A strange creature ran on a rippling road;
Its cut was wild, its body bowed,
Four feet under belly, eight on its back,
Two wings, twelve eyes, six heads, one track.
It cruised the waves decked out like a bird, 5
But was more—the shape of a horse, man,
Dog, bird, and the face of a woman—
Weird riddle-craft riding the drift of words—
Now sing the solutions to what you’ve heard.
35
I saw a creature with its belly behind
Huge and swollen, handled by a servant,
A hard, muscled man who struggled so
That the bulge in its belly burst through its eye:
Its passion—gorge and spill through death, 5
Then rise and fill with second breath
To sire a son and father self.
36
This strange creature, a stripling boy,
Sought sweet pleasure pumping joy.
His nourishing Bess gave him four
White fountains—murmur and roar—
To the boy’s delight. A bystander said, 5
“Alive, that boy will break the downs;
Dead, he’ll bind and wrap us round.”
37
Writings reveal this creature’s plain
Presence on middle-earth, marked by man
For many years. Its magic, shaping power
Passes knowing. It seeks the living
One by one, winds an exile’s road, 5
Wanders homeless without blame, never there
Another night. It has no hands or feet
To touch the ground, no mouth to speak
With men or mind to know the books
Which claim it is the least of creatures 10
Shaped by nature. It has no soul, no life,
Yet it moves everywhere in the wide world.
It has no blood or bone, yet carries comfort
To the children of men on middle-earth.
It has never reached heaven and cannot reach 15
Hell—but must live long through the word
And will of the king of creation’s glory.
It would take too long to tell its fate
Through the world’s web: that would be
A wonder of speaking. Each man’s way 20
Of catching the creature with words is true.
It has no limbs, yet it lives!
If you can solve a riddle quickly,
Say what this creature is called. 38
Old is the shaper, eternal the lord
Who rules this earth, the power of world-
Pillars, prince and king, the guardian
Of all, one real and reckoning God,
Who moves and holds heaven and earth 5
In his circling song. He shaped my power
In the earth’s beginning, in the world’s
Unwinding song set me always awakening,
Sleepless—suddenly bound to night,
My eyes close down. He powers middle-earth 10
With a mighty word—in his charge I wind
The world’s embrace. The quick breath of spirit
Startles me—I am ghost-shy, yet always
Bolder than the wild boar bristling at bay.
No bearer of banners on this broad earth 15
Can surpass me except God alone,
Who holds and rules the high heaven.
My scent is stronger than incense or rose,
Blooming beauty of the flower distilled,
More delicate than the lily curled in a field 20
Of light—wisps, blossoms, man’s delight.
I am sweeter than the musk of the fragrant nard,
Sharper than the stench of the black swamp.
I bind all turnings under heaven’s roof,
Guide and sustain as God first wrought, 25
Hold shape and form, rule thick and thin.
I am higher than heaven—at the point-king’s command,
I watch and wield his world-treasure,
The great shaper’s riddle. I see and sense
All things under earth, the hell-caves 30
Of suffering souls. I am much older
Than the universe, than middle-earth might be,
Yet born a child from yesterday’s womb,
Glorious to men. I am brighter than rings
And bracelets of gold with their delicate threads. 35
I am fouler than wood-rot or the reeking slime
Of seaweed washed on the shore. I am broader
Than earth, wider than the green, billowing plain.
A hand may seize, three fingers wrap round me.
I am harder and colder than the bitter frost, 40
The sword of morning that falls on the ground.
I am hotter than Vulcan’s flickering fire,
Sweeter than bee-bread laced with honey,
Galled as wormwood gray in the forest.
I can gorge like an old giant—bloated, 45
Bellied—or live sustained without food.
I can fly higher than pernex, eagle, or hawk,
Outstrip the zephyr, swiftest of winds—
I am slower than swamp-frog, snail, rainworm,
Quicker than the skittering child of dung 50
We call beetle. I am heavier than gray stone
Or a clump of lead, lighter than the bug
That dry-foots the water, harder than flint
That strikes fire from steel, softer than down
That flutters in the wind, broader than the earth, 55
Wider than the green, billowing plain.
I weave round the world a glittering cloak,
A kind embrace. No creature catches
My pace and power—I am highest of unfathomed
Miracles wrought by God, who alone restrains 60
With eternal might my thundering power.
I am stronger and grander than the mighty whale,
Dark watcher, guardian of the ocean floor.
