screamers of war they left behind; the raven to enjoy, the black raven with the pointed beak, the hoarse toad, the eagle famishing for flesh, the greedy battle-hawk, and that yellow beast, the wolf of the wood. Another war-song, The Fight at Maldon (A.D. 991), is similar; but it differs from the others in being the record not of victory, but of defeat. I cannot close this brief notice of the war-poetry of the Anglo-Saxons without speaking of another famous song, which, though written in another tongue and belonging strictly to another country and another literature, originated in an event that occurred in England probably in the eighth century. I know of nothing which illustrates more vividly the warlike fury, the fearless exultation, the intense fatalism, so characteristic of both Saxons and Danes. It shows, too, that the songs and poetic imagery of German and Scandinavian must have had a common origin, doubtless in the pagan legends such as have been preserved in the Edda and in the northern sagas. The Norse viking, Ragnar Lodbrok, having made an unsuccessful descent upon the coast of Northumbria, was taken prisoner by King Ella and thrown into a dungeon filled with vipers and poisonous snakes. A song purporting to have been composed and sung by him while enduring the fearful agonies of death was for a long time current and very popular in Norse literature. It was a poem of considerable length, consisting of twenty-nine strophes or stanzas. The following extracts will suffice here: We struck with our swords in the time when yet young; I went towards the east to prepare the repast of blood for the wolves, and in the great combat wherein I sent the people of Helsinghie in crowds to the palace of Odin. Thence our vessels bore us to the mouth of the Vistula, where our lances pierced the cuirasses, and our swords broke the bucklers. We struck with our swords on the day when I saw hundreds of men prostrate on the sand near a high promontory of England; a dew of blood dropped from our swords; the arrows whistled as they went seeking the helmets. We struck with our swords; and now I feel that men are the slaves of destiny, and obey the decrees of the spirits who preside over their birth. Never did I think that death would come to me through this Ella, when I urged my vessels so far across the waves, and gave such banquets to the wild beasts. But I smile with pleasure when I consider that a place is reserved for me in the halls of Odin, and that soon, seated there at the great banquettable, we shall drink flowing draughts of mead in our cups of horn. We struck with our swords in fifty and one combats; I doubt whether among men there is a king more famous than I. From my youth I have shed blood and desired an end like this. The Valkyries sent by Odin to meet me call to me and invite me; I go, seated among the foremost, to drink mead with the gods. The hours of my life are passing away; I shall die laughing.* Such was the war-poetry of the Anglo-Saxons; and their religious poetry differed from it mainly in the subjects treated. The same tone and sentiment prevail in both; and, in both, all the peculiarities of character which distinguish our sturdy forefathers are vividly portrayed. The The religious poetry of the Anglo-Saxons began with Cadmon, who, indeed, was the first true English writer; for the poems written before his time are not native to England-they belong to the race, but not to the soil. Venerable Bede tells us that, although many writers tried to imitate Caedmon, none could vie with him in the making of religious poems; "for he did not learn the art of poetry from men, nor of men, but from God." The following is the story of the miraculous inspiration of this the oldest of English poets: Cadmon was engaged in some capacity, either as servant or tenant, at the famous abbey of Hilda, at Whitby, in Northumberland. According to Bede's account, he was ignorant and unlearned, and knew nothing of the art of music. When he sat in company in the great feast-hall, *Sharon Turner's History of the Anglo-Saxons. and the harp was passed from hand to hand, and all were expected to sing and play in turn, he was in the habit of excusing himself on account of his ignorance of music. One night, having thus left the feast and his noisy companions, he went to the stables where it was his duty to watch the cattle; and there, pondering upon the matter, and no doubt yearning for a form of song higher and better than the rude melodies of the banquet-hall, he fell asleep; and while he slept he dreamed that some one came to him and said: "Cadmon, sing me something." Cædmon answered, "I cannot sing, and it was for this reason that I left the banquet-hall." Then said the one who had come to him, "But you must sing!" "What shall I sing?" asked Cadmon. "Sing the beginning of things," was the answer. Then Cædmon began at once to sing verses in praise of the Creator: Now must we glorify The Guardian of heaven's kingdom, The Maker's might, And his mind's thought, The work of the worshiped Father When of his wonders, each one, The ever-living Lord Ordered the origin. He erst created Heaven as a high roof, Then this mid-world * Hadley's Translation. When Cadmon awoke, he remembered the verses which he had sung in his dream, and he made others like them. In the morning he went to the steward of the abbey and told him of his dream and of the gift of song which had so strangely been bestowed upon him. And when the Abbess Hilda heard his story, and the verses which he had composed, she was highly pleased, and said that surely heavenly grace had been conferred upon him. From that time until the close of his life, Cadmon devoted himself to the study of the Scriptures and to the composition of sacred songs. All of his subjects were taken from the Bible. He sang of the creation, of the war in heaven, of the fall of Satan. He wrote also in paraphrase the history of Israel, the book of Daniel, and the life of Christ. The following short extracts, more than any description, will illustrate the peculiar power and the rugged beauty by which Cadmon's poems are characterized: There was not yet, save cavern shade, Aught made; but the wide earth Stood deep and dim, to its Lord strange, Idle, and useless; on which with his eyes gazed The firm-minded King, and the places beheld. Void of joys; saw the dark cloud Lower in eternal night, swart under heaven, Wan and waste, until this world-creation Through word of the Wonder-King was formed; Here first the eternal God, The Protector of all peoples, shaped heaven and earth, Reared the heavens, and this roomy land Established, with strong might, The Almighty Sovereign. Earth was then As to grass ungreen. Wan waves Covered the ocean, far and wide, In swart eternal night. One would think that Milton must have borrowed some of his inspiration from Cadmon's description of the war in heaven, and that Paradise Lost is but the finished picture of which Cadmon's paraphrase is the sketch. Compare these two extracts: Satan then with words quoth: "How very unlike is this narrow place To that other that we ere knew, High in heaven's kingdom, which my lord to me presented. To throw us thus in fire to bottom Of hell the hot, and, taking heaven's kingdom, To destine it for man's abode. This to me is worst of sorrows, That Adam, who from earth was wrought, Shall sit on my strong throne, And be himself in bliss, while we Suffer this punishment, this grief in hell! Wo lo! had I my hands' power, And might one hour be free, One winter hour, then with these hosts, I- Cords of chain oppress: I am kingdomless! Fast seized! Here is mickle fire Above and underneath! I never saw A loathlier landscape! The fire ne'er smoulders These terrible ropes, have my departure hindered, Hell-doors are closed; so I may not in any way CEDMON'S Genesis, 356-385. "Is this the region, this the soil, the clime," That we must change for heaven; this mournful gloom |
