Ech day me comëth tydinges thre
Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Each day I’m plagued by three doles,
These gargantuan weights on my soul:
First, that I must somehow exit this fen.
Second, that I cannot know when.
And yet it’s the third that torments me so,
Because there’s no way to know where the hell I will go!
Ech day me comëth tydinges thre,
For wel swithë sore ben he:
The on is that Ich shal hennë,
That other that Ich not whennë,
The thriddë is my mestë carë,
That Ich not whider Ich shal farë.
These are Medieval poetry translations of poems written in Old English (i.e., Anglo-Saxon English) and Middle English.
Wulf and Eadwacer
(Old English poem circa 960-990 AD)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
To my people, he's prey, a pariah.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different!
Wulf's on one island; I'm on another.
His island's a fortress, surrounded by fens.
Here, bloodthirsty men roam this island.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different!
My thoughts pursued Wulf like panting hounds.
Whenever it rained, while I wept,
the bold warrior came; he took me in his arms:
good feelings for him, but the end was loathsome!
Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you
has made me sick; your infrequent visits
have left me famished, deprived of real meat!
Do you hear, Eadwacer? A wolf has borne
our wretched whelp to the woods.
One can easily sever what never was one:
our song together.
Cædmon's Hymn
(Old English poem circa 658-680 AD)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Now let us honour heaven-kingdom's Guardian,
the might of the Architect and his mind-plans,
the work of the Glory-Father.
First he, the Eternal Lord,
established the foundation of wonders.
Then he, the First Poet,
created heaven as a roof
for the sons of men, Holy Creator,
Maker of mankind.
Then he, the eternal Lord,
afterwards made men middle-earth: Master almighty!
How Long the Night
Middle English poem circa 13th century AD
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song...
but now I feel the northern wind's blast—
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong
now grieve, mourn and fast.
Pity Mary
Middle English Lyric, circa early 13th century AD
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Now the sun passes under the wood:
I rue, Mary, thy face—fair, good.
Now the sun passes under the tree:
I rue, Mary, thy son and thee.
Fowles in the Frith
Medieval English Lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
The fowls in the forest,
the fishes in the flood
and I must go mad:
such sorrow I've had
for beasts of bone and blood!
I am of Ireland
Medieval Irish Lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I am of Ireland,
and of the holy realm of Ireland.
Gentlefolk, I pray thee:
for the sake of holy charity,
come dance with me
in Ireland.
Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar [1460-1525]
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that is held most dear―
except only that you are merciless.
Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently―
yet everywhere, no odor but rue.
I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose of pallid and gentle cast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that, if I could, I would compose her roots again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.
Now skruketh rose and lylie flour
Medieval English Lyric, circa 11th century AD
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Now skyward the rose and the lily flower,
That will bear for awhile that sweet savor:
In summer, that sweet tide;
There is no queen so stark in her power
Nor no lady so bright in her bower
That dead shall not glide by:
Whoever will forgo lust,
in heavenly bliss will abide
With his thoughts on Jesus anon,
thralled at his side.
IN LIBRARIOS
by Thomas Campion
Impressionum plurium librum laudat
Librarius; scortum nec non minus leno.
Novelties
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Booksellers laud authors for novel editions
as pimps praise their ****** for exotic positions.
Brut
(circa 1100 AD, written by Layamon, an excerpt)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Now he stands on a hill overlooking the Avon,
seeing steel fishes girded with swords in the stream,
their swimming days done,
their scales a-gleam like gold-plated shields,
their fish-spines floating like shattered spears.
Layamon's Brut is a 32,000-line poem composed in Middle English that shows a strong Anglo-Saxon influence and contains the first known reference to King Arthur in English.
The Maiden's Song aka The Bridal Morn
anonymous Medieval lyric
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The maidens came to my mother's bower.
I had all I would, that hour.
The bailey beareth the bell away;
The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.
Now silver is white, red is the gold;
The robes they lay in fold.
The bailey beareth the bell away;
The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.
Still through the window shines the sun.
How should I love, yet be so young?
The bailey beareth the bell away;
The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.
Westron Wynde
Middle English lyric, circa 1530 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Western wind, when will you blow,
bringing the drizzling rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
and I in my bed again!
The original poem has 'the smalle rayne down can rayne' which suggests a drizzle or mist.
This World's Joy
(Middle English lyric, circa early 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Winter awakens all my care
as leafless trees grow bare.
For now my sighs are fraught
whenever it enters my thought:
regarding this world's joy,
how everything comes to naught.
I Have Labored Sore
(anonymous medieval lyric circa the fifteenth century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have labored sore and suffered death,
so now I rest and catch my breath.
But I shall come and call right soon
heaven and earth and hell to doom.
Then all shall know both devil and man
just who I was and what I am.
A Lyke-Wake Dirge
(anonymous medieval lyric circa the 16th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Lie-Awake Dirge is 'the night watch kept over a corpse.'
This one night, this one night,
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.
When from this earthly life you pass
every night and all,
to confront your past you must come at last,
and Christ receive thy soul.
If you ever donated socks and shoes,
every night and all,
sit right down and slip yours on,
and Christ receive thy soul.
But if you never helped your brother,
every night and all,
walk barefoot through the flames of hell,
and Christ receive thy soul.
If ever you shared your food and drink,
every night and all,
the fire will never make you shrink,
and Christ receive thy soul.
But if you never helped your brother,
every night and all,
walk starving through the black abyss,
and Christ receive thy soul.
This one night, this one night,
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.
Excerpt from 'Ubi Sunt Qui Ante Nos Fuerunt? '
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1275)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Where are the men who came before us,
who led hounds and hawks to the hunt,
who commanded fields and woods?
Where are the elegant ladies in their boudoirs
who braided gold through their hair
and had such fair complexions?
Once eating and drinking gladdened their hearts;
they enjoyed their games;
men bowed before them;
they bore themselves loftily …
But then, in an eye's twinkling,
they were gone.
Where now are their songs and their laughter,
the trains of their dresses,
the arrogance of their entrances and exits,
their hawks and their hounds?
All their joy has vanished;
their 'well' has come to 'oh, well'
and to many dark days …
Is this the oldest carpe diem poem in the English language?
Whan the turuf is thy tour
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
When the turf is your tower
and the pit is your bower,
your pale white skin and throat
shall be sullen worms' to note.
What help to you, then,
was all your worldly hope?
2.
When the turf is your tower
and the grave is your bower,
your pale white throat and skin
worm-eaten from within …
what hope of my help then?
The second translation leans more to the 'lover's complaint' and carpe diem genres, with the poet pointing out to his prospective lover that by denying him her favors she make take her virtue to the grave where worms will end her virginity in macabre fashion. This poem may be an ancient precursor of poems like Andrew Marvell's 'To His Coy Mistress.'
Ich have y-don al myn youth
(Middle English lyric, circa the 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have done it all my youth:
Often, often, and often!
I have loved long and yearned zealously …
And oh what grief it has brought me!
Ich have y-don al myn youth,
Oftë, ofte, and ofte;
Longe y-loved and yerne y-beden -
Ful dere it is y-bought!
GEOFFREY CHAUCER
Three Roundels by Geoffrey Chaucer
I. Merciles Beaute ('Merciless Beauty')
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.
Unless your words heal me hastily,
my heart's wound will remain green;
for your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain.
By all truth, I tell you faithfully
that you are of life and death my queen;
for at my death this truth shall be seen:
your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.
II. Rejection
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it's useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.
I'm guiltless, yet my sentence has been cast.
I tell you truly, needless now to feign, —
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it's useless to complain.
Alas, that Nature in your face compassed
Such beauty, that no man may hope attain
To mercy, though he perish from the pain;
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it's useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.
III. Escape
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Since I'm escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.
He may question me and counter this and that;
I care not: I will answer just as I mean.
Since I'm escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean.
Love strikes me from his roster, short and flat,
And he is struck from my books, just as clean,
Forevermore; there is no other mean.
Since I'm escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.