I am feebler than the handworm that the sons
Of men dig from the skin with shrewd skill. 65
My head is not wound with delicate curls
Of light hair—the lord has left my face,
Head, skin—bare. Now light curls, locks
Shine, hair blooms, shoulders down—hangs
Like a miracle. I am bigger and fatter 70
Than the mast-fed pig who gorges on beech-wood,
Grunts, roots, snuffles up joy, so that now
He
* * *
39
* * *
This mother sustains the myriad creatures
Of middle-earth—the brightest, the best,
The darkest, the dearest—the children of men
May joyfully own or usefully rule
In this wide world. Without her children 5
We would not survive. How she mothers
And who she is remains a riddle. The wise
And worldly ought to know this creature’s name.
40
Two feathered flappers came together,
Panting and pushing in the open air.
The bright-haired girl, flushed and proud,
Grew big in the belly if the work was good.
Now scholars may need these letters to know 5
What I’m talking about: two of N,
One bright Æ, two of A, and two of H.
The tumblers twist to the letters’ key
As the treasure-door swings open,
So that solvers can see in the heart 10
Of the riddle, craft and play. Carousing men
May know the names of the low-down lovers!
41
A noble guest of great lineage dwells
In the house of man. Grim hunger
Cannot harm him, nor feverish thirst,
Nor age, nor illness. If the servant
Of the guest who rules, serves well 5
On the journey, they will find together
Bliss and well-being, a feast of fate.
If the slave will not as a brother be ruled
By a lord he should fear and follow,
Then both will suffer and sire a family 10
Of sorrows when, springing from the world,
They leave the bright bosom of one kinswoman,
Mother and sister, who nourished them.
Let the man who knows noble words
Say what the guest and servant are called. 15
42
A small miracle hangs near a man’s thigh,
Full under folds. It is stiff, strong,
Bold, brassy, and pierced in front.
When a young lord lifts his tunic
Over his knees, he wants to greet 5
With the hard head of this hanging creature
The hole it has long come to fill.
43
I heard of something rising in a corner,
Swelling and standing up, lifting its cover.
The proud-hearted bride grabbed at that boneless
Wonder with her hands; the prince’s daughter
Covered that swelling thing with a swirl of cloth. 5
44
A man sat down to feast with two wives,
Drank wine with two daughters, supped with two sons.
The daughters were sisters with their own two sons,
Each son a favored, first-born prince.
The father of each prince sat with his son, 5
Also the uncle and nephew of each.
In the room’s reach was a family of five!
45
A moth ate songs—wolfed words!
That seemed a weird dish—that a worm
Should swallow, dumb thief in the dark,
The songs of a man, his chants of glory,
Their place of strength. That thief-guest 5
Was no wiser for having swallowed words.
46
This bright circle spoke to men,
The tongueless treasure without voice—
The ring wrought power in silence saying,
“Save me, Healer of souls!” Let those
Who read the red-gold’s silent song-craft 5
Catch the incantation, solve the song,
And give their souls to God as the ring said.
47
Bound in place, deaf and dumb,
Making a meal of gifts that come
From a man’s hand, she swallows daily
Sustaining treasures dearer than gold,
Brought by a servant, a dark thane, 5
Sought by kings, queens, princes—
For benefit and pleasure. What race
Of shapers makes such treasure for the dark,
Dumb lady to swallow is beyond my measure.
48
On earth this warrior is strangely born
Of two dumb creatures, drawn gleaming
Into the world, bright and useful to men.
The scourge of warriors, the gift of foes,
It is tended, kept, covered by women— 5
Strong and savage, it serves well,
A gentle slave to firm masters
Who mind its measure and feed it fairly
With a careful hand. To these it brings
Warm blessings; to those who let it run 10
Wild, it brings a grim reward.
49
I saw four weird fellows traveling
Together as one. This creature seemed swift,
Bolder than birds—left black tracks.
It flew through air and dove under waves.
The warrior who winds all four over gold- 5
Plated roads pushed restlessly on.
50
I saw two hard captives carried,
Prisoners bound together as one
Punishing creature, under the roof
Of a hall. Close to one captive worked
A Welshwoman—the strong dark slave 5
Wielded power over both in their bonds.
51
I saw a tree towering in the forest,
Bright with branches, a blooming wood,
Basking in joy. It was nurtured by water,
Nursed by soil, till strong in years,
Its fate snapped, turned savage. 5
It suffered slash, rip, wound—
Was stripped in misery, chained dumb,
Its body bound, its head wrapped
In dark trim. Now it muscles a road
With head-might for another grim warrior— 10
Together they plunder the hoard in a storm
Of battle. The first warrior swings
Through dense threat, head-strong,
While the second follows, fierce and swift.
