The Silver Stag (By Kathleen Raine)

My silver stag is fallen – on the grass
Under the birch-trees he lies, my king of the woods,
That I followed on the mountain, over the swift streams,
He is gone… under the leaves, under the past.

On the horizon of the dawn he stood,
The target of my eager slight; that shone
Oh from the sun, or from my kindled heart –
Outlined in sky, shaped on the infinite.

What, so desiring, was my will with him,
What wished-for union of blood or thought
In single passion held us, hunter and victim?
Already gone, when into the branched woods I pursued him.

Mine he is now, my desired, my awaited, my beloved,
Quiet he lies, as I touch the contours of his proud head,
Mine, this horror, this carrion of the wood,
Already melting underground, into the air, out of this world.

Oh, the stillness, the peace about me
As the garden lives on, the flowers bloom,
The fine grass shimmers, the flies burn,
And the stream, the silver stream, runs by.

Lying for the last time down on the green ground
In farewell gesture of self-love, softly he curved
To rest the delicate foot that is in my hand,
Empty as a moth’s discarded crysalis.

My bright yet blind desire, your end was this
Death, and my winged heart murderous
Is the world’s broken heart, buried in his,
Between those two antlers starts the crucifix.

St. Columbanus: Peregrinus Par Excellence
By (Brendan) Rob O’Gorman

Today, November 23rd, is the feast day of Columbanus, that great Celtic Saint known for his ‘pilgrimage for Christ’ (peregrinatio pro Christo). Born near Leinster, Ireland in 540 AD, he was a contemporary of St. Columba (521-597 AD). Columbanus is known for his establishment of a number of monasteries on the European continent. He first began his vocation by placing himself under the direction of Comgall at Bangor. In doing so, he was joining the most austere branch of Celtic/Irish monastic training. After long years of prayer and education, Columbanus and twelve companions left Ireland, probably around 591 AD. His lifelong and voluntary commitment to exile from his homeland is an outstanding example of peregrinatio pro Christo, or “pilgrimage for Christ” (see a detailed explanation below), whereby a monk would cut himself off from his own extended family as an act of ascetical discipline. Travelling into (what is now) France, Germany, Switzerland and Italy, he and his companions established a string of monasteries on the European continent, including Luxeuil, Gallen and Bobbio, thus playing a major role in re-igniting the Christian faith during the so-called ‘Dark Ages’. However, the monasteries were but a bi-product of something much deeper: the intoxicating desire for deification.

Unlike many other Celtic monks, he left a number of written works, including a monastic ‘rule’ (the Regula Monachorum) which incorporated the values of silence, prayer and fasting. It was a general rule though, and was mainly concerned with the interior dispositions of the monk and the central tenets of Celtic monasticism. It thus differed from the detailed regulations laid down by the later Rule of St. Benedict. But his ‘rule’ played a considerable role in the subsequent development of other monastic rules, including the Concordia Regularum by Benedict of Aniane. Courageous, outspoken, scholarly, unyielding, quick to enter an argument, severe on his fellow monks and on himself, he could also show tenderness and write lyric poetry of a high quality. His extant sermons incorporated much of his wandering tendencies and were of a deeply mystical nature:

“Human life… you are so fleeting, shifting, dangerous, brief and uncertain … dissolved like a shadow, a mirage, a cloud, a nothingness, or an emptiness. Mortal life is but a way, a shadow … like a dream we must travel through so anxiously, so carefully, so hastily, that all those with understanding should press on, like wayfarers, to their true homeland, untroubled at what has been and concerned as to what is to come…” ~ Excerpt from Sermon Five

Some have called him “one of the Fathers of Europe.” But Columbanus’ ministry was not so much about buildings (much less infrastructure or parochial institutions); his ministry is a stark reminder to us that (like Abraham), we are people of ‘The Way’ – living in tents, moving ever forward into the mystery of God.   Of all the Irish peregrini on the continent during this period, there can scarcely be any doubt that Columbanus had the most widespread and most lasting impact. Establishing his last monastery at Bobbio, Italy, he died (or ‘crossed over the river’) on 23 November 615 AD. (Bobbio was later influential in informing/developing the Franciscan Order and its legendary love of God’s Creation).
Photo Below: A Statue of St. Columbanus in Luxeiul, France. (Note the Celtic tonsure and “follow me” stance.)

Pilgrimage (Peregrinatio) In the Celtic Tradition

The penitential concept of peregrinatio is both striking and profound. It was the ultimate ascetic fulfillment of seeking a place apart. Largely an act of self-renunciation – like Abraham – it was leaving one’’s earthly homeland as a pilgrim in order to find a heavenly homeland as found in Genesis 12:1, Matthew 10:37. Another author attempts to clarify this by adding that “it consisted of a willingness to let go of or die to one’’s home, or the place that was comfortably familiar, in order to find new life”. Through the writings of John Cassian and Athanasius, these Celtic monks were inspired to establish their own ‘‘desert(s) in the ocean’’; hence sites like Skellig Michael, off the coast of Co. Kerry, Ireland. These longings, to somehow find a ‘‘spiritual homeland’’, can be traced in part to the “white martyrdom” found in the Cambrai Homily, itself written before c. 650 AD, together with earlier works by the Desert Fathers/Mothers. Moreover, while other accounts from the 7th century are important to note, this practice of self-exile is perhaps best exemplified in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles of 891 AD, which tells the well-known tale of three Irishmen off the Cornwall coast, who declared: “[We] stole away because we wanted for the love of God to be on pilgrimage, we cared not where…”