Welcome, Summer
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you've banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights' frosts.
Saint Valentine, in the heavens aloft,
the songbirds sing your praises together!
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you've banished Winter with her icy weather.
We have good cause to rejoice, not scoff,
since love's in the air, and also in the heather,
whenever we find such blissful warmth, together.
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you've banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights' frosts.
CHARLES D'ORLEANS
Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth
by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms' twin chains,
Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain,
Your little feet—please, what more can I say?
It is my fetish when you're far away
To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain—
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms' twin chains.
So would I beg you, if I only may,
To see such sights as I before have seen,
Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene?
I'll be obsessed until my dying day
By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms' twin chains!
Spring
by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Young lovers,
greeting the spring
fling themselves downhill,
making cobblestones ring
with their wild leaps and arcs,
like ecstatic sparks
struck from coal.
What is their brazen goal?
They grab at whatever passes,
so we can only hazard guesses.
But they rear like prancing steeds
raked by brilliant spurs of need,
Young lovers.
Oft in My Thought
by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
So often in my busy mind I sought,
Around the advent of the fledgling year,
For something pretty that I really ought
To give my lady dear;
But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear,
Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay
And robbed the world of all that's precious here―
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
For me to keep my manner and my thought
Acceptable, as suits my age's hour?
While proving that I never once forgot
Her worth? It tests my power!
I serve her now with masses and with prayer;
For it would be a shame for me to stray
Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost
And the cost of everything became so dear;
Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host,
Take my good deeds, as many as there are,
And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere,
As heaven's truest maid! And may I say:
Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
When I praise her, or hear her praises raised,
I recall how recently she brought me pleasure;
Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay
And makes me wish to dress for my own bier—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
Winter has cast his cloak away
by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Winter has cast his cloak away
of wind and cold and chilling rain
to dress in embroidered light again:
the light of day—bright, festive, gay!
Each bird and beast, without delay,
in its own tongue, sings this refrain:
'Winter has cast his cloak away! '
Brooks, fountains, rivers, streams at play,
wear, with their summer livery,
bright beads of silver jewelry.
All the Earth has a new and fresh display:
Winter has cast his cloak away!
This rondeau was set to music by Debussy in his Trois chansons de France.
The year lays down his mantle cold
by Charles d'Orleans (1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The year lays down his mantle cold
of wind, chill rain and bitter air,
and now goes clad in clothes of gold
of smiling suns and seasons fair,
while birds and beasts of wood and fold
now with each cry and song declare:
'The year lays down his mantle cold! '
All brooks, springs, rivers, seaward rolled,
now pleasant summer livery wear
with silver beads embroidered where
the world puts off its raiment old.
The year lays down his mantle cold.
SIR THOMAS WYATT
Whoso List to Hunt ('Whoever Longs to Hunt')
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer;
but as for me, alas! , I may no more.
This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore
I'm one of those who falters, at the rear.
Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind
away from the doe?
Thus, as she flees before
me, fainting I follow.
I must leave off, therefore,
since in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Whoever seeks her out,
I relieve of any doubt,
that he, like me, must spend his time in vain.
For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain,
these words appear, her fair neck ringed about:
Touch me not, for Caesar's I am,
And wild to hold, though I seem tame.
In the next poem the Welsh 'dd' is pronounced 'th.'
Cynddylan is pronounced KahN-THIHL-aeN.
Stafell Gynddylan ('The Hall of Cynddylan')
Welsh englynion circa 1382-1410
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire and a bed,
I will weep awhile then lapse into silence.
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire or a candle,
save God, who will preserve my sanity?
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire, lacking light,
grief for you overwhelms me!
The hall of Cynddylan's roof is dark.
After the blessed assembly,
still little the good that comes of it.
Hall of Cynddylan, you have become shapeless, amorphous.
Your shield lies in the grave.
While he lived, no one breached these gates.
The hall of Cynddylan mourns tonight,
mourns for its lost protector.
Alas death, why did you spare me?
The hall of Cynddylan trembles tonight,
atop the shivering rock,
lacking lord, lacking liege, lacking protector.
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire, lacking mirth, lacking songs.
My cheeks are eroded by tears.
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire, lacking heroes, lacking a warband.
Abundant, my tears' rains.
The hall of Cynddylan offends my eyes,
lacking roof, lacking fire.
My lord lies dead, and yet I still live?
The hall of Cynddylan lies shattered tonight,
without her steadfast warriors,
Elfan, and gold-torqued Cynddylan.
The hall of Cynddylan lies desolate tonight,
no longer respected
without the men and women who maintained it.
The hall of Cynddylan lies quiet tonight,
stunned to silence by losing its lord.
Merciful God, what must I do?
The hall of Cynddylan's roof is dark,
after the Saxons destroyed
shining Cynddylan and Elfan of Powys.
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight:
lost, the race of the Cyndrwyn,
of Cynon and Gwion and Gwyn.
Hall of Cynddylan, you wound me, hourly,
having lost that great company
who once warmed hands at your hearth.
A Proverb from Winfred's Time
anonymous Old English poem, circa 757-786 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
The procrastinator puts off purpose,
never initiates anything marvelous,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.
2.
The late-deed-doer delays glory-striving,
never indulges daring dreams,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.
3.
Often the deed-dodger avoids ventures,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.
Winfrid or Wynfrith is better known as Saint Boniface (c. 675-754 AD). This may be the second-oldest English poem, after 'Caedmon's Hymn.'
Franks Casket Runes
anonymous Old English poems, circa 700 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The fish flooded the shore-cliffs;
the sea-king wept when he swam onto the shingle:
whale's bone.
Romulus and Remus, twin brothers weaned in Rome
by a she-wolf, far from their native land.
'The Leiden Riddle' is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle Lorica ('Corselet') .
The Leiden Riddle
anonymous Old English riddle poem, circa 700 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb.
I know I was not fashioned from woolen fleeces;
nor was I skillfully spun from skeins;
I have neither warp nor weft;
no thread thrums through me in the thrashing loom;
nor do whirring shuttles rattle me;
nor does the weaver's rod assail me;
nor did silkworms spin me like skillfull fates
into curious golden embroidery.
And yet heroes still call me an excellent coat.
Nor do I fear the dread arrows' flights,
however eagerly they leap from their quivers.
Solution: a coat of mail.
If you see a busker singing for tips, you're seeing someone carrying on an Anglo-Saxon tradition that goes back to the days of Beowulf …
He sits with his harp at his thane's feet,
Earning his hire, his rewards of rings,
Sweeping the strings with his skillful nail;
Hall-thanes smile at the sweet song he sings.
—'Fortunes of Men' loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Here's one of the first Old English/Anglo-Saxon poems to employ a refrain:
Deor's Lament
(Anglo Saxon poem, circa 10th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Weland knew the agony of exile.
That indomitable smith was wracked by grief.
He endured countless troubles:
sorrows were his only companions
in his frozen island dungeon
after Nithad had fettered him,
many strong-but-supple sinew-bonds
binding the better man.
That passed away; this also may.
Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths
but even more, her own sad state
once she discovered herself with child.
She predicted nothing good could come of it.
That passed away; this also may.
We have heard that the Geat's moans for Matilda,
his lady, were limitless,
that his sorrowful love for her
robbed him of regretless sleep.
That passed away; this also may.
For thirty winters Theodric ruled
the Mæring stronghold with an iron hand;
many knew this and moaned.
That passed away; this also may.
We have also heard of Ermanaric's wolfish ways,
of how he held wide sway in the realm of the Goths.
He was a grim king! Many a warrior sat,
full of cares and maladies of the mind,
wishing constantly that his kingdom might be overthrown.
That passed away; this also may.
If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious,
bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening,
soon it seems to him that his troubles are endless.
Then he must consider that the wise Lord
often moves through the earth
granting some men honor, glory and fame,
but others only shame and hardship.
This I will say for myself:
that for awhile I was the Heodeninga's scop,
dear to my lord. My name was Deor.
