the bend of her foot, were right black against her feet and her legs, so very white was the maiden.
She came to the postern door, and unfastened it, and went out through the streets of Beaucaire, keeping in the shadow, for the moon shone very bright; and she went on till she came to the tower where her lover was. The tower was shored up here and there, and she crouched down by one of the pillars, and wrapped herself in her mantle; and she thrust her head into a chink in the tower, which was old and ruinous, and heard Aucassin within weeping and making great ado, and lamenting for his sweet friend whom he loved so much. And when she had listened enough to him she began to speak.
After telling each their love, Nicolette was obliged to flee. She went to a great forest and talked with the herd-boys.
Sec. 19.—Nicolette, bright-favored maid,To the herds her farewell bade,And her journey straight addressedRight amid the green forest,Down a path of olden day;Till she reached an open wayWhere seven roads fork, that go outThrough the region round about.Then the thought within her grew,She will try her lover true,If he love her as he said:She took many a lily head,With the bushy kermes-oak shoot,And of leafy boughs to boot,And a bower so fair made she,—Daintier I did never see!By the ruth of heaven she sware,Should Aucassin come by there,And not rest a little space,For her love's sake' in that place,He should ne'er her lover be,Nor his love she.
Aucassin escapes, comes to the forest, finds his lover, and they agree to go away together.
Sec. 27—Aucassin, the fair, the blond,Gentle knight and lover fond,Rode from out the thick forest;In his arms his love was pressed,On the saddlebow before;And he kissed her o'er and o'er,Eyes and brows and lips and chin.Then to him did she begin;
"Aucassin, fair lover sweet,To what country shall we fleet?"Sweet my love, what should I know?Little care I where we go,In the greenwood or away,So I am with thee alway."Hill and vale they fleeted by,Town and fortress fenced high,Till they came at dawn of dayWhere the sea before them lay;There they lighted on the sand,Beside the strand.
They have many adventures and are again separated. Nicolette is carried to Carthage. She finally escapes and makes her way in disguise to Beaucaire where Aucassin was.
Sec. 39.—Aucassin was at Beaucaire'Neath the tower a morning fair.On a stair he sat without,With his brave lords round about:Saw the leaves and flowers spring,Heard the song-birds carolling;Of his love he thought anew,Nicolette the maiden true,Whom he loved so long a day;Then his tears and sighs had way.When, behold before the stair,Nicolette herself stood there,Lifted viol, lifted bow,Then she told her story so:"Listen, lordlings brave, to me,Ye that low or lofty be!Liketh you to hear a stave,All of Aucassin the brave,And of Nicolette the true?Long they loved and long did rue,Till into the deep forestAfter her he went in quest.From the tower of ToreloreThem one day the Paynim bore,And of him I know no more.But true-hearted NicoletteIs in Carthage castle yet;To her sire so dear is she,Who is king of that countrie.Fain they would to her awardFelon king to be her lord.Nicolette will no Paynim,For she loves a lording slim,Aucassin the name of him.By the holy name she vowsThat no lord will she espouse,Save she have her love once moeShe longs for so!"
She is at last revealed to him, and all ends happily.
Sec. 41.—Now when Aucassin did hearOf his own bright favored fere,That she had arrived his shore,Glad he was as ne'er before.Forth with that fair dame he madeNor until the hostel stayed.Quickly to the room they win,Where sat Nicolette within.When she saw her love once more,Glad she was as ne'er before.Up she sprang upon her feet,And went forward him to meet.Soon as Aucassin beheld,Both his arms to her he held,Gently took her to his breast,All her face and eyes caressed.Long they lingered side by side;And the next day by noontide Aucassin her lord became;Of Beaucaire he made her Dame.After lived they many days,And in pleasure went their ways.Now has Aucassin his bliss,Likewise Nicolette ywis.Ends our song and story so;No more I know.
France produced, along with its heroic poetry, its romances, tales, and lyrics, much serious and allegorical work. This was in the shape of homilies, didactic poems, and long allegories touching manners and morals. Of these last the most famous and important is "The Romance of the Rose". It was the most popular book of the Middle Ages in France. It was begun by William of Lorris about 1240, the first draft extending to 4670 lines. Some forty years later, Jean de Meung, or Clapinel, wrote a continuation extending the poem to 22,817 lines. The general story is of a visit to a garden of delights, on the outside of which are all unlovely things. Within the garden the personages and action are allegories of the art of love. Here are Leisure, Enjoyment, Courtesy, the God of Love himself, love in the form of a beautiful Rose, Gracious Reception, Guardianship, Coyness, and Reason. Our extracts are taken from the translation into English attributed—it now seems with great probability—to Chaucer.
NOTE.—These extracts from Chaucer's translation are not re-translated nor adapted. Chaucer's words are retained in every case. Their spelling is modernized. In those cases in which they needed for the rhythm, certain inflectional endings, e, en, es, are retained and are printed in parentheses. The reader has only to remember that he must pronounce every syllable needed to make the lines rhythmical. In only four cases has the rhyme been affected by the changed spelling. For defense of this modern spelling of Chaucer, the reader is referred to Lounsbury's "Studies in Chaucer," Vol. III., pp. 264-279.
