The poem opens with the story of the legendary smith Weland, whose hamstrings are cut by King Nithhad in order to enslave him and force him to make beautiful objects for him. Weland seduces or rapes the king’s daughter Beadohild, leaving her pregnant, and kills the king’s sons. In the second stanza, Beadohild says that the death of her brothers was less painful to her than her own suffering, once she discovered that she was pregnant. In the third stanza, the story of Mæthhild and Geat is cryptically mentioned. There is much critical debate about this story, which has no known medieval origin. In the fourth stanza, Deor mentions a despotic ruler, Theodric, who ruled the Mærings for thirty winters (years were often marked by winters in Anglo-Saxon England). In the fifth stanza, Deor mentions the tyrant Eormanric, a fourth-century king of the Goths. His “wolfish ways” lead to such suffering that his subjects hope that some foe might attack him and take over his kingdom.
After his cryptic catalogue of the misfortunes of legendary people in the first half of the poem, the narrator tells us that his name is Deor and that he once served as the scop or singer in the court of the Heodenings until he was unceremoniously displaced by another singer, Heorrenda. Heorrenda is mentioned in one of the sagas, but there is no record of a singer named Deor. His name may be a poetic fiction. Deor can mean “brave, bold” but also “grievous, ferocious.” As a noun it means “wild beast.” A similar word, deore, means “dear, precious, beloved,” and a wordplay seems possible here, as Deor moves from a beloved place in the Heodenings’ court to a life of loneliness and wild exile, “apart from joy.” Deor’s loss is finally twofold. He misses the life he once had as a prized singer in the court, but beyond that he can no longer remember the details of his old life or the stories he once sang. He can only recall these fragments. For all his hope in their passing over, they remain like barbs in the mind.
Deor
Weland the smith made a trial of exile.
The strong-minded man suffered hardship
All winter long—his only companions
Were cold and sorrow. He longed to escape
The bonds of Nithhad who slit his hamstrings, 5
Tied him down with severed sinews,
Making a slave of this better man.
That passed over—so can this.
To Beadohild the death of her brothers
Was not so sad as her own suffering 10
When the princess saw she was pregnant.
She tried not to think how it all happened.
That passed over—so can this.
Many have heard of the cares of Mæthhild—
She and Geat shared a bottomless love. 15
Her sad passion deprived her of sleep.
That passed over—so can this.
Theodric ruled for thirty winters
The city of the Mærings—that’s known to many.
That passed over—so can this. 20
We all know the wolfish ways of Eormanric—
That grim king ruled the land of the Goths.
Many a man sat bound in sorrow,
Twisted in the turns of expected woe,
Hoping a foe might free his kingdom. 25
That passed over—so can this.
A man sits alone in the clutch of sorrow,
Separated from joy, thinking to himself
That his share of suffering is endless.
The man knows that all through middle-earth, 30
Wise God goes, handing out fortunes,
Giving grace to many—power, prosperity,
Wisdom, wealth—but to some a share of woe.
Let me tell this story about myself:
I was singer and shaper for the Heodenings, 35
Dear to my lord. My name was Deor.
For many years I was harper in the hall,
Honored by the king, until Heorrenda now,
A song-skilled shaper, has taken my place,
Reaping the rewards, the titled lands, 40
That the guardian of men once gave me.
That passed over—so can this.
WULF AND EADWACER
This poem was first thought to be a riddle because of the deliberate obscurity of its language and the enigma of its last lines. It has also been “identified as a charm, a complaint that a passage of verse has been misplaced, an account of romance among dogs (facetiously), and of an anthropomorphic pack of wolves” (Fulk and Cain, 191). Now most critics consider the poem a dramatic monologue spoken by a woman who is separated from her lover Wulf and unhappy in her marriage to Eadwacer. The poem is addressed to Wulf, but at one point the speaker also seems to cry out to another man, Eadwacer. Since eadwacer, however, means literally “guardian of wealth or fortune,” this might simply be an epithet for Wulf or even for God. There is also a child in the poem, the whelp of line 20. We don’t know whether the father of this child is Wulf or Eadwacer, or why Wulf may be bearing this child to the wood (or perhaps “wood” is a riddle for something like a cradle or even the grave). Maybe the woman is married to Eadwacer but in love with Wulf and wants to escape with him. Maybe she both longs for, and fears, the return of Wulf. It’s unclear whose embrace it is that is both lovely and loathsome to the woman. Another theory is that the speaker’s child is actually Wulf and that the poem is a mother’s lament for her lost or separated son. The half-line refrain, which is rare in Old English poetry, ungelic(e) is us, means literally, “It’s different (unlike) for us (between us).” But who is this “us”? Does the refrain mean that the speaker is different from Wulf or from Eadwacer? Or does it mean that she and Wulf are different from her own people or even from the rest of the cruel world? We’re never sure, but we feel keenly the woman’s sense of separation and suffering. Finally, as Horner argues, her only resolution is to sing her sorrow “as her voice breaks through her enclosed solitude” (42).