For many winters I held a fine office,
faithfully serving a just lord. But now Heorrenda
a man skilful in songs, has received the estate
the protector of warriors gave me.
That passed away; this also may.
'The Wife's Lament' or 'The Wife's Complaint' is an Old English/Anglo Saxon poem found in the Exeter Book. It's generally considered to be an elegy in the manner of the German frauenlied, or 'woman's song, ' although there are other interpretations of the poem's genre and purpose. The Exeter Book has been dated to 960-990 AD, making it the oldest English poetry anthology, but of course the poem may have been written earlier.
The Wife's Lament
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I draw these words from deep wells of my grief,
care-worn, unutterably sad.
I can recount woes I've borne since birth,
present and past, never more than now.
I have won, from my exile-paths, only pain.
First, my lord forsook his folk, left,
crossed the seas' tumult, far from our people.
Since then, I've known
wrenching dawn-griefs, dark mournings … oh where,
where can he be?
Then I, too, left—a lonely, lordless refugee,
full of unaccountable desires!
But the man's kinsmen schemed secretly
to estrange us, divide us, keep us apart,
across earth's wide kingdom, and my heart broke.
Then my lord spoke:
'Take up residence here.'
I had few friends in this unknown, cheerless
region, none close.
Christ, I felt lost!
Then I thought I had found a well-matched man -
one meant for me,
but unfortunately he
was ill-starred and blind, with a devious mind,
full of murderous intentions, plotting some crime!
Before God we
vowed never to part, not till kingdom come, never!
But now that's all changed, forever -
our friendship done, severed.
I must hear, far and near, contempt for my husband.
So other men bade me, 'Go, live in the grove,
beneath the great oaks, in an earth-cave, alone.'
In this ancient cave-dwelling I am lost and oppressed -
the valleys are dark, the hills immense,
and this cruel-briared enclosure—an arid abode!
The injustice assails me—my lord's absence!
On earth there are lovers who share the same bed
while I pass through life dead in this dark abscess
where I wilt, summer days unable to rest
or forget the sorrows of my life's hard lot.
A young woman must always be
stern, hard-of-heart, unmoved,
opposing breast-cares and her heartaches' legions.
She must appear cheerful
even in a tumult of grief.
Like a criminal exiled to a far-off land,
moaning beneath insurmountable cliffs,
my weary-minded love, drenched by wild storms
and caught in the clutches of anguish,
is reminded constantly of our former happiness.
Woe be it to them who abide in longing.
'The Husband's Message' is another poem from the Exeter Book. It may or may not be a reply to 'The Wife's Lament.' The poem is generally considered to be an Anglo-Saxon riddle (I will provide the solution) , but its primary focus is on persuading a wife or pledged fiancée to join her husband or betrothed and fulfill her promises to him.
The Husband's Message
anonymous Old English poem, circa 960-990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
See, I unseal myself for your eyes only!
I sprang from a seed to a sapling,
waxed great in a wood,
was given knowledge,
was ordered across saltstreams in ships
where I stiffened my spine, standing tall,
till, entering the halls of heroes,
I honored my manly Lord.
Now I stand here on this ship's deck,
an emissary ordered to inform you
of the love my Lord feels for you.
I have no fear forecasting his heart steadfast,
his honor bright, his word true.
He who bade me come carved this letter
and entreats you to recall, clad in your finery,
what you promised each other many years before,
mindful of his treasure-laden promises.
He reminds you how, in those distant days,
witty words were pledged by you both
in the mead-halls and homesteads:
how he would be Lord of the lands
you would inhabit together
while forging a lasting love.
Alas, a vendetta drove him far from his feuding tribe,
but now he instructs me to gladly give you notice
that when you hear the returning cuckoo's cry
cascading down warming coastal cliffs,
come over the sea! Let no man hinder your course.
He earnestly urges you: Out! To sea!
Away to the sea, when the circling gulls
hover over the ship that conveys you to him!
Board the ship that you meet there:
sail away seaward to seek your husband,
over the seagulls' range,
over the paths of foam.
For over the water, he awaits you.
He cannot conceive, he told me,
how any keener joy could comfort his heart,
nor any greater happiness gladden his soul,
than that a generous God should grant you both
to exchange rings, then give gifts to trusty liege-men,
golden armbands inlaid with gems to faithful followers.
The lands are his, his estates among strangers,
his new abode fair and his followers true,
all hardy heroes, since hence he was driven,
shoved off in his ship from these shore in distress,
steered straightway over the saltstreams, sped over the ocean,
a wave-tossed wanderer winging away.
But now the man has overcome his woes,
outpitted his perils, lives in plenty, lacks no luxury,
has a hoard and horses and friends in the mead-halls.
All the wealth of the earth's great earls
now belongs to my Lord …
He only lacks you.
He would have everything within an earl's having,
if only my Lady will come home to him now,
if only she will do as she swore and honor her vow.
Are these the oldest rhyming poems in the English language? Reginald of Durham recorded four verses of Saint Godric's: they are the oldest songs in English for which the original musical settings survive.
Led By Christ and Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led
that the earth never felt my bare foot's tread!
In the second poem, Godric puns on his name: godes riche means 'God's kingdom' and sounds like 'God is rich' …
A Cry to Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I.
Saintë Marië Virginë,
Mother of Jesus Christ the Nazarenë,
Welcome, shield and help thin Godric,
Fly him off to God's kingdom rich!
II.
Saintë Marië, Christ's bower,
****** among Maidens, Motherhood's flower,
Blot out my sin, fix where I'm flawed,
Elevate me to Bliss with God!
Godric also wrote a prayer to St. Nicholas:
Prayer to St. Nicholas
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Saint Nicholas, beloved of God,
Build us a house that's bright and fair;
Watch over us from birth to bier,
Then, Saint Nicholas, bring us safely there!
Another candidate for the first rhyming English poem is actually called 'The Rhyming Poem' as well as 'The Riming Poem' and 'The Rhymed Poem.'
The Rhymed Poem aka The Rhyming Poem and The Riming Poem
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem circa 990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
He who granted me life created this sun
and graciously provided its radiant engine.
I was gladdened with glees, bathed in bright hues,
deluged with joy's blossoms, sunshine-infused.
Men admired me, feted me with banquet-courses;
we rejoiced in the good life. Gaily bedecked horses
carried me swiftly across plains on joyful rides,
delighting me with their long limbs' thunderous strides.
That world was quickened by earth's fruits and their flavors!
I cantered under pleasant skies, attended by troops of advisers.
Guests came and went, amusing me with their chatter
as I listened with delight to their witty palaver.
Well-appointed ships glided by in the distance;
when I sailed myself, I was never without guidance.
I was of the highest rank; I lacked for nothing in the hall;
nor did I lack for brave companions; warriors, all,
we strode through castle halls weighed down with gold
won from our service to thanes. We were proud men, and bold.
Wise men praised me; I was omnipotent in battle;
Fate smiled on and protected me; foes fled before me like cattle.
Thus I lived with joy indwelling; faithful retainers surrounded me;
I possessed vast estates; I commanded all my eyes could see;
the earth lay subdued before me; I sat on a princely throne;
the words I sang were charmed; old friendships did not wane …
Those were years rich in gifts and the sounds of happy harp-strings,
when a lasting peace dammed shut the rivers' sorrowings.
My servants were keen, their harps resonant;
their songs pealed, the sound loud but pleasant;
the music they made melodious, a continual delight;
the castle hall trembled and towered bright.
Courage increased, wealth waxed with my talent;
I gave wise counsel to great lords and enriched the valiant.
My spirit enlarged; my heart rejoiced;
good faith flourished; glory abounded; abundance increased.
I was lavishly supplied with gold; bright gems were circulated …
Till treasure led to treachery and the bonds of friendship constricted.
I was bold in my bright array, noble in my equipage,
my joy princely, my home a happy hermitage.
I protected and led my people;
for many years my life among them was regal;
I was devoted to them and they to me.