Ll. 49-91.—That it was May me thought(e) tho[1]It is five year or more ago;That it was May, thus dreamed me,In time of love and jollity.That all thing 'ginneth waxen gay,For there is neither busk nor hay[2]In May, that it nill[3] shrouded beenAnd [4] it with new(e) leaves wrene[5]These wood(e)s eek recover green,That dry in winter been to seen;[6]And the earth waxeth proud withalFor sweet dews that on it fall.And the poor estate forgetIn which that winter had it set.And then becometh the ground so proud,That it will have a new(e) shroud,And maketh so quaint his robe and fairThat it had hews an hundred pair,Of grass and flowers, inde and perse[7]And many hew(e)s full diverse:That is the robe, I mean, ivis,[8]Through which the ground to praise(n)[9] is.The birds that have(n) left their song,While they have suffered cold so strong,In weathers grill [10] and dark to sight,Ben [11] in May for [12] the sun(en) brightSo glad(e), that they show in singingThat in (t)heir hearts is such liking,[13]That they mote [14] sing(en) and be light.Then doth the nightingale her mightTo make noise and sing(en) blithe,Then is bussful many sithe,[15]The calandra [16] and the popinjay.[17]Then young(e) folk entend(en)[18] ayeFor to be gay and amorous,The time is then so favorous.[19]Hard is the heart that loveth nought,In May when all this mirth is wrought:When he may on these branches hearThe small(e) bird(e)s sing(en) clear(T)heir blissful' sweet song piteous,And in this season delightous[20]When love affrayeth[21] all(e) thing.
[1] Then. [2] Bush nor hedge. [3] Will not. [4] As if. [5] Were covered. [6] Are to be seen. [7] Azure and sky-colored. [8] Certainly. [9] To be praised. [10] Severe. [11] Are. [12] On account of. [13] Good bodily condition. [14] Must. [15] Times. [16] A kind of lark. [17] Parrot. [18] Attend. [19] Favorable. [20] Delightful. [21] Moveth.
The poet sees in vision the Garden of Love. He knocks at "a wiket smalle," which was finally opened by a maiden.
Ll. 539.—Her hair was as yellow of hewAs any basin scoured new,Her flesh tender as is a chick,With bent brow(e)s, smooth and sleek;And by measure large were,The opening of her eyen [1]clere,Her nose of good proportion,Her eyen [1] gray as is a falcon,With sweet(e) breath and well savored,Her face white and well colored,With little mouth and round to see;A clove[2] chin eek had(de) she.Her neek(e) was of good fashion[3]In length and greatness by reason,[4]Without(e) blain(e),[5] scab or roigne.[6]From Jerusalem unto Burgoyne,There nys [7] a fairer neck, iwis,[8]To feel how smooth and soft it is.Her throat also white of hewAs snow on branch(e) snowed new.Of body full well wrought was she;Men needed not in no countryA fairer body for to seek,And of fine orphreys [9] had she eekA chap(e)let; so seemly one,Ne[10] I werede never maid upon,And fair above that chap(e)letA rose garland had she set.She had a gay mirror,And with a rich(e) gold treasureHer head was tressed [11] quaint(e)ly;Her sleeves sewed fetisely,[12]And for to keep her hand(e)s fairOf gloves white she had a pair.And she had on a coat of green,Of cloth of Gaunt; without(e) ween[13]Well seemed by her apparelShe was not wont to great travail,For when she kempto was fetisely[14]And well arrayed and rich(e)lyThen had she done all her journey;For merry and well begun was she.She had a lusty[15] life in May,She had no thought by night nor day,Of no thing but if it were onlyTo graith[16] her well and uncouthly.[17]When that this door had opened meThis May, seemly for to see,I thanked her as I best might,And asked her how that she hight[18]And what she was' I asked eek.And she to me was nought unmeek [19]Ne of her answer dangerous [20]But fair answered and said(e) thus:"Lo, sir, my name is Idleness;So clepe[21] men me, more and less."Full mighty and full rich am I,And that of one thing, namely,"For I entend(e)[28] to no thingBut to my joy, and my playing,And for to kemb[29] and tress(e)[30] me.Acquainted am I and privyWith Mirth(e), lord of this garden,That from the land of AlexanderMade the trees hither be fet[31]That in this garden be i-set.And when the trees were waxen on height[32]This wall, that stands here in thy sight,Did Mirth enclose(n) all about;And these images[33] all withoutHe did 'em both entail[43] and paint.That neither be joly,[35] nor quaint,[36]But they be full of sorrow and woeAs thou hast seen a while ago."And oft(e) time him to solace,Sir Mirth(e) cometh into this placeAnd eek with him cometh his meiny[37]That live in lust[38] and jollity,And now is Mirth therein to hearThe bird(e)s, how they sing(en) clearThe mavis and the nightingale,And other jolly bird(e)s small,And thus he walketh to solaceHim and his folk; for sweeter placeTo play(en) in he may not find,Although he sought one in till[39] Inde.[40]The alther fairest[41] folk to seeThat in this world may found(e) beHath Mirth(e) with him in his rout,That follow him always about.. . . . .And forth without(e) word(e)s mo,[42]In at that wicket went I tho,[43]That idleness had opened me,Into that garden fair to see.
[1] Eyes. [2] Dimpled. [3] Form. [4] Proportion. [5] Pustule. [6] Pimple. [7] Is not. [8] Certainly. [9] Fringe of gold. [10] Not. [11] Wore. [12] Plaited. [13] Neatly. [14] Doubt. [15] Combed, ironed. [16] Day's work. [17] In fine form. [18] Pleasant. [19] Dress. [20] Unusually, elegantly. [21] Was called. [22] Bold. [23] Sparing. [24] Name. [25] Great and small. [26] Chiefly. [27] Attend. [29] Comb. [30] Plait. [31] Fetched. [32] Were grown to a height. [33] The pictures on the outside of the wall. [34] Scarve.[35] Joyful, pleasant. [36] Unusual, queer. [37] Retinue. [38] Pleasure. [39] To. [40] India. [41] Fairest of all. [42] More. [43] Then.
