Poets Translate Poets: A Hudson Review Anthology (6 page)

for Onela never acknowledged his nephews

but struck against both of his brother’s sons.

When Eadgils caught the killer of kin,

Weostan fl ed. Woeful and friendless,

he saved that gear for seasons of strife,

foreseeing his son someday might crave

sword and corslet. He came to his kinsman,

the prince of the Geats, and passed on his heirlooms,

hoping Wiglaf would wear them with honor.

Old then, and wise, he went from the world.

Th

is war was the fi rst young Wiglaf would fi ght

helping the king. His heart would not quail

nor weapon fail as the foe would fi nd

going against him; but he made his grim mood

known to the men: “I remember the meadhall

where beer-swillers swore with many a boast

to the lord who lavished these rings on his liegemen.

We promised to pay for princely trappings

by staunchly wielding sword-blades in war

if need should arise. Now we are needed

by him who chose, from the whole of his host,

twelve for this trial, trusting our claims

as warriors worthy of wearing our blades,

bearing keen spears. Our king has come here

bent on battling the man-bane alone,

because among warriors one keeper of kinfolk

has done, undaunted, the most deeds of daring.

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But this day our lord needs dauntless defenders

so long as the fearful fi res fl ow forth.

God knows I would gladly give my own body

for fl ames to enfold with the gold-giver.

Shameful, to shoulder our shields homeward!

First we must fell this fearsome foe

and deliver the life of our weathered lord.

Is it right that one man be wrathfully racked

for his former feats, fall in this fi ght

guarding the Geats? Helm and mail-shirt

shield and blade, we both shall share.”

So speaking, he stormed through the reek of smoke,

with helmet on head, to help his lord.

“Beloved Beowulf, bear up your blade.

You pledged in your youth, powerful prince,

never to let your luster lessen

while life was left you. Now summon your strength;

stand steadfast. I shall stand with you.”

Aft er these words the worm was enraged.

For a second time the spiteful specter

fl ew at his foe, and he wreathed in fl ames

the hated human he hungered to harm.

His dreadful fi re-wind drove in a wave,

charring young Wiglaf’s shield to the boss,

nor might a byrnie bar that breath

from burning the brave spear-bearer’s breast.

Wiglaf took cover close to his kinsman,

shielded by iron when linden was cinder.

Th

en the war-king, recalling past conquests,

struck with full strength straight at the head.

His battle-sword, Naegling, stuck there and split,

shattered in combat, so sharp was the shock

A non y mou s
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to Beowulf’s great gray-mottled blade.

He never was granted the gift of a sword

as hard and strong as the hand which held it.

I have heard he broke blood-hardened brands,

so the weapon-bearer was none the better.

Th

e fearful fi re-drake, scather of strongholds,

fl ung himself forward a fi nal time,

wild with wounds yet wily and sly.

In the heat of the fray, he hurtled headlong

to fasten his fangs in the foe’s throat.

Beowulf’s life-blood came bursting forth

on those terrible tusks. Just then, I am told,

the second warrior sprang from his side,

a man born for battle proving his mettle,

keen to strengthen his kinsman in combat.

He took no heed of the hideous head

scorching his hand as he hit lower down.

Th

e sword sank in, patterned and plated;

the fl ames of the foe faltered, faded.

Th

ough gored and giddy, Beowulf gathered

strength once again and slipped out his sheath-knife,

the keen killing-blade he kept in his corslet.

Th

en the Geats’ guardian gutted the dragon,

felling that fi end with the help of his friend,

two kinsmen together besting the terror.

So should a thane succor his sovereign.

Alan Sullivan and Timothy Murphy, 2000

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M i d d l e E n g l i s h

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A non ymous Fourteen th- Cen t ury Poet

From
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

Part IV, Th

e Meeting

Now as the New Year was drawing nigh, and the night before it passed,

Daylight was driving the dark away, as the Lord above commands.

But a wild weather was working up in the world outside their doors:

Th

e clouds emptied their cold contents keenly down on the earth,

With cruelty enough from the north to torment the naked fl esh.

Th

e snow fell snittering sharply, nipping the wild creatures;

Th

e whistling wind whipped down upon them shrilly from the heights,

And fi lled the hollows of every dale up full with heavy drift s.

Th

e knight was listening closely to this as he lay awake in his bed,

And though he locked his eyelids shut, he got very little sleep:

From each cock crow throughout the night he could tell what hour it was.

Hurriedly he got out of bed before the break of day,

For there was light enough from a lamp that was glowing in his room.

He called out to his chamberlain, who promptly answered him;

He bade him bring his chain-mail shirt, and saddle up his horse.

Th

e man obediently got up, and fetched the garments for him,

And began to get Sir Gawain dressed, in most resplendent style.