But now my heart is troubled, fearful of the fates I see;
disaster seems unavoidable. Someone dear departs in flight by night
who once before was bold. His soul has lost its light.
A secret disease in full growth blooms within his breast,
spreads in different directions. Hostility blossoms in his chest,
in his mind. Bottomless grief assaults the mind's nature
and when penned in, erupts in rupture,
burns eagerly for calamity, runs bitterly about.
The weary man suffers, begins a journey into doubt;
his pain is ceaseless; pain increases his sorrows, destroys his bliss;
his glory ceases; he loses his happiness;
he loses his craft; he no longer burns with desires.
Thus joys here perish, lordships expire;
men lose faith and descend into vice;
infirm faith degenerates into evil's curse;
faith feebly abandons its high seat and every hour grows worse.
So now the world changes; Fate leaves men lame;
Death pursues hatred and brings men to shame.
The happy clan perishes; the spear rends the marrow;
the evildoer brawls and poisons the arrow;
sorrow devours the city; old age castrates courage;
misery flourishes; wrath desecrates the peerage;
the abyss of sin widens; the treacherous path snakes;
resentment burrows, digs in, wrinkles, engraves;
artificial beauty grows foul;
the summer heat cools;
earthly wealth fails;
enmity rages, cruel, bold;
the might of the world ages, courage grows cold.
Fate wove itself for me and my sentence was given:
that I should dig a grave and seek that grim cavern
men cannot avoid when death comes, arrow-swift,
to seize their lives in his inevitable grasp.
Now night comes at last,
and the way stand clear
for Death to dispossesses me of my my abode here.
When my corpse lies interred and the worms eat my limbs,
whom will Death delight then, with his dark feast and hymns?
Let men's bones become one,
and then finally, none,
till there's nothing left here of the evil ones.
But men of good faith will not be destroyed;
the good man will rise, far beyond the Void,
who chastened himself, more often than not,
to avoid bitter sins and that final black Blot.
The good man has hope of a far better end
and remembers the promise of Heaven,
where he'll experience the mercies of God for his saints,
freed from all sins, dark and depraved,
defended from vices, gloriously saved,
where, happy at last before their cheerful Lord,
men may rejoice in his love forevermore.
aaa
Exeter Book Gnomic Verses or Maxims
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The dragon dwells under the dolmen,
wizened-wise, hoarding his treasure;
the fishes bring forth their finned kind;
the king in his halls distributes rings;
the bear stalks the heath, shaggy and malevolent.
Frost shall freeze,
fire feast on firs;
earth breed blizzards;
brazen ice bridge waters;
waters spawn shields;
oxen axe
frost's firm fetters,
freeing golden grain
from ice's imprisonment.
Winter shall wane,
warm weather return
as sun-warmed summer!
Kings shall win
wise queens with largesse,
with beakers and bracelets;
both must be
generous with their gifts.
Courage must create
war-lust in a lord
while his woman shows
kindness to her people,
delightful in dress,
interpreter of rune-words,
roomy-hearted
at hearth-sharing and horse-giving.
The deepest depths
hold seas' secrets the longest.
The ship must be neatly nailed,
the hull framed
from light linden.
But how loving
the Frisian wife's welcome
when, floating offshore,
the keel turns homeward!
She hymns homeward
her own husband,
till his hull lies at anchor!
Then she washes salt-stains
from his stiff shirt,
lays out new clothes
clean and fresh
for her exhausted sailor,
her beloved bread-winner,
love's needs well-met.
THE WANDERER
Please keep in mind that in ancient Anglo-Saxon poems like "The Ruin" and "The Wanderer" the Wyrdes function like the Fates of ancient Greek mythology, controlling men's destinies.
The Wanderer
ancient Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
"The one who wanders alone
longs for mercy, longs for grace,
knowing he must yet traverse
the whale-path's rime-cold waters,
stirring the waves with his hands & oars,
heartsick & troubled in spirit,
always bending his back to his exile-ways."
"Fate is inexorable."
Thus spoke the wanderer, the ancient earth-roamer
mindful of life's hardships,
of its cruel slaughters & deaths of dear kinsmen.
"Often I am driven, departing alone at daybreak,
to give my griefs utterance,
the muffled songs of a sick heart
sung to no listeners, to no living lord,
for now there are none left alive
to debate my innermost doubts.
Custom considers it noble indeed for a man
to harbor his thought-hoard,
keep it close to his chest,
slam the doors of his doubts shut,
bind sorrow to silence & be still.
But the weary-minded man cannot withstand Wyrdes,
nor may his shipwrecked heart welcome solace, nor any hope of healing.
Therefore those eager for fame often bind dark thoughts
& unwailed woes in their breast-coffers.
Thus, miserably sad, overcome by cares & separated from my homeland,
far from my noble kinsmen, I was forced to bind my thoughts with iron fetters,
to confine my breast-hoard to its cage of bone.
Long ago the dark earth covered my gold-lord & I was left alone,
winter-weary & wretched, to cross these winding waves friendless.
Saddened, I sought the hall of some new gold-giver,
someone who might take heed of me, welcome me,
hoping to find some friendly mead-hall
offering comfort to men left friendless by Fate.
Anyone left lordless, kinless & friendless
knows how bitter-cruel life becomes
to one bereft of protectors,
pale sorrows his only companions.
No one waits to welcome the wanderer!
His only rewards, cold nights & the frigid sea.
Only exile-paths await him,
not torques of twisted gold,
warm hearths & his lord's trust.
Only cold hearts' frozen feelings, not earthly glory.
Then he longingly remembers retainers, feasts & the receiving of treasure,
how in his youth his gold-friend recognized him at the table.
But now all pleasure has vanished & his dreams taste like dust!
The wanderer knows what it means to do without:
without the wise counsels of his beloved lord, kinsmen & friends.
The lone outcast, wandering the headlands alone,
where solitariness & sorrow sleep together!
Then the wretched solitary vagabond
remembers in his heart how he embraced & kissed his lord
& laid his hands & head upon his knee,
in those former days of grace at the gift-stool.
But the wanderer always awakes without friends.
Awakening, the friendless man confronts the murky waves,
the seabirds bathing, broadening out their feathers,
the ****-frost, harrowing hail & snow eternally falling…
Then his heart's wounds seem all the heavier for the loss of his beloved lord.
Thus his sorrow is renewed,
remembrance of his lost kinsmen troubles his mind,
& he greets their ghosts with exclamations of joy, but they merely swim away.
The floating ones never tarry.
Thus care is renewed for the one whose weary spirit rides the waves.
Therefore I cannot think why, surveying this world,
my mind should not contemplate its darkness.
When I consider the lives of earls & their retainers,
how at a stroke they departed their halls, those mood-proud thanes! ,
then I see how this middle-earth fails & falls, day after day…
Therefore no man becomes wise without his share of winters.
A wise man must be patient,
not hot-hearted, nor over-eager to speak,
nor weak-willed in battles & yet not reckless,
not unwitting nor wanting in forethought,
nor too greedy for gold & goods,
nor too fearful, nor too cheerful,
nor too hot, nor too mild,
nor too eager to boast before he's thought things through.
A wise man forbears boastmaking
until, stout-hearted, his mind sure & his will strong,
he can read the road where his travels & travails take him.
The wise man grasps how ghastly life will be
when all the world's wealth becomes waste,
even as middle-earth already is, in so many places
where walls stand weather-beaten by the wind,
crusted with cold rime, ruined dwellings snowbound,
wine-halls crumbling, their dead lords deprived of joy,
the once-hale host all perished beyond the walls.
Some war took, carried them off from their courses;
a bird bore one across the salt sea;
another the gray wolf delivered to Death;
one a sallow-cheeked earl buried in a bleak barrow.
Thus mankind's Maker laid waste to Middle Earth,
until the works of the giants stood idle,
all eerily silenced, the former joys of their halls."
The wise man contemplates these ruins,
considers this dark life soberly,
remembers the blood spilled here
in multitudes of battles,
then says:
"Where is the horse now? Where, its riders?
