British Literature

READING: ELEGIES FROM THE EXETER BOOK 

THE WANDERER

“Often the lone-dweller awaits his own favor, the Measurer’s mercy, though he must, mind-caring, throughout the ocean’s way stir the rime-chilled sea with his hands for a long while, tread the tracks of exile— the way of the world is ever an open book.”

So spoke the earth-stepper, mindful of miseries, slaughter of the wrathful, crumbling of kinsmen:

“Often alone, every daybreak, I must bewail my cares. There is now no one living to whom I dare articulate my mind’s grasp. I know as truth that it is a noble custom for a man to enchain his spirit’s close, to hold his hoarded coffer, think what he will.

“Nor can the weary mind withstand these outcomes, nor can a troubled heart effect itself help. Therefore those eager for glory will often secure a sorrowing mind in their breast-coffer — just as I must fasten in fetters my heart’s ken, often wretched, deprived of my homeland, far from freeborn kindred, since years ago I gathered my gold-friend in earthen gloom, and went forth from there abjected, winter-anxious over the binding of waves, hall-wretched, seeking a dispenser of treasure, where I, far or near, could find him who in the mead-hall might know of my kind, or who wishes to comfort a friendless me, accustomed as he is to joys.

“The experienced one knows how cruel sorrow is as companion, he who has few adored protectors— the paths of the exile claim him, not wound gold at all— a frozen spirit-lock, not at all the fruits of the earth. He remembers hall-retainers and treasure-taking, how his gold-friend accustomed him in his youth to feasting. Joy is all departed!

“Therefore he knows who must long forgo the counsels of beloved lord, when sleep and sorrow both together constrain the miserable loner so often. It seems to him in his mind that he embraces and kisses his lord, and lays both hands and head on his knee, just as he sometimes in the days of yore delighted in the gift-throne. Then he soon wakes up, a friendless man, seeing before him the fallow waves, the sea-birds bathing, fanning their feathers, ice and snow falling down, mixed with hail.

“Then the hurt of the heart will be heavier, painful after the beloved. Sorrow will be renewed. Whenever the memory of kin pervades his mind, he greets them joyfully, eagerly looking them up and down, the companions of men— they always swim away. The spirits of seabirds do not bring many familiar voices there. Cares will be renewed for him who must very frequently send his weary soul over the binding of the waves.

“Therefore I cannot wonder across this world why my mind does not muster in the murk when I ponder pervading all the lives of men, how they suddenly abandoned their halls, the proud young thanes. So this entire middle-earth tumbles and falls every day —

“Therefore a man cannot become wise, before he has earned his share of winters in this world. A wise man ought to be patient, nor too hot-hearted, nor too hasty of speech, nor too weak a warrior, nor too foolhardy, nor too fearful nor too fey, nor too coin-grasping, nor ever too bold for boasting, before he knows readily.

“A stout-hearted warrior ought to wait, when he makes a boast, until he readily knows where the thoughts of his heart will veer. A wise man ought to perceive how ghostly it will be when all this world’s wealth stands wasted, so now in various places throughout this middle-earth, the walls stand, blown by the wind, crushed by frost, the buildings snow-swept. The winehalls molder, their wielder lies deprived of joys, his peerage all perished, proud by the wall. War destroyed some, ferried along the forth-way, some a bird bore away over the high sea, another the grey wolf separated in death, another a teary-cheeked warrior hid in an earthen cave.

“And so the Shaper of Men has laid this middle-earth to waste until the ancient work of giants stood empty, devoid of the revelry of their citizens.”

Then he wisely contemplates this wall-stead and deeply thinks through this darkened existence, aged in spirit, often remembering from afar many war-slaughterings, and he speaks these words:

“Where has the horse gone? Where is the man? Where is the giver of treasure? Where are the seats at the feast? Where are the joys of the hall? Alas the bright goblet! Alas the mailed warrior! Alas the pride of princes! How the space of years has passed — it grows dark beneath the night-helm, as if it never was!

“It stands now in the track of the beloved multitude, a wall wonderfully tall, mottled with serpents— the force of ashen spears has seized its noblemen, weapons greedy for slaughter, the well-known way of the world, and the storms beat against these stony cliffs. The tumbling snows bind up the earth, the clash of winter, when the darkness comes. The night-shadows grow dark, sent down from the north, the ferocious hail-showers, in hatred of men.

