Full be the field with food for mankind, Blossoming brightly. Blessed by thou By the holy name of Heaven"s Creator, 85 And the maker of Earth, which men inhabit.
May G.o.d who created the ground grant us growing gifts, That each kernel of corn may come to use.
_Say then three times_, Crescite in nomine patris, sint benedicti. Amen _and_ Pater Noster _three times_.
30. Irregularities in the meter in the translations are imitations of similar irregularities in the original.
58. _Erce:_ probably the name of an old Teutonic deity, the Mother of Earth. This reference is all we have to preserve the name.
75. The conception of a G.o.ddess as Mother of Earth and of Earth as Mother of Men is entirely pagan. This charm is a peculiar complex of Christian and pagan ideas.
II. Against a Sudden St.i.tch
_Against a sudden st.i.tch take feverfew, and the red nettle that grows through the house, and plantain. Boil in b.u.t.ter._
Loud were they, lo loud, as over the lea they rode; 5 Resolute they were when they rode over the land.
Protect thyself that thy trouble become cured and healed.
Out, little stick, if it still is I stood under the linden, under the light shield, Where the mighty women their magic prepared, 10 And they sent their spears spinning and whistling.
But I will send them a spear in return, Unerringly aim an arrow against them.
Out, little stick, if it still is within!
There sat a smith and a small knife forged 15 . . . . . . . sharply with a stroke of iron.
Out little stick if it still is within!
Six smiths sat and worked their war-spears.
Out, spear! be not in, spear!
If it still is there, the stick of iron, 20 The work of the witches, away it shall melt.
If thou wert shot in the skin, or sore wounded in the flesh, If in the blood thou wert shot, or in the bone thou wert shot, If in the joint thou wert shot, there will be no jeopardy to your life.
If some deity shot it, or some devil shot it, 25 Or if some witch has shot it, now I am willing to help thee.
This is a remedy for a deity"s shot; this is a remedy for a devil"s shot; This is a remedy for a witch"s shot. I am willing to help thee.
Flee there into the forests . . . . . . .
Be thou wholly healed. Thy help be from G.o.d.
_30_ _Then take the knife and put it into the liquid._
1. The sudden st.i.tch in the side (or rheumatic pain) is here thought of as coming from the arrows shot by the "mighty women"--the witches.
21-28. These irregular lines are imitated from the original.
RIDDLES
[Critical editions: Wyatt, Tupper, and Trautmann. Wyatt (Boston, 1912, Belles Lettres edition) used as a basis for these translations. His numbering is always one lower than the other editions, since he rejects one riddle.
Date: Probably eighth century for most of them.
For translations of other riddles than those here given see Brooke, _English Literature from the Beginning to the Norman Conquest_, Pancoast and Spaeth, _Early English Poems_, and Cook and Tinker, _Selections from Old English Poetry_.
There is no proof as to the authorship. There were probably one hundred of them in the original collection though only about ninety are left.
Many of them are translations from the Latin. Some are true folk-riddles and some are learned.
In the riddles we find particulars of Anglo-Saxon life that we cannot find elsewhere. The _Cambridge History of English Literature_ sums their effect up in the following sentence: "Furthermore, the author or authors of the Old English riddles borrow themes from native folk-songs and saga; in their hands inanimate objects become endowed with life and personality; the powers of nature become objects of worship such as they were in olden times; they describe the scenery of their own country, the fen, the river, and the sea, the horror of the untrodden forest, sun and moon engaged in perpetual pursuit of each other, the nightingale and the swan, the plow guided by the "gray-haired enemy of the wood," the bull breaking up clods left unturned by the plow, the falcon, the arm-companion of aethelings--scenes, events, characters familiar in the England of that day."]
I. A Storm
What man is so clever, so crafty of mind, As to say for a truth who sends me a-traveling?
When I rise in my wrath, raging at times, Savage is my sound. Sometimes I travel, 5 Go forth among the folk, set fire to their homes And ravage and rob them; then rolls the smoke Gray over the gables; great is the noise, The death-struggle of the stricken. Then I stir up the woods And the fruitful forests; I fell the trees, 10 I, roofed over with rain, on my reckless journey, Wandering widely at the will of heaven.
I bear on my back the bodily raiment, The fortunes of folk, their flesh and their spirits, Together to sea. Say who may cover me, 15 Or what I am called, who carry this burden?
1. Some scholars feel that the first three riddles, all of which describe storms, are in reality one, with three divisions. There is little to indicate whether the scribe thought of them as separate or not.