Where, the givers of gifts & treasure, the gold-friend?
Where, the banquet-seats? Where, the mead-halls' friendly uproars?
Gone, the bright cup! Gone, the mailed warrior!
Gone, the glory of princes! Time has slipped down
the night-dome, as if it never were!
Now all that remains is this wall, wondrous-high,
decorated with strange serpentine shapes,
these unreadable wormlike runes!
The strength of spears defeated the earls,
lances lusting for slaughter, some glorious victory!
Now storms rage against these rock-cliffs,
as swirling snows & sleet entomb the earth,
while wild winter howls its wrath
as the pale night-shadow descends.
The frigid north sends hailstones to harry warriors.
Hardships & struggles beset the children of men.
The shape of fate is twisted under the heavens
as the Wyrdes decree.
Life is on loan, wealth transitory, friendships fleeting,
man himself fleeting, everything transitory,
& earth's entire foundation stands empty."
Thus spoke the wanderer, wise-hearted, as he sat apart in thought.
Good is the man who keeps his word to the end.
Nor should a man manifest his breast-pangs before he knows their cure,
how to accomplish the remedy with courage.
The Dream of the Rood
anonymous Anglo-Saxon poem, circa the tenth century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Listen! A dream descended upon me at deep midnight
when sleepers have sought their beds and sweet rest:
the dream of dreams, I declare it!
It seemed I saw the most wondrous tree,
raised heaven-high, wound 'round with light,
with beams of the brightest wood. A beacon
covered in overlapping gold and precious gems,
it stood fair at the earth's foot, with five gemstones
brightening its cross-beam. All heaven's angels
beheld it with wonder, for it was no felon's gallows…
Beowulf
Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 8th-10th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
LO, praise the prowess of the Spear-Danes
whose clan-thanes ruled in days bygone,
possessed of dauntless courage and valor.
All have heard the honors the athelings won,
of Scyld Scefing, scourge of rebellious tribes,
wrecker of mead-benches, harrier of warriors,
awer of earls. He had come from afar,
first friendless, a foundling, till Fate intervened:
for he waxed under the welkin and persevered,
until folk, far and wide, on all coasts of the whale-path,
were forced to yield to him, bring him tribute.
A good king!
To him an heir was afterwards born,
a lad in his yards, a son in his halls,
sent by heaven to comfort the folk.
Knowing they'd lacked an earl a long while,
the Lord of Life, the Almighty, made him far-renowned.
Beowulf's fame flew far throughout the north,
the boast of him, this son of Scyld,
through Scandian lands.
…
Grendel was known of in Geatland, far-asea,
the horror of him.
…
Beowulf bade a seaworthy wave-cutter
be readied to bear him to Heorot,
over the swan's riding,
to defense of that good king, Hrothgar.
Wise men tried to dissuade him
because they held Beowulf dear,
but their warnings only whetted his war-lust.
Yet still he pondered the omens.
The resolute prince handpicked his men,
the fiercest of his folk, to assist him:
fourteen men sea-wise, stout-hearted,
battle-tested. Led them to the land's edge.
Hardened warriors hauled bright mail-coats,
well-wrought war gear, to the foot of her mast.
At high tide she rode the waves, hard in by headland,
as they waved their last farewells, then departed.
Away she broke like a sea-bird, skimming the waves,
wind-borne, her curved prow plowing the ocean,
till on the second day the skyline of Geatland loomed.
…
In the following poem Finnsburuh means 'Finn's stronghold' and Finn was a Frisian king. This battle between Danes and Frisians is also mentioned in the epic Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf. Hnaef and his 60 retainers were house-guests of Finn at the time of the battle.
The Finnesburg Fragment or The Fight at Finnsburg
Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 10th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Battle-bred Hnaef broke the silence:
'Are the eaves aflame, is there dawn in the east,
are there dragons aloft? No, only the flares of torches
borne on the night breeze. Evil is afoot. Soon the hoots of owls,
the weird wolf's howls, cries of the carrion crows, the arrow's screams,
and the shield's reply to the lance's shaft, shall be heard.
Heed the omens of the moon, that welkin-wanderer.
We shall soon feel in full this folk's fury for us.
Shake yourselves awake, soldiers! On your feet!
Who's with me? Grab your swords and shields. Loft your linden! '
'The Battle of Brunanburh' is the first poem to appear in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Aethelstan and Edmund were the grandsons of King Alfred the Great.
The Battle of Brunanburh or The Battle of Brunanburgh
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 937 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Her Aethelstan cyning, / Aethelstan the King,
eorla dryhten, / Lord over earls,
beorna beag-giefa, / bracelet-bestower,
and his brothor eac, / and with him his brother,
Eadmund aetheling, / Edmund the Atheling,
ealdor-lange tir / earned unending glory:
geslogon aet saecce / glory they gained in battle
sweorda ecgum / as they slew with the sword's edge
ymbe Brunanburh. / many near Brunanburgh…
The Battle of Maldon
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 991 AD or later
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
…would be broken.
Then he bade each warrior unbridle his horse,
set it free, drive it away and advance onward afoot,
intent on deeds of arms and dauntless courage.
It was then that Offa's kinsman kenned
their Earl would not accept cowardice,
for he set his beloved falcon free, let it fly woods-ward,
then stepped forward to battle himself, nothing withheld.
By this his men understood their young Earl's will full well,
that he would not weaken when taking up weapons.
Eadric desired to serve his Earl,
his Captain in the battle to come; thus he also advanced forward,
his spear raised, his spirit strong,
boldly grasping buckler and broadsword,
ready to keep his vow to stand fast in the fight.
Byrhtnoth marshalled his men,
teaching each warrior his task:
how to stand, where to be stationed…
Adam Lay Ybounden
(anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Adam lay bound, bound in a bond;
Four thousand winters, he thought, were not too long.
And all was for an apple, an apple that he took,
As clerics now find written in their book.
But had the apple not been taken, or had it never been,
We'd never have had our Lady, heaven's queen.
So blesséd be the time the apple was taken thus;
Therefore we sing, 'God is gracious! '
The poem has also been rendered as 'Adam lay i-bounden' and 'Adam lay i-bowndyn.'
I Sing of a Maiden
(anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I sing of a maiden
That is matchless.
The King of all Kings
For her son she chose.
He came also as still
To his mother's breast
As April dew
Falling on the grass.
He came also as still
To his mother's bower
As April dew
Falling on the flower.
He came also as still
To where his mother lay
As April dew
Falling on the spray.
Mother and maiden?
Never one, but she!
Well may such a lady
God's mother be!
WIDSITH
Widsith, the 'wide-wanderer' or 'far-traveler, ' was a fictional poet and harper who claimed to have sung for everyone from Alexander the Great, Caesar and Attila, to the various kings of the Angles, Saxons and Vikings! The poem that bears his name is a thula, or recited list of historical and legendary figures, and an ancient version of, 'I've Been Everywhere, Man.'
Widsith, the Far-Traveler
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 680-950 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Widsith the wide-wanderer began to speak,
unlocked his word-hoard, manifested his memories,
he who had travelled earth's roads furthest
among the races of men—their tribes, peoples and lands.
He had often prospered in the mead-halls,
competing for precious stones with his tale-trove.
His ancestors hailed from among the Myrgings,
whence his lineage sprung, a scion of Ealhhild,
the fair peace-weaver. On his first journey, east of the Angles,
he had sought out the home of Eormanric,
the angry oath-breaker and betrayer of men.
Widsith, rich in recollections, began to share his wisdom thus:
I have learned much from mighty men, their tribes' mages,
and every prince must live according to his people's customs,
acting honorably, if he wishes to prosper upon his throne.
Hwala was the best, for awhile,
Alexander the mightiest, beyond compare,
his empire the most prosperous and powerful of all,
among all the races of men, as far as I have heard tell.