Wulf and Eadwacer
If he comes home here to my people, it will seem
A strange gift. Will they take him into the tribe
And let him thrive or think him a threat?
It’s different with us.
Wulf is on an island; I am on another. 5
Fast is that island, surrounded by fens.
There are bloodthirsty men on that island.
If they find him, will they take him into the tribe
And let him thrive or think him a threat?
It’s different with us. 10
I’ve endured my Wulf’s wide wanderings
While I sat weeping in rainy weather—
When the bold warrior wrapped me in his arms—
That was a joy to me and also a loathing.
Wulf, my Wulf, my old longings, 15
My hopes and fears, have made me ill;
Your seldom coming and my worried heart
Have made me sick, not lack of food.
Do you hear, Eadwacer, guardian of goods?
Wulf will bear our sad whelp to the wood. 20
It’s easy to rip an unsewn stitch
Or tear the thread of an untold tale—
The song of us two together.
RIDDLES 1–57
There are over ninety OE lyric riddles in the Exeter Book, separated into three parts. The exact number varies from edition to edition, depending on how the breaks between the riddles are construed. A few are based on medieval Latin riddles, but most appear to be original. The use of riddles or of riddlic metaphors is an important rhetorical device in medieval dialogue poetry such as Solomon and Saturn and in early Germanic works like the Old Norse Vafthruthnismal and the Icelandic Heidreks Saga. In formal poetic terms, there are two kinds of riddles in the Exeter Book. In third-person descriptive riddles, the human speaker describes a wondrous creature he has seen or heard about. These riddles often begin with a formula, “I saw (heard about) a creature,” or “The creature is,” and end with “Say what I mean.” First-person persona riddles, which use the rhetorical device of prosopopoeia, give voice to the non-human creature and
often begin with “I am (was) a creature” and end with “Say who I am.” The tension between these two different kinds of riddles raises a question about the implied relationship between perception and being, or hermeneutics (how we make meaning) and ontology (how we define being). How we perceive the world, how we make meaning with language, helps to shape who we are.
The riddles, however, also point to the limits of our ability to catch the real world by means of language. Barley, for example, argues that the riddle-game is “a complicated play on reality and appearance, linking the unlike, denying conventional similarities, and generally dissolving barriers between classes, to make us realize that the grid we impose upon the world is far from a perfect fit and not the only one available” (143–44). Tiffany points to the “inherently seductive quality of a riddle, which can be attributed in part to a manner of speaking that simultaneously illuminates and obscures its object … [so that the creature] becomes human and then performs a verbal striptease in the dark, before our eyes, divesting itself of its human attributes” (79–80). Another kind of striptease takes place in those riddles which are characterized as bawdy double-entendre riddles. These appear to have two solutions, one for the prim and one for the saucy. The onion masquerade hides a penis, the butter churn a vagina. The sword tells us he’s the battlefield brawler, not that bedroom carouser. These riddles, which were once termed “obscene” and considered “folk riddles,” are now thought to be complex lyric explorations of human sexuality and of the way we use language to characterize it or play seductive games with it.
No solutions to the riddles are provided in the Exeter Book. For a brief discussion of solutions proposed by scholars for each riddle, see the “Appendix of Possible Riddle Solutions.” The occasional use of runes in the riddles is indicated by boldface letters in the translations; the meaning of these is explained in the appendix note for each riddle in which the runes occur.
Riddles 1–57
1
What man is so mind-strong and spirit-shrewd
He can say who drives me in my fierce strength
On fate’s road when I rise with vengeance,
Ravage the land with a thundering voice,
Rip folk-homes, plunder the hall-wood: 5
Gray smoke rises over rooftops—on earth
The rattle and death-shriek of men. I shake
The forest, blooms and boles, rip trees,
Wander, roofed with water, a wide road,
Pressed by mighty powers. On my back I bear 10
The water that once wrapped earth-dwellers,
Flesh and spirit. Say who shrouds me
And what I am called who carry these burdens.
Sometimes I plunge through the press of waves
To men’s surprise, stalking the sea-warrior’s 15
Fathomed floor. The white waves whip,
Foam-flanks flaring, the ocean rips,
The whale’s lake roars, rages—
Savage waves beat on the shore, cast rock,
Sand, seaweed, water on the high cliffs 20
As I thrash with the wave-power on my back
And shake under blue, broad plains below.
I cannot flee from the helm of water
Till my lord lifts me to a higher road.
Say, wise man, who it is who draws me 25
From sea-clutch and cover as the deep
Stream stills and white waves sleep.
Sometimes my lord seizes and shoves me,
Muscles me under the broad breast of ground,
Packs my power in a dark, narrow prison, 30
Where the hard earth rides my back.