All is misery-fraught in the realm of earth, the work of fortune changes the world under the heavens. Here wealth is loaned. Here friends are loaned. Here man is loaned. Here family is loaned— And this whole foundation of the earth wastes away!”

So spoke the wise man in his mind, as he sat apart in secret consultation.

A good man who keeps his troth ought never manifest his miseries too quickly from his breast, unless he knows his balm beforehand, an earl practicing his courage.

It will be well for him who seeks the favor, the comfort from our father in heaven, where a fortress stands for us all.

THE SEAFARER

I can relate the reality, a song about myself— go on about the going, how I in toilsome times often endured desperate days.

Bitter breast-cares have I abided, explored in a boat many sorrowful places, the terrible tossing of waves — where the narrow night-watch often seized me at the stem of the ship when it crashes upon the cliffs.

Oppressed by chills were my feet, bound up by frost, with cold chains, where these sorrows sighed hot about the heart — hunger tearing within the sea-wearied mind. He does not know this fact who dwells most merrily on dry land— how I, wretchedly sorrowful, lived a winter on the ice-cold sea, upon the tracks of exile, deprived of friendly kinsmen, hung with rimy icicles. Hail flies in showers.

There I heard nothing except the thrumming sea, the ice-cold waves. Sometimes the swan’s song I kept to myself as diversion, the cry of the gannet and the curlew’s voice for the laughter of men— the seagull’s singing for the drinking of mead. Storms beat the stony cliffs there, where the tern calls him with icy feathers. Very often the eagle screeches with wet feathers. No sheltering kinsfolk could comfort this impoverished spirit.

Therefore he really doesn’t believe it— he who owns the joys of life and very little of the perilous paths, living in the cities, proud and wine-flushed — how I must often endure on the briny ways wearied.

Dusky shadows darken. It snowed from the north, binding the earth in ice. Hail fell to the ground, coldest of grains. Therefore they come crashing now, the thoughts of my heart whether I should test out the profound streams, the tossing of salty waves. My mind’s desire reminds me at every moment, my spirit to outventure, that I should seek the homes of strange peoples far from here.

Therefore there is no man so proud-minded over this earth, nor so assured in his graces, nor so brave in his youth, nor so bold in his deeds, nor his lord so gracious to him that he will never have some anxiety about his sea-voyaging— about whatever the Lord wishes to do to him.

Neither is his thought with the harp, nor to the ring-taking, nor to the joys in women, nor in the hopeful expectation in the world, nor about anything else but the welling of waves— he ever holds a longing, who strives out upon the streams.

The groves take on blossoms, beautifying the cities, gardens grow more fair, the world hastens — all these things make the hurrying heart mindful, the soul to its travels, to him who so imagines on the flood-ways, to travel far away.

Likewise the cuckoo admonishes him with a sorrowful song, summer’s warden sings, pronouncing pain, bitter in the breast-hoard. Men do not know this thing, pleasure-wealthy people, what some experience who venture widest on the ways of exiles.

Therefore now my mind departs outside its thought-locks, my heart’s insides, with the ocean’s tide, across the whale’s domain, departing broadly, the corners of the earth —it comes again to me gluttonous and greedy—the lone-wing keens, whetting the heart without warning onto the deadly way, across surface of the waters.

Therefore they are hotter for me, the joys of the Lord, than this dead life, loaned on land. How could I ever believe that earthly weal will stand on its own eternally? Always one of three things in every case, will occur to obscure matters before his time is through: disease or old age or else the blade’s hatred will usurp the life from the fated, hurrying from here.

Therefore, for every man, praise from the after-speakers and the living shall be the best of eulogies that he labors after before he must go his way, performing it on earth against malice of enemies, with brave deeds, opposed to the devil, so that the children of men might acclaim him afterwards, and his praise shall live ever among the angels, forever and ever in the fruits of eternal existence, joys among the majesties.

The days have departed, all the presumption of earthly rule—there are no longer the kings or kaisers or the gold-givers such as there were, when they performed the greatest glories among them and dwelt in the most sovereign reputation. Crumbled are all these glories, their joys have departed. The weaker abide and keep hold of the world, brooking it by their busyness. The fruits are brought low. The glory of the earth elders and withers, as now do all men throughout middle-earth. Old age overtakes him, blanching his face— the greyhaired grieve. He knows his olden friend, the noble child, was given up to the ground.