After wandering about the garden hearing the birds and getting acquainted with the inhabitants, he saw
Among a thousand thing(e)s mo[1]A roser [2] charged full of roses,That with an hedge about enclosed is.Tho[3] had I such lust[4] and envy,That for Paris nor for Pavie,Nolde[5]I have left to go at seeThere greatest heap of roses be.When I was with this rage hent[6]That caught hath many a man and shent[7]Toward the roser I gan go.And when I was not far therefro,[8]The savor of the roses sweetMe smote right to the heart(e) rootAs I had all embalmed be.And if I had ne[9] endoubted[10] meTo have been hated or assailed,Me thank(e)s[11] would I not been failedTo pull a rose of all that rout,[12]To bear(en) in my hand aboutAnd smell(en) to it where I went;But ever I dreaded me to repent,And lest it grieved or forthought[13]The lord that thilke[14] garden wrought,Of roses there were great(e) wone,[15]So fair(e) waxe [16] never in Rone.[17]Of knop(e)s[18] close,[19] some saw I thereAnd some well better waxen[20] were,And some there be of other moison[21]That drew(e) nigh to their season,And sped 'em fast(e) for to spread;I love well such roses red;For broad[22] roses, and open also,Be passed in a day or two;But knop(e)s[18] will(e) fresh(e) beTwo day(e)s at the least, or three,The knop(e)s greatly liked[23]me,For fairer may there no man seeWhoso might have one of allIt aught him be full lief[24]withall.Might I one garland of 'em getFor no riches I would it let.[25]Among the knop(e)s I chose oneSo fair, that of the remnant noneNe prize I half so well as it,When I avise[26] it is my wit.In it so well was enluminedWith color red, as well y-fined[27]As nature couthe[28]it make fair.And it had leaves well four pair,That Kynde[29] hath set through his knowingAbout the red roses springing.The stalk(e) was as rush(e) rightAnd thereon stood the knop upright,That it ne bowed upon no side,The sweet(e) smell(e) sprang so wideThat it did[30] all the place about.When I had smelled the savor sweetNo will had I from thence yet goBut somedeal[31] nearer it went I tho[32]To take it: but mine hand for dreadNe durst I to the rose bede[33]For thistles sharp of many manners,Nettles, thornes, and hooked briers;For mickle they disturbed me,For sore I dreaded to harmed be.
[1] More. [2] Rose-bush. [3] Then. [4] Desire. [5] Would not. [6]Seized. [7] Ruined. [8] There from. [9] Not. [10] Feared. [11]Willingly. [12] Company. [13] Caused to repent. [14] That. [15]Quantity. [16] Waxed, grew. [17] Provence. [18] Buds. [19]Closed. [20] Much better grown. [21] Harvest. [22] Blown. [23]Pleased. [24] Pleasing. [25] Let go. [26] Consider.[27] Polished.[28] Knew how. [29] Nature. [30] Filled. [31] Somewhat. [32]Then. [33] Offer.
The golden age of Spanish literature embraces the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries; but the twelfth and thirteenth centuries were, in Spain as in other European countries, a period of special literary activity. The impulses at work were the same as those to be noted in contemporary France, England, and Germany, and the work produced of the same general types. The chief phases of Spanish mediaeval literature are these:
1. Epic and heroic poetry. Here, as elsewhere, heroic ballads grew up about the national heroes. These were gradually fused into long epic poems by the wandering minstrels. The best of these Chansons de Geste are (1) "The Poem of the Cid", (2) "Rhymed Chronicle of the Cid". Both of them belong probably to the twelfth century.
2. Romances. Many romances, or short semi-epic poems, grew up about the Cid. Of others, some were of the Carlovingian cycle, the most famous being that concerning Bernardo del Carpio, the traditional rival and conqueror of Roland. Some were devoted to the Arthurian legend. This latter cycle of stories was immensely popular in Spain, though rather in translation and imitation than in original works. In the fourteenth century these older romances were technically called "books of chivalry" and their popularity and influence was widespread.
3. Lyric poetry. There seems to have been no special development of lyric poetry early in Spain, such as is found in France. The earliest noteworthy lyric poet is Juan Ruiz (1300-1350).
4. Didactic literature. As early as the first half of the thirteenth century, we have in Spain a strong didactic literature. Gonzalo de Berceo (d. 1268) wrote many lives of the saints, miracles, hymns to the Virgin, and other devotional pieces. But the impulse to allegorizing does not seem to come to Spain till much later.
5. Fables and tales. Though a little later in being developed in Spain than in France, the same delight was taken in fables and short tales. About the middle of the fourteenth century, Juan Manul (d. 1349) made, in his "El Conde Lucanor", a large collection of these tales.
6. Chronicles. Spain had early an excellent school of chroniclers. An example of their work is The General Chronicle of Spain, compiled under Alphonso the Wise (d. 1284).
Romantic ballads grew up in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries in Spain, centering chiefly about the national hero, Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, who was called THE CID, some account of whom is necessary in order to an understanding of the poems.
History—Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, born 1030-40, died 1099, was the foremost warrior of the great struggle between the Christians and the Moors in Spain. The Moors called him the CID (Seid, the Lord), and the Champion (El Campeador). He was a vigorous, unscrupulous fighter, now on one side, now on the other. He was at one time entrusted with high embassies of state, at others, a rebel. His true place in history seems to be that of a great freebooter and guerrilla. His contemporary fame was really great.
Legend—During the lifetime of the CID many marvels and myths grew up about him, and within the next century they became almost numberless. He became the hero of poet and of romancer to the Spanish people. His story was told everywhere by the wandering minstrels, and his name became the center of all popular romances.
Literature.—At once, then, a large literature sprang up concerning the CID—ballads, romances, and incipient dramas. The chief pieces are (1)"The Ballads of the Cid", composed from the twelfth to the fifteenth century, of which nearly two hundred survive; (2)"The Poem of the Cid", a noble fragment; (3)"The Chronicle of the Cid".
The early history of Spain's popular hero is traced very accurately in (1)"The General Chronicle of Spain", compiled under Alphonso X. (died 1284); (2)"The Chronicle of the Cid", perhaps extracts from the first, and (3) Various Poems and Romances of the CID from the thirteenth to the fifteenth century.