52
The young man came over to the corner
Where he knew she stood. He stepped up,
Eager and agile, lifted his tunic
With hard hands, thrust through her girdle
Something stiff, worked on the standing 5
One his will. Both swayed and shook.
The young man hurried, was sometimes useful,
Served well, but always tired
Sooner than she, weary of the work.
Under her girdle began to grow 10
A hero’s reward for laying on dough.
53
In the high hall of heroes where men
Sat drinking, I saw four splendors
Borne across the floor—a jeweled tree,
Fine grain of the forest, a share of silver,
Bright twisted gold, the shape and symbol 5
Of the rood that raised us like a ladder
To the high heavens before Christ stormed
The walls of hell. The wood’s lineage
I sing before men—maple and oak,
Burnished holly, hard yew—together they serve 10
And share one name—wolfshead-tree,
The outlaw’s perch. This creature welcomes
Its lord’s weapon, hall-gift and treasure,
The gold-hilted sword. If you can with courage
Grasp this riddle, say what the wood is called. 15
54
I saw the shuttling wood wound a strange,
Struggling creature, slash it brightly
With battle-colors. A board struck
And small spears stuck into the creature
While the bound wood wound fast, 5
Cinching its woe. One of the creature’s
Feet was fixed, the other furious—
Swinging high and swaying low.
A bright tree stood by, spun with light
Leaves. What was left by the spears was borne 10
To the hall floor where warriors sat drinking.
55
The wind carries small creatures
Over hill-slopes and headlands: dark-
Coated, black-bodied, bursting with song—
They chirm and clamor like a troop on wing,
Winding their way to wooded cliff-walls, 5
Sometimes to the halls of men—singing a name-song.
56
Mighty one-foot works in a field,
Moves not far, rides not much,
Sails not through the sun-bright air,
Heaves not up on the hauling ship,
The studded wood—yet it serves its lord. 5
It swings heavy tail, small head,
Long tongue, no tooth—pumping iron,
It pokes in a pit! It sucks no water,
Swallows no food—yet it jaws deep
Water into the air, catch and carry. 10
It boasts no spirit, life-gift of the Lord,
Yet it serves well. In the sweep of its name
Are three rune-staves, and Rad comes first.
57
I saw heart-strong, mind-sharp men
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Gazing in a hall at a golden ring.
Who turned the ring prayed to God
For abiding peace, the hall-guests’
Grace. The bright circle of gold 5
Spoke the name of the Savior of good
Men to the gathering, proclaimed to the eye
And mind of man the most glorious token,
Spoke though dumb of the suffering king
To all who could see in its bodied wounds 10
The hard carving of Christ. An unfulfilled
Prayer has no power in heaven; the dark
Soul will not find the city of saints,
The throne of power, the camp of God.
Let the man who knows how the wounds 15
Of the strange ring spoke as it passed round
The hall—twisting, turning in the hands
Of proud men—explain the riddle.
THE WIFE’S LAMENT
The Wife’s Lament has been read as a riddle, an allegory of the Church’s longing for Christ, a retainer’s lament for his lost lord, a speaking sword, and even the cry of a lost soul speaking out from beyond the grave. Scholars today mostly agree that it is a poem of love and lament, spoken by a woman who has lost her husband, who is also her lord. Like other Old English elegies, this poem begins as a heartfelt cry, moves through a struggle for consolation, and ends as a generalized piece of gnomic wisdom. The speaker recalls that her husband has left her for unknown reasons. Some plotting involving kinsmen has taken place, and he has fled. She has discovered that he was feuding with unknown people or possibly against her and plotting murder. She desperately remembers their love, but this memory increases her sense of loss and pain. In the end she tries to generalize her suffering to include all people, especially her husband. The speaker, however, doesn’t know why her husband has left, and because of this uncertainty, she doesn’t know whether to pity him or to curse him. The generalizations at the end of the poem allow her to do both. If he is faultless and suffering, he joins her in grief and deserves pity and consolation. If he has been plotting against her or has simply left her out of lack of love, he deserves the curse she is uttering under her breath.
The Wife’s Lament
I tell this story from my grasp of sorrow—
I tear this song from a clutch of grief.
My stretch of misery from birth to bed rest
Has been unending, no more than now.
My mind wanders—my heart hurts. 5
My husband, my lord, left hearth and home,
Crossing the sea-road, the clash of waves.
My heart heaved each dawn, not knowing
Where in the world my lord had gone.
I followed, wandering a wretched road, 10
Seeking some service, knowing my need
For a sheltering home. I fled from woe.
His cruel kinsmen began to plot,
Scheming in secret to split us apart.
They forced us to live like exiles 15
The Complete Old English Poems Page 65