Nor can the flesh-home, when the life is lost, swallow down sweetness, nor suffer sorrow, nor stir its hands, nor think with its mind. Although one’s brother may wish to strew the grave with gold for his sibling, to bury beside the dead many treasures that he would wish him to have— That gold cannot comfort him, the soul filled with sins, which he hid before now while he was alive, from the terror of God —

Mighty is the fear of the Measurer, therefore the earth shall be changed— he established the unrelenting ground, the corners of the earth and over-heaven. Foolish is he who dreads not the Lord, his death comes unexpected. Blessed is he who lives humbly, his reward comes in heaven. The Measurer endows the heart in him because he believes in its power. Man must steer a strong mind, and hold it firmly, assured among humanity, clean in his ways.

Every man must keep himself with moderation, to those beloved and those he deadly hates, even though he may wish them be filled with flames or burned up upon a pyre, his own confirmed friend. Outcomes are stronger— the Measurer mightier still—than the thoughts of any man.

Let us consider where we should possess our home, and then think about how we may come there again— and then we should strive also so that we may be allowed to do so, into those eternal beatitudes—

There life pertains to the love of the Lord, hope in heaven. Thanks be to the Holy One, so that he may honor us, the Lord of Glory, Eternal Master, for all time. Amen.

DEOR

Weland knew his torment through wyrms, a single-minded man, enduring miseries— as mates he kept sorrow and longing, wrack winter-cold. He often suffered woe after Nithhad laid him into close straits upon an excellent man willowy bone-bonds.

That passed over, so can this—

Beadohilde was never so beset about her heart for her brother’s death as about her own straits: too true she perceived that she was pregnant— She could never boldly devise what must be done about it.

That passed over, so can this —

We have learned much about Mæthhild: the affection of the Geat was without bottom. so that sorrowing love stole them from sleep.

That passed over, so can this —

Theodric possessed thirty winters’ time the city of the Mæringas. All too apparent to many…

That passed over, so can this —

We have learned of the wolven mind of Eormanric—he wielded his rule widely over the citizens of the Gothic realm. That was a grim king. Many men sat bound up by sorrows, in woe’s expectation— often they wished that his kingdom would be cast down.

That passed over, so can this —

A sorrow-anxious man sits, deprived of his joys, growing dark inside, thinking to himself that his handle of hardship seem endless. He can ponder then that throughout this world the wise Lord often renders change— to many earls he shows his grace and true profits, to some their share of woe.

I wish to speak something about myself: one time I was the poet of the Heodeningas, dear to my lord. My name was Deor. I held many winters this good office, loyal to my lord, until now Heorrenda, a man skilled in verse, received my land-rights, which before the shelter of earls had given to me.

That passed over, so can this —

WULF AND EADWACER

Possibly whoever had given a gift to my tribe— they would chew him up if he came with a company. It is not like that with us.

Wulf is on one island, I am on another. It’s strong there, surrounded by swamps. Slaughter-fierce men crowd there— they would chew him up if he came with a company. It is not like that with us.

I wondered with hope on my Wulf’s wide wanderings when there was rainy weather and I sat weeping, when the battle-bold wrapped me up in his arms, it was my delight — but it was hateful as well.

Wulf, my Wulf! My hopes for you have sickened, your seldom visits— a mourning mind—I’m not hungry—

Do you hear me, Eadwacer? Wulf bears our wretched whelp into the woods.

One may easily sever what was never bound fast, our mutual riddling…

THE WIFE’S LAMENT

I wrack this riddle about myself full miserable, my very own experience. I can speak it— what I endured in misery, after I was grown, both new and old, none greater than now. Always I suffered the torment of my wracked ways.

My lord departed at first, from his tribe here over the tossing of waves— I watched a sorrow at dawn wondering where in these lands my chieftain might be. Then I departed myself to venture, seeking his followers, a friendless wayfarer out of woeful need.

They insinuated, the kinsmen of that man, by secret thought, to separate us two so that we two, widest apart in the worldly realm, should live most hatefully—and it harrowed me.

My lord ordered me to take this grove for a home — very few dear to me in this land, almost no loyal friends.

Therefore my mind so miserable — than I met a well-suited man for myself so misfortunate and mind-sorrowing, thought kept close, plotting a crime.

