OLD ENGLISH LITERATURE ep.1

OLD ENGLISH LITERATURE

The term OLD ENGLISH  is identical with Anglo-Saxon and it refers to the language, literature and culture of the English before the Norman Conquest (1066).

At first literature was an oral phenomenon sang from poet to poet so it was changing through the centuries. Remember that we’re talking about middle ages now. People couldn’t read or write so they used some techniques to make poems easier to remember

1.   Formal features of Old English Poetry

ALLITERATION – repetition of the same sound. Usually initial consonants of words or stressed syllables.

FORMULAIC LANGUAGE – Anglo-Saxon poets used stock phrases or ready-made formulas which fits in the pattern of a line or a half line.

KENNINGS – ready-made, special forms of compounding, condensed metaphors

Soul slayer – devil

Swan’s road – ocean

Nation’s shield – the king

Treasure giver – lord

Helmet bearer – warrior

Heaven’s jewel – the sun

VARIATION – repetition of the element of the sentence but using different words. Restatement of the concept.

2.   Examples of the poems

THE WANDERER

The wanderer is a thane = warrior =earl. He is sailing alone by the dark blue see in winter. The weather is horrible, the sky is gray, it’s cold and windy.

He’s complaining about his position. He lost his lord and kinsman in the battles. He’s thinking of his native land. He thinks the loneliness is the worst thing in life. He wants to find a new lavish lord a gold giver. At first he’s seeking for an explanation, but then he realizes that the time passes and the fate is pitiless.

“Often the solitary one experiences mercy for himself,
the mercy of the Measurer, although he, troubled in spirit,
over the ocean must long
stir with his hands the rime-cold sea,
travel the paths of exile– Fate is inexorable.”
So said the wanderer, mindful of hardships,
of cruel deadly combats, the fall of dear kinsmen–
“Often alone each morning I must
Bewail my sorrow; there is now none living
to whom I dare tell clearly my inmost thoughts.
I know indeed
that it is a noble custom in a man
to bind fast his thoughts with restraint,
hold his treasure-chest, think what he will.

The man weary in spirit cannot withstand fate,
nor may the troubled mind offer help.
Therefore those eager for praise often bind a sad mind
in their breast-coffer with restraint.
So I, miserably sad, separated from homeland,
far from my noble kin, had to bind my thoughts with fetters,
since that long ago the darkness of the earth
covered my gold-friend, and I, abject,
proceeded thence, winter-sad, over the binding of the waves.
Sad, I sought the hall of a giver of treasure,
Where I might find, far or near,
one who in the meadhall might know about my people,
or might wish to comfort me, friendless,
entertain with delights. He knows who experiences it
how cruel care is as a companion,
to him who has few beloved protectors.
The path of exile awaits him, not twisted gold,
frozen feelings, not earth’s glory.
he remembers retainers and the receiving of treasure,
how in youth his gold-friend
accustomed him to the feast. But all pleasure has failed.
Indeed he knows who must for a long time do without
the counsels of his beloved lord
when sorrow and sleep together
often bind the wretched solitary man–
he thinks in his heart that he
embraces and kisses his lord, and lays
hands and head on his knee, just as he once at times
in former days, enjoyed the gift-giving.
Then the friendless man awakes again,
sees before him the dusky waves,
the seabirds bathing, spreading their wings,
frost and snow fall, mingled with hail.
Then are his heart’s wounds the heavier because of that,
sore with longing for a loved one. Sorrow is renewed
when the memory of kinsmen passes through his mind;
he greets with signs of joy, eagerly surveys
his companions, warriors. They swim away again.
The spirit of the floating ones never brings there many
familiar utterances. Care is renewed
for the one who must very often send
his weary spirit over the binding of the waves,
Therefore I cannot think why throughout the world
my mind should not grow dark
when I contemplate all the life of men,
how they suddenly left the hall floor,
brave young retainers. So this middle-earth
fails and falls each day;
therefore a man may not become wise before he owns
a share of winters in the kingdom of this world. A wise man must be patient,
nor must he ever be too hot tempered, nor too hasty of speech
nor too weak in battles, nor too heedless,
nor too fearful, nor too cheerful, nor too greedy for wealth
nor ever too eager for boasting before he knows for certain.
A man must wait, when he speaks a boast,
until, stout-hearted, he knows for certain 
whither the thought of the heart may wish to turn.
The prudent man must realize how ghastly it will be
when all the wealth of this world stands waste,
as now variously throughout this middle-earth
walls stand beaten by the wind,
covered with rime, snow-covered the dwellings.
The wine-halls go to ruin, the rulers lie
deprived of joy, the host has all perished
proud by the wall. Some war took,
carried on the way forth; one a bird carried off
over the high sea; one the gray wolf shared
with Death; one a sad-faced nobleman
buried in an earth-pit.
So the Creator of men laid waste this region,
until the ancient world of giants, lacking the noises
of the citizens, stood idle.
He who deeply contemplates this wall-stead,
and this dark life with wise thought,
old in spirit, often remembers long ago,
a multitude of battles, and speaks these words:
“Where is the horse? Where is the young warrior? Where is the giver of treasure?
Where are the seats of the banquets? Where are the joys in the hall?
Alas the bright cup! Alas the mailed warrior!
Alas the glory of the prince! How the time has gone,
vanished under night’s helm, as if it never were!
Now in place of a beloved host stands
a wall wondrously high, decorated with the likenesses of serpents.
The powers of spears took the noblemen,
weapons greedy for slaughter; fate the renowned,
and storms beat against these rocky slopes,
falling snowstorm binds the earth,
the noise of winter, then the dark comes.
The shadow of night grows dark, sends from the north
a rough shower of hail in enmity to the warriors.
All the kingdom of earth is full of trouble,
the operation of the fates changes the world under the heavens.
Here wealth is transitory, here friend is transitory,
here man is transitory, here woman is transitory,
this whole foundation of the earth becomes empty.
So spoke the wise in spirit, sat by himself in private meditation.
He who is good keeps his pledge, nor shall the man ever manifest
the anger of his breast too quickly, unless he, the man,
should know beforehand how to accomplish the remedy with courage.
It will be well for him who seeks grace,
comfort from the Father in the heavens, where a fastness
stands for us all.