Attila ruled the Huns, Eormanric the Goths,
Becca the Banings, Gifica the Burgundians,
Caesar the Greeks, Caelic the Finns,
Hagena the Holmrigs, Heoden the Glomms,
Witta the Swæfings, Wada the Hælsings,
Meaca the Myrgings, Mearchealf the Hundings,
Theodric the Franks, Thyle the Rondings,
Breoca the Brondings, Billing the Wærns,
Oswine the Eowan, Gefwulf the Jutes,
Finn Folcwalding the Frisians,
Sigehere ruled the Sea-Danes for decades,
Hnæf the Hockings, Helm the Wulfings,
Wald the Woings, Wod the Thuringians,
Sæferth the Secgan, Ongendtheow the Swedes,
Sceafthere the Ymbers, Sceafa the Lombards,
*** the Hætwera, Holen the Wrosnas,
Hringweald was king of the Herefara.
Offa ruled the Angles, Alewih the Danes,
the bravest and boldest of men,
yet he never outdid Offa.
For Offa, while still a boy, won in battle the broadest of kingdoms.
No one as young was ever a worthier Earl!
With his stout sword he struck the boundary of the Myrgings,
fixed it at Fifeldor, where afterwards the Angles and Swæfings held it.
Hrothulf and Hrothgar, uncle and nephew,
for a long time kept a careful peace together
after they had driven away the Vikings' kinsmen,
vanquished Ingeld's spear-hordes,
and hewed down at Heorot the host of the Heathobards.
Thus I have traveled among many foreign lands,
crossing the earth's breadth,
experiencing both goodness and wickedness,
cut off from my kinsfolk, far from my family.
Thus I can speak and sing these tidings in the mead-halls,
of how how I was received by the most excellent kings.
Many were magnanimous to me!
I was among the Huns and the glorious Ostrogoths,
among the Swedes, the Geats, and the South-Danes,
among the Vandals, the Wærnas, and the Vikings,
among the Gefthas, the Wends, and the Gefflas,
among the Angles, the Swabians, and the Ænenas,
among the Saxons, the Secgan, and the Swordsmen,
among the Hronas, the Danes, and the Heathoreams,
among the Thuringians and the Throndheims,
also among the Burgundians, where I received an arm-ring;
Guthhere gave me a gleaming gem in return for my song.
He was no gem-hoarding king, slow to give!
I was among the Franks, the Frisians, and the Frumtings,
among the Rugas, the Glomms, and the Romans.
I was likewise in Italy with Ælfwine,
who had, as I'd heard, commendable hands,
fast to reward fame-winning deeds,
a generous sharer of rings and torques,
the noble son of Eadwine.
I was among the Saracens and also the Serings,
among the Greeks, the Finns, and also with Caesar,
the ruler of wine-rich cities and formidable fortresses,
of riches and rings and Roman domains.
He also controlled the kingdom of Wales.
I was among the Scots, the Picts and the Scrid-Finns,
among the Leons and Bretons and Lombards,
among the heathens and heroes and Huns,
among the Israelites and Assyrians,
among the Hebrews and Jews and Egyptians,
among the Medes and Persians and Myrgings,
and with the Mofdings against the Myrgings,
among the Amothings and the East-Thuringians,
among the Eolas, the Ista and the Idumings.
I was also with Eormanric for many years,
as long as the Goth-King availed me well,
that ruler of cities, who gave me gifts:
six hundred shillings of pure gold
beaten into a beautiful neck-ring!
This I gave to Eadgils, overlord of the Myrgings
and my keeper-protector, when I returned home,
a precious adornment for my beloved prince,
after which he awarded me my father's estates.
Ealhhild gave me another gift,
that shining lady, that majestic queen,
the glorious daughter of Eadwine.
I sang her praises in many lands,
lauded her name, increased her fame,
the fairest of all beneath the heavens,
that gold-adorned queen, glad gift-sharer!
Later, Scilling and I created a song for our war-lord,
my shining speech swelling to the sound of his harp,
our voices in unison, so that many hardened men, too proud for tears,
called it the most moving song they'd ever heard.
Afterwards I wandered the Goths' homelands,
always seeking the halest and heartiest companions,
such as could be found within Eormanric's horde.
I sought Hethca, Beadeca and the Herelings,
Emerca, Fridlal and the Ostrogoths,
even the wise father of Unwen.
I sought Secca and Becca, Seafola and Theodric,
Heathoric and Sifeca, Hlithe and Ongentheow,
Eadwine and Elsa, Ægelmund and Hungar,
even the brave band of the Broad-Myrgings.
I sought Wulfhere and Wyrmhere where war seldom slackened,
when the forces of Hræda with hard-striking swords
had to defend their imperiled homestead
in the Wistla woods against Attila's hordes.
I sought Rædhere, Rondhere, Rumstan and Gislhere,
Withergield and Freotheric, Wudga and Hama,
never the worst companions although I named them last.
Often from this band flew shrill-whistling wooden shafts,
shrieking spears from this ferocious nation,
felling enemies because they wielded the wound gold,
those good leaders, Wudga and Hama.
I have always found this to be true in my far-venturing:
that the dearest man among earth-dwellers
is the one God gives to rule ably over others.
But the makar's weird is to be a wanderer. [maker's/minstrel's fate]
The minstrel travels far, from land to land,
singing his needs, speaking his grateful thanks,
whether in the sunny southlands or the frigid northlands,
measuring out his word-hoard to those unstingy of gifts,
to those rare elect rulers who understand art's effect on the multitudes,
to those open-handed lords who would have their fame spread,
via a new praise-verse, thus earning enduring reputations
under the heavens.
Lent is Come with Love to Town
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1330
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Springtime comes with love to town,
With blossoms and with birdsong 'round,
Bringing all this bliss:
Daisies in the dales,
Sweet notes of nightingales.
Each bird contributes songs;
The thrush chides ancient wrongs.
Departed, winter's glowers;
The woodruff gayly flowers;
The birds create great noise
And warble of their joys,
Making all the woodlands ring!
'Cantus Troili' from Troilus and Criseide
by Petrarch
'If no love is, O God, what fele I so? ' translation by Geoffrey Chaucer
modernization by Michael R. Burch
If there's no love, O God, why then, so low?
And if love is, what thing, and which, is he?
If love is good, whence comes my dismal woe?
If wicked, love's a wonder unto me,
When every torment and adversity
That comes from him, persuades me not to think,
For the more I thirst, the more I itch to drink!
And if in my own lust I choose to burn,
From whence comes all my wailing and complaint?
If harm agrees with me, where can I turn?
I know not, all I do is feint and faint!
O quick death and sweet harm so pale and quaint,
How may there be in me such quantity
Of you, 'cept I consent to make us three?
And if I so consent, I wrongfully
Complain, I know. Thus pummeled to and fro,
All starless, lost and compassless, am I
Amidst the sea, between two rending winds,
That in diverse directions bid me, 'Go! '
Alas! What is this wondrous malady?
For heat of cold, for cold of heat, I die.
'Blow, northerne wind'
anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Blow, northern wind,
Send my love, my sweeting,
Blow, northern wind,
Blow, blow, blow,
Our love completing!
'What is he, this lordling, that cometh from the fight? '
by William Herebert, circa early 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Who is he, this lordling, who staggers from the fight,
with blood-red garb so grisly arrayed,
once appareled in lineaments white?
Once so seemly in sight?
Once so valiant a knight?
'It is I, it is I, who alone speaks right,
a champion to heal mankind in this fight.'
Why then are your clothes a ****** mess,
like one who has trod a winepress?
'I trod the winepress alone,
else mankind was done.'
'Thou wommon boute fere'
by William Herebert, circa early 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Woman without compare,
you bore your own father:
great the wonder
that one woman was mother
to her father and brother,
as no one else ever was.
'Marye, maide, milde and fre'
by William of Shoreham, circa early 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Mary, maid, mild and free,
Chamber of the Trinity,
This while, listen to me,
As I greet you with a song...
