There is so much literature that Americans are ignoring. These gems, as it were, are at the heart of our culture. They must not be lost! In the next few weeks, I will review a few of these gold nuggets.
The first is the Anglo-Saxon long narrative poem SEAFARER author unknown.
It was in A.D. 449 that the Jutes, from Denmark, invaded land previously conquered by the Romans and earlier by the Britons, Celts, and Druids. Following the Jutes came the Angles and Saxons. The origins of the Anglo-Saxon peoples are obscure. Scholars believe that they inhabited southern Swed en, the Danish peninsula, and northern Germany (between the Ems River on the west, the Oder River on the east, and the Harz Mountains on the south). The Anglo-Saxons created an English civilization that lasted until 1066 A.D., when William the Conqueror, from Normandy, France, conquered England at the Battle of Hastings. Who were the Anglo-Saxons? They were a Germanic people who loved epic legends and stories about the sea. They loved a good fight but also had a highly developed feeling for beauty. The Anglo-Saxons loved to describe rippling brooks and stunning sunsets. They dominated England’s culture for almost a century.
“True is the tale that I tell of my travels . . .†is the beginning of one of the oldest pieces of literature in the English language (although one would not recognize the languageâ€â€it is closer to contemporary German). “The Seafarer,†however, written by an unknown Anglo-Saxo n, is quite contemporary in its magnitude of feeling. It is an elegy. Elegies are common in Old English poems. They lament the loss of worldly goods, glory, or human companionship. A contemporary elegy, for instance, might be a story-song performed by the contemporary Christian musician Carmen. One Anglo-Saxon poem, “The Wanderer,†is narrated by a man, deprived of lord and kinsmen, whose journeys lead him to the realization that there is stability and hope only in the afterlife. “The Seafarer†is similar, but its journey motif more explicitly symbolizes the speaker’s spiritual yearnings. In this sense it is Judeo-Christian: Moses and the Children of Israel wander in the wilderness, too. The journey motif is common in Western literature.
In the Old Testament, Moses and the children of Israel wander in the wilderness. But they are not lost. God is leading them.
The Seafarer
This tale is true, and mine. It tells
How the sea took me, swept me back
And forth in sorrow and fear and pain,
Showed me suffering in a hundred ships,
In a thousand ports, and in me. It tells
Of smashing surf when I sweated in the cold
Of an anxious watch, perched in the bow
As it dashed under cliffs. My feet were cast
In icy bands, bound with frost,
With frozen chains, and hardship groaned
Around my heart. Hunger tore
At my sea-weary soul. No man sheltered
On the quiet fairness of earth can feel
how wretched I was, drifting through winter
On an ice-cold sea, whirled in sorrow,
Alone in a world blown clear of love,
Hung with icicles. The hail storms flew.
The only sound was the roaring sea,
the freezing waves. The song of the swan
Might serve for pleasure, the cry of the sea-fowl,
The death-noise of birds instead of laughter,
The mewing of gulls instead of mead.
Storms beat on the rocky cliffs and were echoed
By icy-feathered terns and the eagle’s screams;
No kinsmen could offer comfort there,
To a soul left drowning in desolation.
And who could believe, knowing but
The passion of cities, swelled proud with wine
And no taste of misfortune, how often, how wearily
I put myself back on the paths of the sea.
Night would blacken; it would snow from the north ..
Frost bound the earth and hail would fall,
The coldest seeds. And how my heart
Would begin to beat, knowing once more
The salt waves tossing and the towering sea!
The time for journeys would come and my soul
Called me eagerly out, sent me over
The horizon, seeking foreigner’s homes.
But there isn’t a man on earth so proud,
So born to greatness, so bold with his youth,
Grown so brave, or so graced by God,
That he feels no fear as the sails unfurl,
Wondering what Fate has willed and will do.
No harps ring in his heart, no rewards,
No passion for women, no worldly pleasures,
Nothing, only the ocean’s heave;
But longing wraps itself around him.
Orchards blossom, the towns bloom,
Fields grow lovely as the world springs fresh,
And all these admonish that willing mind
Leaping to journeys, always set
In thoughts traveling on a quickening tide.
So summer’s sentinel, the cuckoo, sings
In his murmuring voice, and our hearts mourn
As he urges. Who could understand,
In ignorant ease, what we others suffer
As the paths of exile stretch endlessly on?
And yet my heart wanders away,
My soul roams with the sea, the whales’
Home, wandering to the widest corners
Of the world, returning ravenous with desire,
Flying solitary, screaming, exciting me
To the open ocean, breaking oaths
On the curve of a wave.
Thus the joys of God
Are fervent with life, where life itself
Fades quickly into the earth. The wealth
Of the world neither reaches to Heaven nor remains.
No man has ever faced the dawn
Certain which of Fate’s three threats
Would fall: illness, or age, or an enemy’s
Sword, snatching the life from his soul.
The praise the living pour on the dead
Flowers from reputation: plant < /div>
An earthly life of profit reaped
Even from hatred and rancor, of bravery
Flung in the devil’s face, and death
Can only bring you earthly praise
And a song to celebrate a place
with the angels, life eternally blessed
In the hosts of Heaven.
The days are gone
When the kingdoms of earth flourished in glory;
Now there are no rulers, no emperors,
No givers of gold, as once there were,
When wonderful things were worked among them
And they lived in lordly magnificence.
Those powers have vanished, those pleasures are dead.
The weakest survives and the world continues,
Kept spinning by toil. All glory is tarnished.
The world’s honor ages and shrinks,
Bent like the men who mold it. Their faces
Blanch as time advances, their beards
Wither and they mourn the memory of friends.
The sons of princes, sown in the dust.
The soul stripped of its flesh knows nothing
Of sweetness or sour, feels no pain,
Bends neither its hand nor its brain. A brother
Opens his palms and pours down gold
On his kinsmen’s grave, strewing his coffin
With treasures intended for Heaven, but nothing
Golden shakes the wrath of God
For a soul overflowing with sin, and nothing
Hidden on earth rises to Heaven.
We all fear God. He turns the earth,
He set it swinging firmly in space,
Gave life to the world and light to the sky.
Anglo-Saxon poetry was spoken before it was written. Poems were memorized by scops who wandered around the countryside chanting their poems in castles and mead halls.
Death leaps at the fools who forget their God.
He who lives humbly has angels from Heaven
To carry him courage and strength and belief.
A man must conquer pride, not kill it,
Be firm with his fellows, chaste for himself,
Treat all the world as the world deserves,
With love or with hate but never with harm,
Though an enemy seek to scorch him in hell,
Or set the flames of a funeral pyre
Under his lord. Fate is stronger
And God mightier than any man’s mind.
Our thoughts should turn to where our home is,
Consider the ways of coming there,
Then strive for sure pe rmission for us
To rise to that eternal joy,
That life born in the love of God
And the hope of Heaven. Praise the Holy
Grace of Him who honored us,
Eternal, unchanging creator of earth. Amen.
–From James P. Stobaugh, BRITISH LITERATURE (Broadman & Holman, 2005).
