The Complete Old English Poems

by Craig Williamson

  31

  “You can see the truth if you open your eyes

  To the various insights I’ve offered you.

  Observe the creatures who inhabit the earth:

  They are all different in size and shape,

  Their colors and forms are not the same, 5

  Their ways of moving are quite distinct.

  Some creep and crawl, bellying the ground—

  They have no wings to soar through the sky,

  No feet to set down firmly on earth.

  They worm and wriggle as is their lot. 10

  Some tread the ground with two good feet;

  Others plot or trot along on four.

  Some wing their way in the ethereal air,

  Soaring under sun, coasting under clouds.

  Each creature is ultimately drawn down 15

  By force or feeling toward the earth,

  Gazing homeward, whether gliding in air

  Or grazing on the ground. Some creatures come

  Out of necessity—they feel the weight.

  Some creatures come, driven by hunger, 20

  Savagely seeking some four-footed feast.

  Of all these creatures made by God,

  Only man walks with his face raised up

  To see the sky. This signifies a great truth:

  A man’s mind and his heartfelt faith 25

  Need to be directed upwards toward heaven

  And God’s holy purpose, rather than downward

  Toward the earth like an unthinking animal.

  A man should not be looking up with his eyes

  And down with his mind. His soul should soar, 30

  So that heaven is always his heart’s homeland.”

  [Wisdom concludes by exhorting everyone to seek God as ably as they can, given the limited nature of their human perception and understanding. He concludes with advice to Boethius in a passage of poetic prose, saying:

  We know little of what came before us except through memory or inquiry. We know even less of what will come after us. We only know for certain what happens to us in present time. We cannot see God with absolute clarity because we are transitory while God is eternal. God’s glory never waxes and it never wanes because it is ever-present. God never remembers because he never forgets. He never learns anything because he knows everything. He seeks for nothing because he has lost nothing. He pursues no one because no one can flee from his presence. He fears no one because he is more powerful than anyone. He is always giving without lessening his heart’s hoard. He is all-powerful and all-purposeful. He always desires good and never evil. He needs nothing and watches everything. He never rests, never sleeps. He is both mighty and merciful. He is eternal—there is no time or place where he is not.

  He inhabits and energizes past, present, future—all time, real and imagined. He is wholly free, compelled by nothing. No one’s mind can measure God’s greatness. To measure his vastness, his goodness, you would need an infinite ruler. No man should exalt himself, for God is almighty and unmatched. He sits on his heavenly throne and rewards each one according to his words and works. Trust in the Lord, for he is unchanging. Pray humbly to God, for he is merciful and generous. Raise up your hands and minds to him and ask for his gifts, which are righteous and good. He will not refuse you. Seek only the eternal happiness which is his. Love virtue and loathe vice. Seek only the good in the eyes of God, for he is ever present, ever watching, ever ready to reward you rightly for everything you do.]

  THE MINOR POEMS

  INTRODUCTION

  I am a gather of voices from many places,

  Book-houses in Cambridge and Copenhagen,

  Vienna and Oxford, Leiden and Leningrad,

  Dijon and Durham, Winchester and Vienna.

  I may adorn a jewel or be set in stone,

  Carved on a cross or a whale’s bone.

  My stories are legion from prayer to sword-play,

  Rune to riddle, calendar to chronicle.

  I am the record of history, the play of proverbs,

  Creed, colophon, calendar, hymn,

  Whole charms and fragmented psalms,

  The mighty battles of Maldon and Finnsburg—

  All brought together from hide and bone

  Across the centuries to a modern home

  Of tree-pulp and cotton, printed and bound,

  Not the cow’s skin, craftily quilled.

  Wrap your mind around my history

  To say where I come from and who I am.

  This collection of various so-called “minor poems” was assembled by Dobbie for volume VI of The Anglo-Saxon Poetic Records. A better term might have been “miscellaneous poems,” for many of them, such as The Battle of Maldon, The Fight at Finnsburg, Cædmon’s Hymn, and Maxims II: Cotton Maxims, are poems of major importance. In the preface, Dobbie admits this and explains the principles of inclusion:

  This volume … contains the many verse texts, most of them short, which are scattered here and there in manuscripts not primarily devoted to Anglo-Saxon poetry. The title, The Anglo-Saxon Minor Poems, seems the most convenient one available, although a number of the poems, notably The Battle of Maldon, and Solomon and Saturn, are not “minor” in the ordinary sense of that word. As a general rule, only those poems have been admitted which are written in the regular alliterative verse; but The Death of Alfred, which has rime instead of alliteration, is included with the five other Chronicle poems, following the practice of earlier editors, and the metrical charms are printed in their entirety, though most of them are only partly in verse and their metrical structure is often far from regular…. No special virtue is claimed for the order in which the poems are printed in this volume. All that can be said is that the order adopted seemed a natural one from the beginning, and that no better order suggested itself. (Dobbie, 1942, v–vi)