The following give some of his adventures, and show the spirit of this interesting early literature—the earliest ballad literature in Europe.
From the Cid Ballads.
Brooding sat Diego Laynez o'er the insult to his name,Nobler and more ancient far than Inigo Abarca's fame;For he felt that strength was wanting to avenge the craven blow,If he himself at such an age to fight should think to go.Sleepless he passed the weary nights, his food untasted lay,Ne'er raised his eyes from off the ground, nor ventured forth tostray,Refused all converse with his friends, impelled by mortal fear,Lest fame of outrage unatoned should aggravate his care.While pondering thus his honor's claims in search of justredress,He thought of an expedient his failing house to test;So summoning to his side his sons, excused all explanation,Silent began to clutch their hands in proper alternation,(Not by their tender palms to trace the chiromantic linings,For at that day no place was found in Spain for such divinings),But calling on his honor spent for strength and self-denial,He set aside parental love and steeled his nerves to trial,Griping their hands with all his might till each cried: "Hold,Sir, hold!What meaneth this? pray, let me go; thou'rt killing me, behold!"Now when he came to Roderick, the youngest of them all,Despair had well-nigh banished hope of cherished fruit withal(Though ofttimes lingering nearest when farthest thought to be);The young man's eyes flashed fury, like tiger fierce stood heAnd cried: "Hold, father, hold, a curse upon ye, stay!An ye were not my father, I would not stop to pray,But by this good right arm of mine would straight pluck out yourlifeWith a bare digit of my hand, in lieu of vulgar knife!The old man wept for joy: "Son of my soul," quoth he,"Thy rage my rage disarmeth, thine ire is good to see;Prove now thy mettle, Rod'rick; wipe out my grievous stain,Restore the honor I have lost, unless thou it regain—"Then quickly told him of the wrong to which he was a prey,Gave him his blessing and a sword and bade him go his wayTo end the Count's existence and begin a brighter day.
—Tr. by Knapp.
PENSATIVO ESTAVA EL CID. (THE SOLILOQUY.)Pensive stood the young Castilian, musing calmly on his plight;'Gainst a man like Count Lozano to avenge a father's slight!Thought of all the trained dependents that his foe could quicklycall,A thousand brave Asturians scattered through the highlands all;Thought, too, how at the Cortes of Leon his voice prevailed,And how in border forays the Moor before him quailed;At last reviewed the grievance—No sacrifice too greatTo vindicate the first affront to Layn Calvo's state;Then calls on Heaven for justice, and on the earth for space,Craves strength of honor injured, and of his father grace,Nor heeds his youthful bearing, for men of rank like heAre wont from birth to prove their worth by deeds of chivalry.
Next from the wainscot took he down an ancient sword and long:Once it had been Mudarra's, but now had rusty grown,And, holding it sufficient to achieve the end he sought,Before he girt it on him, he addressed the fitting thought:"Consider, valiant claymore, that Mudarrals arm is mine,And the cause wherein ye wrestle is Mudarra's cause and thine;But if, forsooth, thou scornest to be grasped by youthful hand,Think not 'twill lead thee backward e'en a jot from the demand;For as firm as thine own steel thou wilt find me in the fray,And as good as e'er the best man—Thou hast gained a lord to-day;And if perchance they worst thee, enraged at such a stain,I shall plunge thee to the cross in my breast for very shame.Then on to the field away, for the hour to fight is come,To requite on Count Lozano all the mischief he has done."So, full of courage and emprise the Cid rode forth to war,And his triumph was accomplished in the space of one short hour.
—Tr. by KNAPP.
"It is not meet for men of brain, nor yet for champion true,To offer insult to a man of better blood than you!The brawny warrior, howe'er fierce and valiant he may be,Was never wont to test his power on aged infirmity.The men of Leon need not boast of high emprise, forsooth,Who craven smite the face of age, and not the breast of youth.Ye should have known who was my sire, and Layn Calvo's line,A breed that never brook offence, nor challenge fit decline;How dared ye thus provoke a man whom only Heaven may,And not another' while the son lives to avenge the day!Ye cast about his noble face dishonor's sombre pall,But I am here to strip it off and expiate it all;For only blood will cleanse the stain attainted honor brings,And valid blood is that alone which from the aggressor springs;Yours it must be, Oh tyrant, since by its overplayIt moved ye to so foul a deed and robbed your sense away;On my father ye laid hand, in the presence of the king,And I, his son, am here to-day atonement fall to bring.Count, ye did a craven business and I call ye COWARD here!Behold, if I await you, think not I come with fear,For Diego Laynez wrought me well set in his own mould,And while I prove my birthright I your baseness shall unfold.Your valor as a crafty blade will not avail ye more,For to my needs I bring a sword and charger trained to war."Thus spake to Count Lozano Spain's champion, the Cid,(Ere long he won the title by achievements which he did)That day he slew his enemy and severing quick the head,Bore high the bleeding trophy as he homeward proudly sped.
—Tr. by Knapp.
Weeping sat Diego Laynez still o'er his untasted meal;Still o'er his shame was brooding, the tears his thoughts reveal;Beset with a thousand fancies, and crazed with honest care,Sensitive to a footfall lest some foe were lurking there,When Rod'rick, bearing by the locks the Count's dissevered poll,Tracking the floor with recent gore, advanced along the hall.He touched his father's shoulder and roused him from his dream,And proudly flaunting his revenge he thus addresses him:"Behold the evil tares, sir, that ye may taste the wheat;Open thine eyes, my father, and lift thy head, 'tis meet,For this thine honor is secure, is raised to life once more,And all the stain is washed away in spite of pride and power:For here are hands that are not hands, this tongue no tongue isnow,I have avenged thee, sir, behold, and here the truth avow."The old man thinks he dreams; but no, no dream is there;'Twas only his long grieving that had filled his heart with care.At length he lifts his eyes, spent by chivalrous deeds,And turns them on his enemy clad in the ghastly weeds:"Roderick, son of my soul, mantle the spectre anon,Lest, like a new Medusa, it change my heart to stone,And leave me in such plight at last, that, ere I wish ye joy,My heart should rend within me of bliss without alloy.Oh, infamous Lozano! kind heaven hath wrought redress,And the great justice of my claim hath fired Rodrigo's breast!Sit down, my son, and dine, here at the head with me,For he who bringest such a gift, is head of my family."