'My sang es in sihting'
by Richard Rolle, circa 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My song is in sighing,
My life is in longing,
Till I see thee, my King,
So fair in thy shining,
So fair in thy beauty,
Leading me into your light...
To Rosemounde: A Ballade
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Madame, you're a shrine to loveliness
And as world-encircling as trade's duties.
For your eyes shine like glorious crystals
And your round cheeks like rubies.
Therefore you're so merry and so jocund
That at a revel, when that I see you dance,
You become an ointment to my wound,
Though you offer me no dalliance.
For though I weep huge buckets of warm tears,
Still woe cannot confound my heart.
For your seemly voice, so delicately pronounced,
Make my thoughts abound with bliss, even apart.
So courteously I go, by your love bound,
So that I say to myself, in true penance,
'Suffer me to love you Rosemounde;
Though you offer me no dalliance.'
Never was a pike so sauce-immersed
As I, in love, am now emeshed and wounded.
For which I often, of myself, divine
That I am truly Tristam the Second.
My love may not grow cold, nor numb,
I burn in an amorous pleasance.
Do as you will, and I will be your thrall,
Though you offer me no dalliance.
A Lady without Paragon
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hide, Absalom, your shining tresses;
Esther, veil your meekness;
Retract, Jonathan, your friendly caresses;
Penelope and Marcia Catoun?
Other wives hold no comparison;
Hide your beauties, Isolde and Helen;
My lady comes, all stars to outshine.
Thy body fair? Let it not appear,
Lavinia and Lucretia of Rome;
Nor Polyxena, who found love's cost so dear;
Nor Cleopatra, with all her passion.
Hide the truth of love and your renown;
And thou, Thisbe, who felt such pain;
My lady comes, all stars to outshine.
Hero, Dido, Laodamia, all fair,
And Phyllis, hanging for Demophon;
And Canace, dead by love's cruel spear;
And Hypsipyle, betrayed along with Jason;
Make of your truth neither boast nor swoon,
Nor Hypermnestra nor Adriane, ye twain;
My lady comes, all stars to outshine.
A hymn to Jesus
by Richard of Caistre, circa 1400
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Jesu, Lord that madest me
and with thy blessed blood hath bought,
forgive that I have grieved thee,
in word, work, will and thought.
Jesu, for thy wounds' hurt
of body, feet and hands too,
make me meek and low in heart,
and thee to love, as I should do...
In Praise of his Ugly Lady
by Thomas Hoccleve, early 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Of my lady? Well rejoice, I may!
Her golden forehead is full narrow and small;
Her brows are like dim, reed coral;
And her jet-black eyes glisten, aye.
Her bulging cheeks are soft as clay
with large jowls and substantial.
Her nose, an overhanging shady wall:
no rain in that mouth on a stormy day!
Her mouth is nothing scant with lips gray;
Her chin can scarcely be seen at all.
Her comely body is shaped like a football,
and she sings like a cawing jay.
Lament for Chaucer
by Thomas Hoccleve, early 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Alas, my worthy master, honorable,
The very treasure and riches of this land!
Death, by your death, has done irreparable
harm to us: her cruel and vengeful hand
has robbed our country of sweet rhetoric...
Holly and Ivy
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Nay! Ivy, nay!
It shall not be, like this:
Let Holy have the mastery,
As the manner is.
Holy stood in the hall
Fair to behold;
Ivy stood outside the door,
Lonely and cold.
Holy and his merry men
Commenced to dance and sing;
Ivy and her maidens
Were left outside to weep and wring.
Ivy has a chilblain,
She caght it with the cold.
So must they all have, aye,
Whom with Ivy hold.
Holly has berries
As red as any rose:
The foresters and hunters
Keep them from the does.
Ivy has berries
As black as any ill:
There comes the owl
To eat them as she will.
Holly has birds,
A full fair flock:
The nightingale, the poppyinjay,
The gentle lark.
Good Ivy, good Ivy,
What birds cling to you?
None but the owl
Who cries, 'Who? Who? '
Unkindness Has Killed Me
anonymous Middle English poem,15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Grievous is my sorrow:
Both evening and morow;
Unto myself alone
Thus do I moan,
That unkindness has killed me
And put me to this pain.
Alas! what remedy
That I cannot refrain?
from The Testament of John Lydgate
15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Behold, o man! lift up your eyes and see
What mortal pain I suffer for your trespass.
With piteous voice I cry and say to thee:
Behold my wounds, behold my ****** face,
Behold the rebukes that do me such menace,
Behold my enemies that do me so despise,
And how that I, to reform thee to grace,
Was like a lamb offred in sacrifice.
Vox ultima Crucis
from The Testament of John Lydgate,15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
TARRY no longer; toward thine heritage
Haste on thy way, and be of right good cheer.
Go each day onward on thy pilgrimage;
Think how short a time thou hast abided here.
Thy place is built above the stars clear,
No earthly palace wrought in such stately wise.
Come on, my friend, my brother must enter!
For thee I offered my blood in sacrifice.
Inordinate Love
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I shall say what inordinate love is:
The ferocity and singleness of mind,
An inextinguishable burning devoid of bliss,
A great hunger, too insatiable to decline,
A dulcet ill, an evil sweetness, blind,
A right wonderful, sugared, sweet error,
Without any rest, contrary to kind,
Without quiet, a riot of useless labor.
Besse Bunting
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In April and May
When hearts be all a-merry,
Bessie Bunting, the miller's girl,
With lips as red as cherries,
Cast aside remembrance
To pass her time in dalliance
And leave her misery to chance.
Right womanly arrayed
In petticoats of white,
She was undismayed
And her countenance was light.
The spring under a thorn
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
At a wellspring, under a thorn,
the remedy for an ill was born.
There stood beside a maid
Full of love bound,
And whoso seeks true love,
In her it will be found.
The Complaint of Cresseid against Fate
Robert Henryson,15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O sop of sorrow, sunken into care,
O wretched Cresseid, now and evermore
Gone is thy joy and all thy mirth on earth!
Stripped bare of blitheness and happiness,
No salve can save you from your sickness.
Fell is thy fortune, wicked thy fate.
All bliss banished and sorrow in bloom.
Would that I were buried under the earth
Where no one in Greece or Troy might hear it!
A lover left alone with his thoughts
anonymous Middle English poem, circa later 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Continuance
of remembrance,
without ending,
causes me penance
and great grievance,
for your parting.
You are so deeply
engraved in my heart,
God only knows
that always before me
I ever see you
in thoughts covert.
Though I do not explain
my woeful pain,
I bear it still,
although it seems vain
to speak against
Fortune's will.
Go, hert, hurt with adversity
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Go, heart, hurt with adversity,
and let my lady see thy wounds,
then say to her, as I say to thee:
'Farewell, my joy, and welcome pain,
till I see my lady again.'
I love a flower
by Thomas Phillipps, circa 1500
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
'I love, I love, and whom love ye? '
'I love a flower of fresh beauty.'
'I love another as well as ye.'
'That shall be proved here, anon,
If we three
together can agree
thereon.'
'I love a flower of sweet odour.'
'Marigolds or lavender? '
'Columbine, golds of sweet flavor? '
'Nay! Nay! Let be:
It is none of them
that liketh me.'
(The argument continues...)
'I love the rose, both red and white.'
'Is that your perfect appetite? '
'To talk of them is my delight.'
'Joyed may we be,
our Prince to see
and roses three.'
'Now we have loved and love will we,
this fair, fresh flower, full of beauty.'
'Most worthy it is, so thinketh me.'
'Then may it be proved here, anon,
that we three
did agree
as one.'
The sleeper hood-winked
by John Skelton, circa late 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
With 'Lullay! Lullay! ' like a child,
Thou sleepest too long, thou art beguiled.
'My darling dear, my daisy flower,
let me, quoth he, 'lie in your lap.'
'Lie still, ' quoth she, 'my paramour, '
'Lie still, of course, and take a nap.'
His head was heavy, such was his hap!