Keeping cheery, we vowed quite often that none but death could separate us.

That soon changed…

it’s now as if it had never been — our friendship. I must, far and near, endure the feuding of my dearly beloved.

My husband ordered me anchored in a woody grove, under an oak-tree within this earthen cave. Ancient is the earth-hall: I am entirely longing—

Dark are the valleys, the mountains so lofty, bitter these hovels, overgrown with thorns. Shelters without joy. So many times here the disappearance of my husband seizes me with a stewing.

All my friends dwell in the dirt, I loved them while they lived, now guarding their graves, when I go forth alone in the darkness of daybreak under the oak-tree outside this hollowed earth.

There I may sit a summer-long day, where I can weep for my exiled path, my many miseries—therefore I can never rest from these my mind’s sorrowings, not from all these longings that seize me in my living.

A young man must always be sad at heart, hard in the thoughts inside, also he must keep a happy bearing — but also breast-cares, suffering never-ending grief—

May he depend only upon himself for all his worldly pleasures. May he be stained with guilt far and wide, throughout the lands of distant folk, so that my once-friend should sit under the stony cliffs, rimed by storms, my weary-minded ally, flowed around by waters in his dreary hall.

My former companion may know a great mind-sorrow— remembering too often his joyful home.

Woe be to that one who must wait for their beloved with longing.

THE RUIN

These wall-stones are wondrous — calamities crumpled them, these city-sites crashed, the work of giants corrupted. The roofs have rushed to earth, towers in ruins. Ice at the joints has unroofed the barred-gates, sheared the scarred storm-walls have disappeared— the years have gnawed them from beneath. A grave-grip holds the master-crafters, decrepit and departed, in the ground’s harsh grasp, until one hundred generations of human-nations have trod past. Subsequently this wall, lichen-grey and rust-stained, often experiencing one kingdom after another, standing still under storms, high and wide— it failed—

The wine-halls moulder still, hewn as if by weapons, penetrated [XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX]     savagely pulverized [XXXXXXXXXXXXXX]     [XXXX] shined [XXXXXXXXXX]     [XXXX] adroit ancient edifice [XXXXX]     [XXXXXXX] bowed with crusted-mud —

The strong-purposed mind was urged to a keen-minded desire in concentric circles; the stout-hearted bound wall-roots wondrously together with wire. The halls of the city once were bright: there were many bath-houses, a lofty treasury of peaked roofs, many troop-roads, many mead-halls filled with human-joys until that terrible chance changed all that.

Days of misfortune arrived—blows fell broadly— death seized all those sword-stout men—their idol-fanes were laid waste — the city-steads perished. Their maintaining multitudes fell to the earth. For that the houses of red vaulting have drearied and shed their tiles, these roofs of ringed wood. This place has sunk into ruin, been broken into heaps,

There once many men, glad-minded and gold-bright, adorned in gleaming, proud and wine-flushed, shone in war-tackle; There one could look upon treasure, upon silver, upon ornate jewelry, upon prosperity, upon possession, upon precious stones, upon the illustrious city of the broad realm.

Stone houses standing here, where a hot stream was cast in a wide welling; a wall enfolding everything in its bright bosom, where there were baths, heated at its heart. That was convenient, when they let pour forth [XXXXXXXXX] over the hoary stones countless heated streams [XXXXXXXXXXX] until the ringed pool hot [XXXXXXXXXXXXXX] where there were baths Then is [XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX]. That is a kingly thing— a house [XXXXX],

Writing Project 1: Close Reading the Past

Assignment

Description:

This writing project will focus on the “close reading” or analysis of one of the Exeter Book Elegies :

· “The Wanderer”

· “The Seafarer”

· “Deor”

· “Wulf and Eadwacer”

· “The Wife’s Lament”

· “The Ruin”

Students can select any of the above and conduct a formalist analysis; that is, they will look at the inherent features of the text in order to explain the overall effect of the work on readers. Successful essays will focus on one or more of the elements of fiction including setting, character, conflict, tone and perspective. Additionally, because these are poems, analysis should include at least one element of language (such imagery, syntax, diction, and figurative language including metaphor, symbolism, personification or allusion). 

Sources: You are not required to include any additional sources but the poem itself must be cited on your Works Cited page (i.e., you must cite the textbook; you can find the correct format for this on the student sample - see above). If you do include additional sources, please cite these using MLA conventions.