First he put on his warmest clothes, which would ward off the cold,

And next he brought the armor out that had been carefully stored:

Both the belly piece and all the plate polished bright and clean,

Th

e rust on the rings of his costly chain-mail shirt had been rubbed off ,

And all gleamed fresh as when fi rst forged, for which he was keen to

thank

Th

em all.

When he had donned each piece—

All had been polished well;

Unmatched from here to Greece,

He said, “Bring my steed from his stall.”

A non y mou s F ou rt e e n t h- C e n t u ry P oet
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While the noble knight was being arrayed in his most handsome clothes—

Th

e surcoat draping over his armor adorned with the pentangle badge

Stitched onto velvet, framed around with precious, potent stones

Inlaid along the embroidered seams, setting it off so well;

And on the inside the coat was beautifully lined with the fi nest fur—

Yet he did not leave the lace behind that had been the lady’s gift ;

Th

at present Gawain did not forget, for the good of his own self.

Aft er he had belted the sword above his powerful hips,

He wrapped the love-token carefully two times around his waist;

Quickly that knight, and delightedly, wound it about his middle.

Th

e girdle woven of green silk well suited that splendid man,

Against the royal red of the cloth, which looked so rich in itself.

But he wasn’t putting this girdle on because of its costliness,

Nor out of pride in its shiny pendants, however polished they were,

Nor even for the glittering gold that glinted upon the fringe,

But in order that he might save his life when he was obliged to submit,

To face, without dispute, what he would take from the sword’s or knife’s

Sharp stroke.

Once the brave man was set,

He hurried out and spoke

His thanks to all he met,

To all the noble folk.

Th

en Gringolet was made ready to ride, that was an enormous horse

Th

at had been stabled comfortably and in a secure fashion:

Th

at proud horse, due to his fi t condition, wanted to gallop now.

Th

e knight walked out to where he stood, and gazed on his glistening coat,

And soberly he said to himself, swearing it on his oath,

“Here inside this moat is a company setting their minds on honor:

May joy come to the lord who maintains and manages them all;

And as for the delightful lady, may she have love in her life!

If out of charity they can receive and cherish a guest so kindly,

And off er such hospitality, may the Good Lord reward them

Who holds the heavens up on high—and also all of you!

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And if I should stay alive on earth, for any length of time,

I would quickly pay you some recompense, if I were able to.”

Th

en the knight stepped into the stirrup, and swung astride the horse;

His servant off ered him his shield, which he settled on his shoulder,

And he dug his spurs into Gringolet, kicking his gilded heels,

And the horse started forward over the stones, no longer standing still,

To prance.

His man was mounted then

Who bore his spear and lance.

“Th

is castle I commend

To Christ against mischance!”

Th

e bridge was let down for him to pass, and the broad gates in the wall

Were unbarred, swung open without delay, all the way back on both halves.

Th

e knight rapidly blessed himself and passed across the planks,

Th

anking the porter who kept the gates, who knelt before the prince—

He wished the knight “Good day” and prayed that God would save Gawain—

And he went on his way accompanied by a single guide

To teach him the turns by which to reach at last that perilous place

Where he was destined to receive the grievous, terrible stroke.

Th

ey bent and stooped beneath bare boughs along the hillside slopes;

Th

ey clambered along below the cliff s where the cold was clinging close.

Th

e heavens were holding high above, but were threatening underneath;

Th

e mist was mizzling on the moor and melting on the mountains;

Each of the hilltops had a hat, a huge mantle of mist.

Th

e brooks were boiling and foaming, bursting over their banks,

White water shattered against the sides, as they made their way downhill.

Th

e route was wild and meandering that they followed through the woods,

Until it would soon be time, in that season, for the sun to break

From night.

Th

ey were on a high hilltop;

On all sides snow lay white;

Th

e guide with him called, “Stop!”

Abruptly, to the knight.

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“For I have brought you here, sir, at the appointed time,

And now you are not far at all from that noteworthy place

Th

at you have sought and asked about so very particularly.

But I shall tell you the truth, my lord, since now I know you well,

And you are one man on this earth whom I regard most highly:

If only you’d act on my advice, it would be much better for you.

Th

e place you are pressing forward to is held to be perilous;

A man lives in that wasteland, the worst man in the world,

For he is strong and stern and grim and above all loves striking blows,

And in his massiveness more of a man than any other on earth;

His body is bigger than four of the best and biggest knights to be found

In Arthur’s house—he is bigger even than Hector or any other—

And he is in charge of all mischance that happens at the Green Chapel,

For nobody passes by that place, however proud in arms,

But he will batter him to death with a blow from his strong hand,

For he is a man without restraint, and has no use for mercy:

Whether it be a churl or a chaplain that’s riding by the chapel,