THE SEAFARER

On the one hand The narrator is describing the dangers and hardships of sea life but on the other he’s telling about his love and fascination with the sea. And then we can see a homiletic discourse about transitory of worldly joys and praising humble, honest living. The SEAFARER is the example of medieval teaching

Medieval poet used literature to teach people, they tried to hand over some moral values through the poetry.

Both these poem are sea elegies. Elegy is a mournful melancholic poem, very often it is a lament for dead like in The Wanderer. It treats about death, heroes and glory. There is a lot of grief and melancholy.

            This tale is true, and mine. It tells 
            How the sea took me, swept me back
            And forth in sorrow and fear and pain,
            Showed me suffering in a hundred ships,
5          In a thousand ports, and in me. It tells
            Of smashing surf when I sweated in the cold
            Of an anxious watch, perched in the bow
            As it dashed under cliffs. My feet were cast
            In icy bands, bound with frost,
10        With frozen chains, and hardship groaned
            Around my heart. Hunger tore
            At my sea-weary soul. No man sheltered
            On the quiet fairness of earth can feel
            How wretched I was, drifting through winter
15        On an ice-cold sea, whirled in sorrow,
            Alone in a world blown clear of love,
            Hung with icicles. The hailstorms flew.
            The only sound was the roaring sea,
            The freezing waves. The song of the swan
20        Might serve for pleasure, the cry of the sea-fowl,
            The death-noise of birds instead of laughter,
            The mewing of gulls instead of mead.
            Storms beat on the rocky cliffs and were echoed
            By icy-feathered terns and the eagle’s screams;
25        No kinsman could offer comfort there,
            To a soul left drowning in desolation.
            And who could believe, knowing but
            The passion of cities, swelled proud with wine
            And no taste of misfortune, how often, how wearily,
30        I put myself back on the paths of the sea.
            Night would blacken; it would snow from the north;
            Frost bound the earth and hail would fall,
            The coldest seeds. And how my heart
            Would begin to beat, knowing once more
35        The salt waves tossing and the towering sea!
            The time for journeys would come and my soul
            Called me eagerly out, sent me over
            The horizon, seeking foreigners’ homes.
            But there isn’t a man on earth so proud,
40        So born to greatness, so bold with his youth,
            Grown so brave, or so graced by God,
            That he feels no fear as the sails unfurl,
            Wondering what Fate has willed and will do.
            No harps ring in his heart, no rewards,
45        No passion for women, no worldly pleasures,
            Nothing, only the ocean’s heave;
            But longing wraps itself around him.
            Orchards blossom, the towns bloom,
            Fields grow lovely as the world springs fresh,
50        And all these admonish that willing mind
            Leaping to journeys, always set
            In thoughts traveling on a quickening tide.
            So summer’s sentinel, the cuckoo, sings
            In his murmuring voice, and our hearts mourn
55        As he urges. Who could understand,
            In ignorant ease, what we others suffer
            As the paths of exile stretch endlessly on?
            And yet my heart wanders away,
            My soul roams with the sea, the whales’
60        Home, wandering to the widest corners
            Of the world, returning ravenous with desire,
            Flying solitary, screaming, exciting me
            To the open ocean, breaking oaths
            On the curve of a wave.
            Thus the joys of God