—Tr. by Knapp.
Now rides Diego Laynez, to kiss the good King's hand,Three hundred men of gentry go with him from his land,Among them, young Rodrigo, the proud Knight of Bivar;The rest on mules are mounted, he on his horse of war.
They ride in glittering gowns of soye—He harnessed like a lord;There is no gold about the boy, but the crosslet of his sword;The rest have gloves of sweet perfume,—He gauntlets strong ofmail;They broidered cap and flaunting plume,—He crest untaught toquail.
All talking with each other thus along their way they passed,But now they've come to Burgos, and met the King at last;When they came near his nobles, a whisper through them ran,—"He rides amidst the gentry that slew the Count Lozan."
With very haughty gesture Rodrigo reined his horse,Right scornfully he shouted, when he heard them so discourse,"If any of his kinsmen or vassals dare appear,The man to give them answer, on horse or foot, is here."—
"The devil ask the question," thus muttered all the band;—With that they all alighted, to kiss the good King's hand,—All but the proud Rodrigo, he in his saddle stayed,—Then turned to him his father (you may hear the words he said).
"Now, light, my son, I pray thee, and kiss the good King's hand,He is our lord, Rodrigo; we hold of him our land."—But when Rodrigo heard him, he looked in sulky sort,I wot the words he answered they were both cold and short.
"Had any other said it, his pains had well been paid,But thou, sir, art my father, thy word must be obeyed."—With that he sprung down lightly, before the King to kneel,But as the knee was bending, out leapt his blade of steel.
The King drew back in terror, when he saw the sword was bare;"Stand back, stand back, Rodrigo, in the devil's name beware;Your looks bespeak a creature of father Adam's mould,But in your wild behaviour you're like some lion bold."
When Rodrigo heard him say so, he leapt into his seat,And thence he made his answer, with visage nothing sweet,—"I'd think it little honour to kiss a kingly palm,And if my father's kissed it, thereof ashamed I am."—
When he these words had uttered, he turned him from the gate.His true three hundred gentles behind him followed straight;If with good gowns they came that day, with better arms theywent;And if their mules behind did stay, with horses they're content.
—Tr. by Lockhart.
Now, of Rodrigo de Bivar great was the fame that run,How he five Kings had vanquished, proud Moormen every one;And how, when they consented to hold of him their ground,He freed them from the prison wherein they had been bound.
To the good King Fernando, in Burgos where he lay,Came then Ximena Gomez, and thus to him did say:—"I am Don Gomez, daughter, in Gormaz Count was he;Him slew Rodrigo of Bivar in battle valiantly.
"Now am I come before you, this day a boon to crave,And it is that I to husband may this Rodrigo have;Grant this, and I shall hold me a happy damosell,Much honoured shall I hold me, I shall be married well.
"I know he's born for thriving, none like him in the land;I know that none in battle against his spear may stand;Forgiveness is well pleasing in God our Saviour's view,And I forgive him freely, for that my sire he slew."—
Right pleasing to Fernando was the thing she did propose;He writes his letter swiftly, and forth his foot-page goes;I wot, when young Rodrigo saw how the King did write,He leapt on Bavieca—I wot his leap was light.
With his own troop of true men forthwith he took the way,Three hundred friends and kinsmen, all gently born were they;All in one colour mantled, in armour gleaming gay,New were both scarf and scabbard, when they went forth that day.
The King came out to meet him with words of hearty cheer;Quoth he, "My good Rodrigo, you are right welcome here;This girl Ximena Gomez would have ye for her lord,Already for the slaughter her grace she doth accord.
"I pray you be consenting, my gladness will be great;You shall have lands in plenty, to strengthen your estate.""Lord King", Rodrigo answers, "in this and all beside,Command, and I'll obey you. The girl shall be my bride."—
But when the fair Ximena came forth to plight her hand,Rodrigo, gazing on her, his face could not command:He stood and blushed before her;—thus at the last said he—"I slew thy sire, Ximena, but not in villany:-
"In no disguise I slew him, man against man I stood;There was some wrong between us* and I did shed his blood.I slew a man, I owe a man; fair lady, by God's grace,An honoured husband thou shalt have in thy dead father's place."
[1] See the account of this quarrel, "Non es de Sessudos Homes."
—Tr. by Lockhart.
The favorite warrior horse of the Cid. There are several more ballads devoted to this charger.
The King looked on him kindly, as on a vassal true;Then to the King Ruy Diaz spake after reverence due,—"O King, the thing is shameful, that any man besideThe liege lord of Castile himself should Bavieca ride:
"For neither Spain or Araby could another charger bringSo good as he, and certes, the best befits my King.But that you may behold him, and know him to the core,I'll make him go as he was wont when his nostrils smelt theMoor."
With that, the Cid, clad as he was in mantle furred and wide,On Bavieca vaulting, put the rowel in his side;And up and down, and round and round, so fierce was his career,Streamed like a pennon on the wind Ruy Diaz' minivere.
And all that saw them praised them—they lauded man and horse,As matched well, and rivalless for gallantry and forceNe'er had they looked on horseman might to this knight come near,Nor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier.