I cannot flee from the weight of torture,
Yet I shake the home-stones of men:
Horn-gabled meadhalls tremble,
Walls quake, perch over hall-thanes, 35
Ceilings, cities shake. The air is quiet
Above the land, the sea broods, silent
Till I break out, ride at my ruler’s call—
My lord who laid bonds on me in the beginning,
Creation’s chains, so I might not escape 40
His power unbowed—my guardian, my guide.
Sometimes I swoop down, whipping up waves,
Rousing white water, driving to shore
The flint-gray flood, its foam-flanks flaring
Against the cliff wall. Dark swells loom 45
In the deep—hills on hills of dark water,
Driven by the sea, surge to a meeting of cliffs
On the coast road. There is the keel’s cry,
The sea-guest’s moan. Sheer cliffs wait
Sea-charge, wave-clash, war of water, 50
As the high troop crowds the headland.
There the ship finds a fierce struggle
As the sea steals its craft and strength,
Bears quick cargo through bitter time,
The souls of men, while white terror 55
Rides the waves’ back. Cruel and killing
On the savage road—who stills us?
Sometimes I rush through the clouds riding
My back, spill the black rain-jugs,
Rippling streams, crack clouds together 60
With a sharp shriek, scattering light-shards.
Sky-breakers surge over shattered men,
Dark thunder rolls with a battle-din,
And the black rain hums from a wet breast,
Waves from the war-cloud’s womb. 65
The dark horsemen storm. There is fear
In the cities in the souls of men when dark,
Gliding specters raise light-sharp swords.
Only a dull fool fears no death-stroke;
He dies nonetheless if the true lord 70
Whistles an arrow from the whirlwind
Streaking rain through his heart. Few
Find life in the rain-shriek’s dart.
I urge that battle, incite the clash
Of clouds as I rage through rider’s tumult 75
Over sky-streams. Then I bow down
At my lord’s command, bear my burden
Close to the land, a mighty slave.
Sometimes I storm beneath the land,
Sometimes rage in the cavern of waves, 80
Sometimes whip the waters from above,
Or climb quickening the clash of clouds.
Mighty and swift—say what I’m called
And who rouses and calms my fierce power.
2
Sometimes busy, bound by rings,
I must eagerly obey my servant,
Break my bed, clamor brightly
That my lord has given me a neck-ring.
Sleep-weary I wait for the grim-hearted 5
Greeting of a man or woman; I answer
Winter-cold. Sometimes a warm limb
Bursts the bound ring, pleasing my dull-
Witted servant and myself. I sing round
The truth if I may in a ringing riddle. 10
3
I am the lone wood in the warp of battle,
Wounded by iron, broken by blade,
Weary of war. Often I see
Battle-rush, rage, fierce fight flaring—
I hold no hope for help to come 5
Before I fall finally with warriors
Or feel the flame. The hard hammer-leavings
Strike me; the bright-edged, battle-sharp
Handiwork of smiths bites in battle.
Always I must await the harder encounter, 10
For I could never find in the world any
Of the race of healers who heal hard wounds
With roots and herbs. So I suffer
Sword-slash and death-wound day and night.
4
The culminant lord of victories, Christ,
Created me for battle. Often I burn
Countless living creatures on middle-earth,
Treat them to terror though I touch them not,
When my lord rouses me to wage war. 5
Sometimes I lighten the minds of many,
Sometimes I comfort those I fought fiercely
Before. They feel this high blessing,
As they felt that burning, when over the surge
And sorrow, I again grace their going. 10
5
My gown is silent as I thread the seas,
Haunt old buildings or tread the land.
Sometimes my song-coat and the supple wind
Cradle me high over the homes of men,
And the power of clouds carries me 5
Windward over cities. Then my bright silks
Start to sing, whistle, roar,
Resound and ring, while I
Sail on, untouched by earth and sea,
A spirit, ghost and guest, on wing. 10
6
I am a mimic with many tongues,
Warbling tunes, shifting tones,
Jugging the city with head-song.
Old night-singer, song-shaper,
Pleasure-poet—I keep a clear calling, 5
Wind melody for men. These sit
Bowed in quiet in the curve of song.
Say who I am who sing like a minstrel
Soft clamor of court and mime the world
In harlequin play, boding bright welcome. 10
7
I was an orphan before I was born.
Cast without breath by both parents
Into a world of brittle death, I found
The comfort of kin in a mother not mine.
She wrapped and robed my subtle skin, 5
Brooding warm in her guardian gown,
Cherished a changeling as if close kin
In a nest of strange siblings. This
Mother-care quickened my spirit, my natural
Fate to feed, fatten, and grow great, 10
Gorged on love. Baiting a fledgling
Brood, I cast off mother-kin, lifting
Windward wings for the wide road.
8
I was locked in a narrow nest,
My beak bound below the water
In a dark dive; the sea surged
Where my wings woke—my body quickened
From the clutch of wave and wandering wood. 5
Born black, streaked white, I rise
From the womb of waves on the wind’s back,
The Complete Old English Poems Page 63