  The principles of inclusion are debatable. The prose portions of the charms are printed, but not the prose portions surrounding the Benedictine Office poems (MS Junius 121). The book prefaces sometimes lead naturally into the prose texts themselves and are somewhat difficult to understand without them. The definition of what constitutes a proper Old English poem in terms of its metrical and alliterative structure is the subject of continued scholarly debate. Passages of rhythmical prose often morph into what might be called “flexible verse,” especially in the later part of the Anglo-Saxon period. It is difficult to decide when a poem or poetic passage passes from Old to Middle English, and this decision must remain to a certain extent arbitrary. Some late poems, like The Death of Alfred, include both rhyme and alliteration. Some lines have a flexible alliterative pattern; some have rhymes at the end of each hemistich; and a few have both rhyme and alliteration (loosely defined) in the same line. Additionally, a number of poems have been newly recognized or discovered hidden away in prose passages or obscure manuscripts since Dobbie formed his collection, and these are included in the “Additional Poems” section of the present collection of translations.

  Dobbie’s edition is a miscellany of Old English poems collected from a variety of places, mostly in Britain but reaching out as far as Copenhagen and Leningrad. The poems range in importance from Cædmon’s Hymn and The Battle of Maldon to Thureth and The Fragments of Psalms in the Benedictine Office (MS Junius 121), most of which can be read in their full poetic context in The Metrical Psalms in the Paris Psalter in volume V of ASPR. Since the poems in this collection come from various manuscripts and other non-manuscript sources such as the Franks Casket and the Ruthwell Cross, readers who want to know more about the original formats should consult the detailed descriptions of them in the introductions to the individual poems in ASPR, volume VI.

  THE FIGHT AT FINNSBURG

  This fragment is based on a transcription by George Hickes in his 1705 Thesaurus; the original manuscript leaf has never been found. The poem, sometimes called The Battle at Finnsburh or The Finnsburh Fragment, tells part of the story recounted in Beowulf of the tragedy of the D
anish princess Hildeburh, daughter of King Hoc of the Half-Danes, who is married off to Finn, king of the Frisians, in a doomed gesture of peace-weaving between warring peoples. She goes off to live with her husband’s people, as is the common Germanic practice. Her brother Hnæf comes to visit with his chief thane Hengest and a retinue of retainers. The old feud between the Half-Danes and Frisians simmers, and one night a small group of Frisians attacks the Half-Danes as the old feud breaks out between the two traditional enemies. Many warriors die on both sides. Hildeburh’s brother Hnæf and her unnamed son are both killed. A temporary truce is established, but later in the spring the feud breaks out again when two Danes avenge the murder of one of their kinsmen. In the second battle, Finn is killed and the Danes vanquish their old enemies and return home with Hildeburh and various treasures. Whether the conflict described here in the fragment is part of the first or second battle remains unclear. Also unclear is whether Guthlaf the Dane mentioned in lines 21 ff. is the same as the father of the Frisian warrior Garulf in line 44. If he is, then there is an added dimension of mixed loyalties and pathos added to the story as recounted in Beowulf. Here is a father-son conflict that echoes the other family conflicts in the story, all of which lead to tragedy and death. For a fuller summary of the battle and more information on the relation between the fragment and the passage in Beowulf, see Klaeber 4, 273–81.

  The Fight at Finnsburg

  * * *

  “Are the gables burning?”

  Then Hnæf the unhardened battle-king answered:

  “This is not dawn-light from the east or dragon’s flight

  With its breath-fire; nor are the hall-gables burning.

  The enemy attacks and the sky seems scorched. 5

  Carrion crows sing, the gray corselet rings,

  The gray wolf howls, the battle-wood screams

  In savage war-shrieks, shaft on shield.

  The moon wanders like an exile through the clouds,

  And woe and wonder will come to pass. 10

  Dark deeds draw down; evil is afoot.

  This will be a dire and deep drink for friends

  And foes. So wake up now, my bold warriors,

  Seize swords and shields, stand firm at the front.

  Keep courage. Settle this fierce conflict 15

  With resolute hearts and a battle-hard will.”

  Then many thanes rose up—their armor,

  Helmets, and armbands adorned with gold.

  They took up their weapons. The brave warriors,

  Sigeferth and Eaha, drew their swords, 20

  Stood at one door, while Ordlaf and Guthlaf

  Guarded the other. Hengest himself

  Followed in their footsteps. Then Guthere spoke

  Among the Frisians outside the door,

  Urging Garulf to back away, saying surely 25

  That it would be unwise for the armored man

  To risk his life in the first battle-rush

  Since a stronger warrior, a fiercer foe,

  Meant to deprive him of it as he opened the door—

  But the stout-hearted warrior, the battle-brave man, 30

  Asked openly who dared to hold the door.

  “Sigeferth,” one said, “A warrior of the Secgan,

  A bold one with the Danes. My name is known.

  I’m no stranger to slaughter, to war or woe.

  The greeting you seek is here in my hands, 35

  The fate you find may be glorious or grim.”