Thus, to and fro a-rushing, the fierce and furious steed,He snapt in twain his hither rein:—"God pity now the Cid.""God pity Diaz," cried the Lords,—but when they looked again,They saw Ruy Diaz ruling him, with the fragment of his rein;They saw him proudly ruling with gesture firm and calm,Like a true lord commanding—and obeyed as by a lamb.
And so he led him foaming and panting to the King,But "No," said Don Alphonso, "it were a shameful thingThat peerless Bavieca should ever be bestridBy any mortal but Bivar—Mount, mount again, my Cid."
—Tr. by Lockhart.
The Cid has been banished by King Alphonso, has entered the Moors, country and taken a city. The Moors rally, gather their allies and surround the Cid's army. He turns to consult with his men.
"From water they have cut us off, our bread is running low;If we would steal away by night, they will not let us go;Against us there are fearful odds if we make choice to fight;What would ye do now gentlemen, in this our present plight?"Minaya was the first to speak: said the stout cavalier,"Forth from Castile the gentle thrust, we are but exiles here;Unless we grapple with the Moor bread he will never yield;A good six hundred men or more we have to take the field;In God's name let us falter not, nor countenance delay,But sally forth and strike a blow upon to-morrow's day.""Like thee the counsel," said my Cid; "thou speakest to my mind;And ready to support thy word thy hand we ever find."Then all the Moors that bide within the walls he bids to goForth from the gates, lest they, perchance, his purpose come toknowIn making their defences good they spend the day and night,And at the rising of the sun they arm them for the fight.Then said the Cid: "Let all go forth, all that are in our band;Save only two of those on foot, beside the gate to stand.Here they will bury us if death we meet on yonder plain,But if we win our battle there, rich booty we shall gain.And thou Pero Bermuez, this my standard thou shalt hold;It is a trust that fits thee well, for thou art stout and bold;But see that thou advance it not unless I give command."Bermuez took the standard and he kissed the Champion's hand.Then bursting through the castle gates upon the plain they ishow;Back on their lines in panic fall the watchmen of the foe.And hurrying to and fro the Moors are arming all around,While Moorish drums go rolling like to split the very ground,And in hot haste they mass their troops behind their standardstwain,Two mighty bands of men-at-arms to count them it were vain.And now their line comes sweeping on, advancing to the fray,Sure of my Cid and all his band to make an easy prey."Now steady, comrades"' said my Cid; "our ground we have tostand;Let no man stir beyond the ranks until I give command."Bermuez fretted at the word, delay he could not brook;He spurred his charger to the front, aloft the banner shook:"O loyal Cid Campeador, God give the aid! I goTo plant thy ensign in among the thickest of the foe;And ye who serve it, be it yours our standard to restore.""Not so—as thou dost love me, stay!" called the Campeador.Came Pero's answer, "Their attack I cannot, will not stay."He gave his horse the spur and dashed against the Moors array.To win the standard eager all the Moors await the shock,Amid a rain of blows he stands unshaken as a rock.Then cried my Cid: "In charity, on to the rescue—ho!"With bucklers braced before their breasts, with lances pointinglow,With stooping crests and heads bent down above the saddle bow,All firm of hand and high of heart they roll upon the foe.And he that in a good hour was born, his clarion voice rings out,And clear above the clang of arms is heard his battle shout,"Among them, gentlemen! Strike home for the love of charity!The Champion of Bivar is here—Ruy Diaz—I am he!"Then bearing where Bermuez still maintains unequal fight,Three hundred lances down they come, their pennons flickeringwhite;Down go three hundred Moors to earth, a man to every blow;And when they wheel three hundred more, as wheeling back they go.It was a sight to see the lances rise and fall that day;The shivered shields and riven mail, to see how thick they lay;The pennons that went in snow-white come out a gory red;The horses running riderless, the riders lying dead;While Moors call on Mohammed, and "St. James!" the Christianscry,And sixty score of Moors and more in narrow compass lie.Above his gilded saddle-bow there played the Champion's sword;And Minaya Alvar Fanez, Zurita's gallant lord;Add Martin Antolinez the worthy Burgalese;And Muno Gustioz his squire—all to the front were these.And there was Martin Mufloz, he who ruled in Mont Mayor;And there was Alvar Alvarez, and Alvar Salvador;And the good Galin Garcia, stout lance of Arragon;And Felix Mufloz, nephew of my Cid the Champion.Well did they quit themselves that day, all these and many more,In rescue of the standard for my Cid Campeador.
—Tr. by Ormsby.