II. A Storm
At times I travel in tracks undreamed of, In vasty wave-depths to visit the earth, The floor of the ocean. Fierce is the sea . . . . . . . the foam rolls high; 5 The whale-pool roars and rages loudly; The streams beat the sh.o.r.es, and they sling at times Great stones and sand on the steep cliffs, With weeds and waves, while wildly striving Under the burden of billows on the bottom of ocean 10 The sea-ground I shake. My shield of waters I leave not ere he lets me who leads me always In all my travels. Tell me, wise man, Who was it that drew me from the depth of the ocean When the streams again became still and quiet, 15 Who before had forced me in fury to rage?
III. A Storm
At times I am fast confined by my Master, Who sendeth forth under the fertile plain My broad bosom, but bridles me in.
He drives in the dark a dangerous power 5 To a narrow cave, where crushing my back Sits the weight of the world. No way of escape Can I find from the torment; so I tumble about The homes of heroes. The halls with their gables, The tribe-dwellings tremble; the trusty walls shake, 10 Steep over the head. Still seems the air Over all the country and calm the waters, Till I press in my fury from my prison below, Obeying His bidding who bound me fast In fetters at first when he fashioned the world, 15 In bonds and in chains, with no chance of escape From his power who points out the paths I must follow.
Downward at times I drive the waves, Stir up the streams; to the strand I press The flint-gray flood: the foamy wave 20 Lashes the wall. A lurid mountain Rises on the deep; dark in its trail Stirred up with the sea a second one comes, And close to the coast it clashes and strikes On the lofty hills. Loud soundeth the boat, 25 The shouting of shipmen. Unshaken abide The stone cliffs steep through the strife of the waters, The dashing of waves, when the deadly tumult Crowds to the coast. Of cruel strife The sailors are certain if the sea drive their craft 30 With its terrified guests on the grim rolling tide; They are sure that the ship will be shorn of its power, Be deprived of its rule, and will ride foam-covered On the ridge of the waves. Then ariseth a panic, Fear among folk of the force that commands me, 35 Strong on my storm-track. Who shall still that power?
At times I drive through the dark wave-vessels That ride on my back, and wrench them asunder And lash them with sea-streams; or I let them again Glide back together. It is the greatest of noises, 40 Of clamoring crowds, of crashes the loudest, When clouds as they strive in their courses shall strike Edge against edge; inky of hue In flight o"er the folk bright fire they sweat, A stream of flame; destruction they carry 45 Dark over men with a mighty din.
Fighting they fare. They let fall from their bosom A deafening rain of rattling liquid, Of storm from their bellies. In battle they strive, The awful army; anguish arises, 50 Terror of mind to the tribes of men, Distress in the strongholds, when the stalking goblins, The pale ghosts shoot with their sharp weapons.
The fool alone fears not their fatal spears; But he perishes too if the true G.o.d send 55 Straight from above in streams of rain, Whizzing and whistling the whirlwind"s arrows, The flying death. Few shall survive Whom that violent guest in his grimness shall visit.
I always stir up that strife and commotion; 60 Then I bear my course to the battle of clouds, Powerfully strive and press through the tumult, Over the bosom of the billows; bursteth loudly The gathering of elements. Then again I descend In my helmet of air and hover near the land, 65 And lift on my back the load I must bear, Minding the mandates of the mighty Lord.
So I, a tried servant, sometimes contend: Now under the earth; now from over the waves I drive to the depths; now dropping from heaven, 70 I stir up the streams, or strive to the skies, Where I war with the welkin. Wide do I travel, Swift and noisily. Say now my name, Or who raises me up when rest is denied me, Or who stays my course when stillness comes to me?
V. A Shield
A lonely warrior, I am wounded with iron, Scarred with sword-points, sated with battle-play, Weary of weapons. I have witnessed much fighting, Much stubborn strife. From the strokes of war 5 I have no hope for help or release Ere I pa.s.s from the world with the proud warrior band.
With brands and billies they beat upon me; The hard edges hack me; the handwork of smiths In crowds I encounter; with courage I endure 10 Ever bitterer battles. No balm may I find, And no doctor to heal me in the whole field of battle, To bind me with ointments and bring me to health, But my grievous gashes grow ever sorer Through death-dealing strokes by day and night.
VII. A Swan
My robe is noiseless when I roam the earth, Or stay in my home, or stir up the water.
At times I am lifted o"er the lodgings of men By the aid of my trappings and the air above.
5 The strength of the clouds then carries me far, Bears me on its bosom. My beautiful ornament, My raiment rustles and raises a song, Sings without tiring. I touch not the earth But wander a stranger over stream and wood.
VIII. A Nightingale