65        Are fervent with life, where life itself
            Fades quickly into the earth. The wealth
            Of the world neither reaches to Heaven nor remains.
            No man has ever faced the dawn
            Certain which of Fate’s three threats
70        Would fall: illness, or age, or an enemy’s
            Sword, snatching the life from his soul.
            The praise the living pour on the dead
            Flowers from reputation: plant
            An earthly life of profit reaped
75        Even from hatred and rancor, of bravery
            Flung in the devil’s face, and death
            Can only bring you earthly praise
            And a song to celebrate a place
            With the angels, life eternally blessed
            In the hosts of Heaven.
80             The days are gone
            When the kingdoms of earth flourished in glory;
            Now there are no rulers, no emperors,
            No givers of gold, as once there were,
            When wonderful things were worked among them
85        And they lived in lordly magnificence.
            Those powers have vanished, those pleasures are dead.
            The weakest survives and the world continues,
            Kept spinning by toil. All glory is tarnished.
            The world’s honor ages and shrinks.
90        Bent like the men who mould it. Their faces
            Blanch as time advances, their beards
            Wither and they mourn the memory of friends.
            The sons of princes, sown in the dust.
            The soul stripped of its flesh knows nothing
95        Of sweetness or sour, feels no pain,
            Bends neither its hand nor its brain. A brother
            Opens his palms and pours down gold
            On his kinsman’s grave, strewing his coffin
            With treasures intended for Heaven, but nothing
100      Golden shakes the wrath of God
            For a soul overflowing with sin, and nothing
            Hidden on earth rises to Heaven.
            We all fear God. He turns the earth,
            He set it swinging firmly in space,
105     Gave life to the world and light to the sky.
            Death leaps at the fools who forget their God.
            He who lives humbly has angels from Heaven
            To carry him courage and strength and belief.
            A man must conquer pride, not kill it,
110      Be firm with his fellows, chaste for himself,
            Treat all the world as the world deserves,
            With love or with hate but never with harm,
            Though an enemy seek to scorch him in hell,
            Or set the flames of a funeral pyre
115      Under his lord. Fate is stronger
            And God mightier than any man’s mind.
            Our thoughts should turn to where our home is,
            Consider the ways of coming there,
            Then strive for sure permission for us
120     To rise to that eternal joy,
            That life born in the love of God
            And the hope of Heaven. Praise the Holy
            Grace of Him who honored us,
            Eternal, unchanging creator of earth. Amen.

THE DREAM OF THE ROOD is an example of CHRISTIAN POEM.

The narrator is having a dream in which he’s speaking to the cross on which Christ was crucified. The poem is divided into three sections.

In the first part the narrator see the cross covered with gems.

In the next section the Crucifixion story is told from the point of cross’s view. At first when it was a tree and people came to cut it down. The cut down tree finds out that is to be a bearer of the criminals but instead the Christ comes to be crucified the Lord and the cross become one and stand together refusing to fall, they’re both pierced with nails. The cross is most honorable among trees and the Christ is the most honorable among the mankind.

In section three the author gives his reflection about this vision. The dream ends and he’s left with his thoughts. He’s filled with hope for eternal life and his desire to be near that glorious cross again.