Loud from among the Moorish tents the call to battle comes,And some there are, unused to war, awed by the rolling drums.Ferrando and Diego most: of troubled mind are they;Not of their will they find themselves before the Moors that day."Pero Burmuez," said the Cid, "my nephew staunch and true,Ferrando and Diego do I give in charge to you;Be yours the task in this day's fight my sons-in-law to shield,For, by God's grace to-day we sweep the Moors from off thefield!""Nay," said Bermuez, "Cid, for all the love I bear to thee,The safety of thy sons-in-law no charge of mine shall be.Let him who will the office fill; my place is at the front,Among the comrades of my choice to bear the battle's brunt;As it is thine upon the rear against surprise to guard,And ready stand to give support where'er the fight goes hard."Came Alvar Fanez: "Loyal Cid Campeador," he cried,"This battle surely God ordains—He will be on our side;Now give the order of attack which seems to thee the befit,And, trust me, every man of us will do his chief's behest."But lo! all armed from head to heel the Bishop Jeronie shows;He ever brings good fortune to my Cid where'er he goes."Mass have I said, and now I come to join you in the fray;To strike a blow against the Moor in battle if I may,And in the field win honor for my order and my hand.It is for this that I am here, far from my native land.Unto Valencia did I come to cast my lot with you,All for the longing that I had to slay a Moor or two.And so in warlike guise I come, with blazoned shield and lance,That I may flesh my blade to-day, if God but give the chance,Then send me to the front to do the bidding of my heart:Grant me this favor that I ask, or else, my Cid, we part.""Good!" said my Cid. "Go, flesh thy blade; there stand thy Moorishfoes.Now shall we see how gallantly our fighting Abbot goes."He said; and straight the Bishop's spurs are in his charger'sflanks,And with a will he flings himself against the Moorish ranks.By his good fortune, and the aid of God, that loved him well,Two of the foe before his point at the first onset fell.His lance he broke, he drew his sword—God! how the good steelplayed!Two with the lance he slew, now five go down beneath his blade.But many are the Moors and round about him fast they close,And on his hauberk, and his shield, they rain a shower of blows.He in the good hour born beheld Don Jerome sorely pressed;He braced his buckler on his arm, he laid his lance in rest,And aiming where beset by Moors the Bishop stood at bay,Touched Bavieca with the spur and plunged into the fray;And flung to earth unhorsed were seven, and lying dead were four,Where breaking through the Moorish ranks came the Campeador.God it so pleased, that this should be the finish of the fight;Before the lances of my Cid the fray became a flight;And then to see the tent-ropes burst, the tent-poles prostrateflung!As the Cid's horsemen crashing came the Moorish tents among.Forth from the camp King Bucar's Moors they drove upon the plain,And charging on the rout, they rode and cut them down amainHere severed lay the mail-clad arm, there lay the steel-cappedhead,And here the charger riderless, ran trampling on the dead.Behind King Bucar as he fled my Cid came spurring on;"Now, turn thee, Bucar, turn!" he cried; "here is the BeardedOne:Here is that Cid you came to seek, King from beyond the main,Let there be peace and amity to-day between us twain."Said Bucar, "Nay; thy naked sword, thy rushing steed, I see;If these mean amity, then God confound such amity.Thy hand and mine shall never join unless in yonder deep,If the good steed that I bestride his footing can but keep."Swift was the steed, but swifter borne on Bavieca's stride,Three fathoms from the sea my Cid rode at King Bucar's side;Aloft his blade a moment played, then on the helmet's crown,Shearing the steel-cap dight with gems, Colada he brought down.Down to the belt, through helm and mail, he cleft the Moor intwain.And so he slew King Bucar, who came from beyond the main.This was the battle, this the day, when he the great sword won,Worth a full thousand marks of gold—the famous Brand Tizon.
—Tr. by Ormsby.
Scandinavian literature embraces the literature of Norway,Sweden, Iceland, and their western colonies. In the Middle Agesthis literature reached its fullest and best development inIceland.
The earliest and greatest portion of this literature is the heroic poetry forming the collection called the Poetic or Elder Edda. Like all early poetry these were minstrel poems, passing orally from singer (skald) to singer for centuries. Some of them were composed as early as the eighth century. The collection was probably made in the thirteenth century (1240). The collection consists of thirty-nine distinct songs or poems. They are based upon common Norse mythology and tradition. In one section of this collection is found in outline the story of the Nibelungs and Brunhild-the story which later formed the basis of the "Niebelungen-Lied". This fact connects the two literatures with the original common Teutonic traditions. Anderson says, "The Elder Edda presents the Norse cosmogony, the doctrines of the Odinic mythology, and the lives and doings of the gods. It contains also a cycle of poems on the demigods and mythic heroes and heroines of the same period. It gives us as complete a view of the mythological world of the North as Homer and Hesiod do of that of Greece" (Norse Mythology). Almost equal in importance and interest is the Prose Edda, sometimes called the Younger Edda, arranged and in part written by Snorra Sturleson, who lived from 1178 to 1241. The chief portions of it are:
1. "Gylfaginning," in which Odin recounts to Gylf the history of the gods.
2. "Bragaraethur, the conversations of Braga the god of poetry.
Other and less important varieties of Scandinavian literature are the romances of history and romances of pure fiction.
The Voluspa is the first song in the Elder Edda. It is a song of a prophetess and gives an account of the creation of the world, of man, giants, and dwarfs; of the employments of fairies or destinies; of the functions of the gods, their adventures, their quarrels, and the vengeance they take; of the final state of the universe and its dissolution; of the battle of the lower deities and the evil beings; of the renovation of the world; of the happy lot of the good, and the punishment of the wicked. The first passage selected gives the account of creation.
In early times,When Ymer[1] lived,Was sand, nor sea,Nor cooling wave;No earth was found,Nor heaven above;One chaos all,And nowhere grass:
Until Bor's[2] sonsTh' expanse did raise,By whom Midgard [3]The great was made.From th' south the sunShone on the walls;Then did the earthGreen herbs produce.
The sun turned south;The moon did shine;Her right hand heldThe horse of heaven.The sun knew notHis proper sphere;The stars knew notTheir proper place;The moon know notHer proper power.
Then all the powersWent to the throne,The holy gods,And held consult:Night and cock-crowingTheir names they gave,Morning also,And noon-day tide,And afternoon,The years to tell.
The Asas[4] metOn Ida's plains,Who altars raisedAnd temples built;Anvils they laid,And money coined;Their strength they triedIn various ways,When making songs,And forming tools.
On th' green they playedIn joyful mood,Nor knew at allThe want of gold,Until there cameThree Thursa maids,Exceeding strong,From Jotunheim:[5]. . . .Until there cameOut of the ranks,Powerful and fair,Three Asas home,And found on shore,In helpless plight,Ask and Embla [6]Without their fate.
They had not yetSpirit or mind,Blood, or beauty,Or lovely hue.Odin gave spirit,Heinir gave mind,Lothur gave bloodAnd lovely hue.
[1] Ymer, the progenitor of the giants.
[2] Bor, the father of Odin, Vile, and Ve.
[3] Midgard, the earth.
[4] Asas, the gods.
[5] The home of the giants.