All drowsy, dreaming, drowned in sleep,
That of his love he took no keep. [paid no notice]
The Corpus Christi Carol
anonymous Middle English poem, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
He bore him up, he bore him down,
He bore him into an orchard brown.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
In that orchard there stood a hall
Hanged all over with purple and pall.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
And in that hall there stood a bed
hanged all over with gold so red.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
And in that bed there lies a knight,
His wounds all bleeding both day and night.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
By that bed's side there kneels a maid,
And she weeps both night and day.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
And by that bedside stands a stone,
'Corpus Christi' written thereon.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
Love ever green
attributed to King Henry VIII, circa 1515
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If Henry VIII wrote the poem, he didn't quite live up to it! - MRB
Green groweth the holly,
so doth the ivy.
Though winter's blasts blow never so high,
green groweth the holly.
As the holly groweth green
and never changeth hue,
so am I, and ever have been,
unto my lady true.
Adew! Mine own lady.
Adew! My special.
Who hath my heart truly,
Be sure, and ever shall.
Pleasure it is
by William Cornish, early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pleasure it is,
to her, indeed.
The birds sing;
the deer in the dale,
the sheep in the vale,
the new corn springing.
God's allowance
for sustenance,
his gifts to man.
Thus we always give him praise
and thank him, then.
And thank him, then.
My lute and I
by Sir Thomas Wyatt, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
At most mischief
I suffer grief
Without relief
Since I have none;
My lute and I
Continually
Shall both apply
To sigh and moan.
Nought may prevail
To weep or wail;
Pity doth fail
In you, alas!
Mourning or moan,
Complaint, or none,
It is all one,
As in this case.
For cruelty,
Most that can be,
Hath sovereignty
Within your heart;
Which maketh bare
All my welfare:
Nought do you care
How sore I smart.
No tiger's heart
Is so perverse
Without desert
To wreak his ire;
And me? You ****
For my goodwill;
Lo, how I spill
For my desire!
There is no love
Your heart to move,
And I can prove
No other way;
Therefore I must
Restrain my lust,
Banish my trust
And wealth away.
Thus in mischief
I suffer grief,
Without relief
Since I have none,
My lute and I
Continually
Shall both apply
To sigh and moan.
What menethe this?
by Sir Thomas Wyatt, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
WHAT meaneth this! when I lie alone
I toss, I turn, I sigh, I groan;
My bed seems near as hard as stone:
What means this?
I sigh, I plain continually;
The clothes that on my bed do lie,
Always, methinks, they lie awry;
What means this?
In slumbers oft for fear I quake;
For heat and cold I burn and shake;
For lack of sleep my head doth ache;
What means this?
At mornings then when I do rise,
I turn unto my wonted guise,
All day thereafter, muse and devise;
What means this?
And if perchance by me there pass,
She, unto whom I sue for grace,
The cold blood forsaketh my face;
What means this?
But if I sit with her nearby,
With a loud voice my heart doth cry,
And yet my mouth is dumb and dry;
What means this?
To ask for help, no heart I have;
My tongue doth fail what I should crave;
Yet inwardly I rage and rave;
What means this?
Thus I have passed many a year,
And many a day, though nought appear,
But most of that which I most I fear;
What means this?
Yet ons I was
by Sir Thomas Wyatt, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Once in your grace I know I was,
Even as well as now is he;
Though Fortune hath so turned my case
That I am down and he full high;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he that did you please
So well that nothing did I doubt,
And though today ye think it ease
To take him in and throw me out;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he, in times past.
That as your own ye did retain:
And though ye have me now out-cast,
Showing untruth in you to reign;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he that knit the knot
The which ye swore not to unknit,
And though ye feign it now forgot,
In using your newfangled wit;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he to whom ye said,
'Welcome, my joy, my whole delight! '
And though ye are now well repaid
Of me, your own, your claim seems slight;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he to whom ye spake,
'Have here my heart! It is thy own.'
And though these words ye now forsake,
Saying thereof my part is none;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he that led the cast,
But now am he that must needs die.
And though I die, yet, at the last,
In your remembrance let it lie,
That once I was.
The Vision of Piers Plowman
by William Langland, circa 1330-1400
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Incipit liber de Petro Plowman prologus
In a summer season when the sun shone soft,
I clothed myself in a cloak like a shepherd's,
In a habit like a hermit's unholy in works,
And went out into the wide world, wonders to hear.
Then on a May morning on Malvern hills,
A marvel befell me, of fairies, methought.
I was weary with wandering and went to rest
Under a broad bank, by a brook's side,
And as I lay, leaned over and looked on the waters,
I fell into a slumber, for it sounded so merry.
Soon I began to dream a marvellous dream:
That I was in a wilderness, I wist not where.
As I looked to the east, right into the sun,
I saw a tower on a knoll, worthily built,
With a deep dale beneath and a dungeon therein,
Full of deep, dark ditches and and dreadful to behold.
Then a fair field full of fond folk, I espied between,
Of all manner of men, both rich and poor,
Working and wandering, as the world demands.
Some put themselves to the plow, seldom playing,
But setting and sowing they sweated copiously
And won that which wasters destroyed by gluttony...
Pearl
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1400
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pearl, the pleasant prize of princes,
Chastely set in clear gold and cherished,
Out of the Orient, unequaled,
Precious jewel without peer,
So round, so rare, so radiant,
So small, so smooth, so seductive,
That whenever I judged glimmering gems,
I set her apart, unimpeachable, priceless.
Alas, I lost her in earth's green grass!
Long I searched for her in vain!
Now I languish alone, my heart gone cold.
For I lost my precious pearl without stain.
Johann Scheffler (1624-1677) , also known as Johann Angelus Silesius, was a German Catholic priest, physician, mystic and religious poet. He's a bit later than most of the other poets on this page, but seems to fit in …
Unholy Trinity
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Man has three enemies:
himself, the world, and the devil.
Of these the first is, by far,
the most irresistible evil.
True Wealth
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There is more to being rich
than merely having;
the wealthiest man can lose
everything not worth saving.
The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The rose merely blossoms
and never asks why:
heedless of her beauty,
careless of every eye.
The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The rose lack 'reasons'
and merely sways with the seasons;
she has no ego
but whoever put on such a show?
Eternal Time
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Eternity is time,
time eternity,
except when we
are determined to 'see.'
Visions
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Our souls possess two eyes:
one examines time,
the other visions
eternal and sublime.
Godless
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
God is absolute Nothingness
beyond our sense of time and place;
the more we try to grasp Him,
The more He flees from our embrace.
The Source
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Water is pure and clean
when taken at the well-head:
but drink too far from the Source
and you may well end up dead.
Ceaseless Peace
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Unceasingly you seek
life's ceaseless wavelike motion;
I seek perpetual peace, all storms calmed.
Whose is the wiser notion?
Well Written
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Friend, cease!
Abandon all pretense!
You must yourself become
the Writing and the Sense.
Worm Food
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
No worm is buried
so deep within the soil
that God denies it food
as reward for its toil.
Mature Love
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
New love, like a sparkling wine, soon fizzes.
Mature love, calm and serene, abides.
God's Predicament
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
God cannot condemn those with whom he would dwell,
or He would have to join them in hell!
Clods
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A ruby
is not lovelier
than a dirt clod,
nor an angel
more glorious
than a frog.
The original poem below is based on my teenage misinterpretation of a Latin prayer …
Elegy for a little girl, lost
by Michael R. Burch
… qui laetificat juventutem meam …
She was the joy of my youth,
and now she is gone.
… requiescat in pace …
May she rest in peace.
… amen …
Amen.
I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem. From what I now understand, 'ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam' means 'to the God who gives joy to my youth, ' but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Vulgate Latin Bible (circa 385 AD) .
Keywords/Tags: Middle English, rhyme, medieval, epigram, lament, complaint, weight, soul, burden, burdened, heaviness, plague, plagued, exit, death, manner, fen, torment, hell, when, where, how, why
These are Medieval poetry translations of poems written in Old English (i.e., Anglo-Saxon English) and Middle English.