  Then the hall resounded with savage noise,

  The shriek of slaughter, the tumult of terror,

  The cry of carnage. Shields were hefted

  In the hands of bold men. Swords were wielded, 40

  Bright helmets hewn, brave bodies broken—

  The stronghold floor sang with blood.

  Then Garulf, Guthlaf’s son, fell in the fight,

  The first to die among the fighting Frisians.

  He lay down to rest in a clutch of corpses, 45

  Once valiant warriors on both sides of battle.

  The grim raven circled, dark and dusky,

  Greedy and corpse-keen. Swords were gleaming,

  Finnsburg was in flames. I’ve never heard a story

  Of sixty such warriors bearing themselves better 50

  In the heat of battle, and no lordly mead-giver

  Ever had better reward for his gifts than Hnæf.

  Young and old fought fiercely for five long days,

  And not one of them fell—they held the doors.

  One warrior walked away wounded, 55

  Saying his once-strong mail-coat was useless,

  Its woven rings ripped, a torn treasure,

  And his helmet was hacked and hewn.

  The prince and protector of those brave men

  Asked immediately how they were managing 60

  Their war-weary wounds and which of the young ones

  Had survived the struggle, and which had gone.

  * * *

  WALDERE

  These two fragments of what was probably a long epic poem were found in 1860 among some loose papers and parchment in the Royal Library in Copenhagen. The original manuscript was probably torn apart and used for book binding. Fulk and Cain note that “the tale of Walter of Aquitaine is a familiar one, being preserved in medieval Latin, Norse, and Polish versions, as well as in several fragments and brief accounts in Middle High German” (215). The story concerns two lovers, Waldere and Hildegyth, who flee the court of Attila where they have been held hostage. They carry with them stolen treasure and survive many difficult adventures before arriving in Aquitaine to be married. In the first fragment, a spirited woman, presumably Hildegyth, urges a warrior, presumably Waldere, to use his famous sword Mimming, made by Weland, to attack Guthhere, the Frankish king, who has been pursuing them for the treasure (216). In the second fragment, one of the warriors—Waldere, Guthhere, or another Frankish warrior Hagen—praises his sword, which he claims is the legendary gift from Theodoric to Widia, son of Weland and Beadohild (characters mentioned in Deor in the Exeter Book). Waldere then speaks to Guthhere, daring him to attack without Hagen’s help, even though he is heaðuwerig, “war-weary.” For a good overview of the text and the legend in its various forms, see Norman, 7 ff., Zettersten, 2 ff., and Himes, 3 ff.

  Waldere

  I

  * * *

  She spoke these words, urging him on:

  “Surely Weland’s battle-work, the savage

  Mimming, will never fail any fierce fighter

  Who can wield that mighty blade in battle.

  One after another, warriors have fallen, 5

  Sword-struck and blood-stained

  By that sudden slash, finding a grim

  War-bed. So now, Son of Ælfhere,

  Best and boldest of Attila’s war-chiefs,

  Don’t hide your heart, conceal your courage, 10

  Stifle your strength in this hard combat.

  The time has come when you must choose

  To gain glory among men or lose your life.

  I could never weave any words of blame

  To fault you, my dear lord and friend, 15

  For fleeing the battlefield or shunning sword-play

  To hide behind walls to save your skin,

  Even though fierce foes sought to bash

  Through your mail-coat with battle-axes.

  You have always looked over the shield-wall, 20

  The front line of battle, for another fight.

  I feared for your fate, dreaded your destiny,

  Because your courage always carried you

  Too keenly from one clash to the next,

  From your own safety to your enemy’s 25

  Battle-station. Win fame with great deeds,

  Gather glory while God watches over you,

  Your guardian Lord. Don’t think twice

  About your sword. The greatest of treasures,


  The best of blades, was fated to sustain you. 30

  With this weapon you will bear down the boast

  Of Guthhere since he sought sword-strife,

  Fixed on feud. He refused our peace-offering,

  Cups and jewels, swords and gems,

  Arm-bands and rings. Now he must return 35

  To his lord and homeland, ringless,

  Bare of war-booty or else lie down here

  In the deep sleep of death, if he so chooses.”

  * * *

  II

  * * *

  “I have never seen a better sword,

  Except for the one I have hiding here

  In the hard cave of my jeweled scabbard.

  Theodoric thought of sending it to Widia

  As a warrior’s gift with an abundant treasure, 5

  Riches and relics adorned with gold.

  Widia, son of Weland, kinsman of Nithhad,

  Received this reward for his brave service

  Of rescuing him from cruel captivity;

  He escaped through the realm of monsters and giants.” 10

  Waldere spoke, a stout-hearted warrior

  Weaving brave words. He held in his hands

  A battle-comfort, a bright war-blade,

  Grim steel in a grip of joy, saying:

  “Listen carefully, friend of the Burgundians. 15

  Surely you hoped that the hand of Hagen

  Would strike me down, separate me from standing,

  Cut down my courage with a cold killing.

  War-weary, I welcome your coming.

  Draw near if you dare in this deadly game— 20

  Clutch, if you can, my gray mail-coat,

  Steal my battle-shirt, my heart’s protection.