[6] The first man and first woman made out of pine trees by the three gods Odin, Heinir, and Lothur.
—Tr. by Henderson.
The second passage gives an account of the universal dissolution—called Ragnarok, the Twilight of the Gods.
Loud barks Garm 1]At Gnipa-cave;The fetters are severed,The wolf is set free,Vala[2] knows the future.More does she seeOf the victorious gods,Terrible fall.
From the east drives Hrym,[3]Bears his child before him;Jormungander weltersIn giant fierceness;The waves thunder;The eagle screams,Rends the corpses with pale beak,And Naglfar[4] is launched.A ship from the east nears,The hosts of MuspelCome o'er the main,But Loke is pilot.All grim and gaunt monstersConjoin with the wolf,And before them all goesThe brother of Byleist.[5]
From the south wends Surt [6]With seething fire;The sun of the war-godShines in his sword;Mountains together dash,And frighten the giant-maids;Heroes tread the paths to Hel,And heaven in twain is rent.Over Him [7] then shall comeAnother woe,When Odin goes forthThe wolf to combat.. . . .All menAbandon the earth.
The sun darkens,The earth sinks into the ocean;The lucid starsFrom heaven vanish;Fire and vaporRage toward heaven;High flamesInvolve the skies.
Loud barks GarmAt Gnipa-eave:The fetters are severed,The wolf is set free,—Vala knows the future.More does she seeOf the victorious gods,Terrible fall.
[1] Hel's dog.
[2] Vala, the prophetess.
[3] The winter.
[4] Naglfar, a ship of the gods.
[5] The brother of Byleist, Loke.
[6] Surt, a fire-giant.
[7] Hlin, a name sometimes used for the goddess, Frigg.
—Tr. by Thorpe.
The conclusion of the "Voluspa "is the following picture of the regenerated earth.
She sees arise,The second time,From the sea, the earthCompletely green:Cascades do fall;The eagle soars,That on the hillsPursues his prey.
The gods conveneOn Ida's plains,And talk of man,The worm of dust:They call to mindTheir former might,And the ancient runesOf Fimbultyr.[1]
The fields unsownShall yield their growth;All ills shall cease;Balder[2] shall come,And dwell with Hauthr[3]In Hropt's[4] abodes.Say, warrior-gods,Conceive ye yet?
A hall she seesOutshine the sun,Of gold its roof,It stands in heaven:The virtuous thereShall always dwell,And evermoreDelights enjoy.
[1] Fimbultyr, Odin.
[2] Balder, the god of the summer.
[3] Hauthr, Hoder, the brother of Balder.
[4] Hropt, Odin. of Odinic morality and precepts of wisdom, in the form of social and moral maxims.
—Tr. by Henderson.
The High-Song of Odin. This is the second song in the Elder Edda. Odin himself is represented as its author. It contains a pretty complete code.
All door-waysBefore going forward,Should be looked to;For difficult it is to knowWhere foes may sitWithin a dwelling.. . . .Of his understandingNo one should be proud,But rather in conduct cautious.When the prudent and taciturnCome to a dwelling,Harm seldom befalls the cautious;For a firmer friendNo man ever getsThan great sagacity.. . . .One's own house is best,Small though it be;At home is every one his own master.Though he but two goats possess,And a straw-thatched cot,Even that is better than begging.
One's own house is best,Small though it be;At home is every one his own master.Bleeding at heart is heWho has to askFor food at every meal-tide.. . . .A miserable man,And ill-conditioned,Sneers at everything:One thing he knows not,Which he ought to know,That he is not free from faults.. . . .Know if thou hast a friendWhom thou fully trustest,And from whom thou would'st good derive;Thou should'st blend thy mind with his,And gifts exchange,And often go to see him.
If thou hast anotherWhom thou little trustest,Yet would'st good from him derive,Thou should'st speak him fair,But think craftily,And leasing pay with lying.
But of him yet furtherWhom thou little trustest,And thou suspectest his affection,Before him thou should'st laugh,And contrary to thy thoughts speak;Requital should the gift resemble.
I once was young,I was journeying aloneAnd lost my way;Rich I thought myselfWhen I met another:Man is the joy of man.
Liberal and braveMen live best,They seldom cherish sorrow;But a bare-minded manDreads everything;The niggardly is uneasy even at gifts.
My garments in a fieldI gave awayTo two wooden men:Heroes they seemed to beWhen they got cloaks:[1]Exposed to insult is a naked man.. . . . .Something greatIs not always to be given,Praise is often for a trifle bought.With half a loafAnd a tilted vesselI got myself a comrade.Little are the sand grains,Little the wits,Little the minds of men;For all menAre not wise alike:Men are everywhere by halves.Moderately wiseShould each one be,But never over-wise;For a wise man's heartIs seldom glad,If he is all-wise who owns it.. . . .Much too earlyI came to many places,But too late to others;The beer was drunk, or not ready:The disliked seldom hits the moment.. . . .Cattle die,Kindred die,We ourselves also die;But the fair fameNever dies of him who has earned it.
Cattle die,Kindred die,We ourselves also die;But I know one thingThat never dies,Judgment on each one dead.
[1] The tailor makes the man.
—Tr. by Thorpe.
From the third poem in the Elder Edda came the following lines, describing the day and the night:
Delling called is heWho the Day's father is,But Night was of Norve born;The new and waning moonsThe beneficent powers createdTo count years for men.
Skinfaxe[1] he is namedThat the bright day drawsForth over human kind;Of coursers he is best accountedAmong faring men;Ever sheds light that horse's mane.
Hrimfaxe[2] he is calledThat each night draws forthOver the beneficent powers;He from his bit lets fallDrops every mornWhence in the dells comes dew.—Tr. by Thorpe
[1] Skinfaxe (shining mane), the horse of Day.
[2] Hrimfaxe (Rime mane), the horse of Night.