This text has always had a profound impact on me – for to become ‘lost’ was to become ‘found’. But of all the word-concepts mentioned in similar voyaging texts such as The Voyage of Bran, or St. Brendan’s Navigatio, it is the Irish éulchaire which I find most striking. Kuno Meyer transliterates this human expression as a “longing for home” or a “home-sickness” as experienced in the now absent hero tale Echtra Nectain maic Alfroinn. Could it not be that imagination, possibility and pure “desire” represented some of the most elemental motivations for compiling these texts, and the impetus for the peregrini to actually undertake these ventures? Only until very recently have western academics acknowledged that most (if not all) of his wanderings on the (European) continent were rooted in the Orthodox quest for ‘theosis’ (deification). This is absolutely pivotal for a proper understanding of not just St. Columbanus, but all of the wanderings/peregrinations of Celtic/Irish monks on the continent during this time frame.

But, on a broader basis, these pilgrim stories amount to a spiritual “homecoming” for many contemporary seekers, many of whom similarly declare that they need to “rove to rest” (to use a phrase from one of Garnet Rogers’ songs). Others admit that they’re “running to stand still” (from U2’s song-title). And so it is, that like Columbanus, we too long to press on … towards our “true homeland”.

The Path I Walk (8th/9th Century Poem, Irish)

The path I walk, Christ walks it. May the land in which I am be without sorrow.
May the Trinity protect me wherever I stay, Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
Bright angels walk with me – dear presence – in every dealing.
In every dealing I pray them that no one’s poison may reach me.
The ninefold people of heaven of holy cloud, the tenth force of the stout earth.
Favourable company, they come with me, so that the Lord may not be angry with me.
May I arrive at every place, may I return home; may the way in which I spend be a way without loss.
May every path before me be smooth, man, woman and child welcome me.
A truly good journey! Well does the fair Lord show us a course, a path…

======================================================================================
~ The excerpts above on pilgrimage/peregrinatio are from an MA (Celtic Christianity) Essay by (Brendan) Rob O’Gorman, entitled “Piercing the Veil: Celtic Voyages and the Otherworld”.

For those of you interested in a detailed reading of Columbanus’ Life (Vita) written by Jonas (his biographer/hagiographer) at Bobbio, Italy, follow this link:
http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/basis/columban.html

Please feel free to forward this short essay on to anyone whom you feel would appreciate reading it.

With Head in Heart,
(Brendan) Rob O’Gorman

“Christians must live in perpetual pilgrimage, as ‘guests of the world’ (hospitus mundi)”. ~ St. Columbanus

I sat within a valley green
I sat me with my true love
My sad heart strove to choose between
The old love and the new love
The old for her, the new that made
Me think on Ireland dearly
While soft the wind blew down the glen
And shook the golden barley

Twas hard the woeful words to frame
To break the ties that bound us
But harder still to bear the weight
Of foreign chains around us
And so I said, “The mountain glen
I’ll seek at morning early
And join the brave United Men
While soft winds shake the barley”

While sad I kissed away her tears
My fond arms ’round her flinging
The foeman’s shot burst on our ears
From out the wildwood ringing
A bullet pierced my true love’s side
In life’s young spring so early
And on my breast in blood she died
While soft winds shook the barley

I bore her to some mountain stream
And many’s the summer blossom
I placed with branches soft and green
About her gore-stained bosom
I wept and kissed her clay-cold corpse
Then rushed o’er vale and valley
My vengeance on the foe to wreak
While soft winds shook the barley

But blood for blood without remorse
I’ve taken at Oulart Hollow
And laid my true love’s clay-cold corpse
Where I full soon may follow
As ’round her grave I wander drear
Noon, night and morning early
With breaking heart when e’er I hear
The wind that shakes the barley…

Comment: This poem is an Irish ballad written by Robert Dwyer Joyce (1836–1883), a Limerick-born poet and professor of English literature. It has since inspired the 2006 film of the same title https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6yvHe_ksnDA), starring Cillian Murphy. Widely praised, the film won the Palme d’Or at the 2006 Cannes Film Festival. Loach’s biggest box office success to date, the film did well around the world and set a record in Ireland as the highest-grossing Irish-made independent film ever. Canadian music-artist Lorreena McKennitt also performs the traditional song brilliantly here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8phKSd4gYfw.

May-time, fair season, perfect is its aspect then;
blackbirds sing a full song, if there be a scanty beam of day.

The hardy, busy cuckoo calls, welcome home noble summer!
It calms the bitterness of bad weather, the branching wood is a prickly hedge.

Summer brings low the little stream, the swift herd makes for the water,
the long hair of the heather spreads out, the weak white cotton-grass flourishes.

The smooth sea flows, season when the ocean falls asleep; flowers cover the world.

Bees, whose strength is small, carry with their feet a load reaped from the flowers;
the mountain allures the cattle, the ant makes a rich meal.

The harp of the wood plays melody, its music brings perfect peace;
colour has settled on every hill, haze on the lake of full water.

The corncrake clacks, a strenuous bard; the high pure waterfall singsa greeting to the warm pool; rustling of rushes has come.

Light swallows dart on high, brisk music encircles the hill, tender rich fruits bud…
The hardy cuckoo sings, the speckled fish leaps, mighty is the swift warrior.

The vigour of men flourishes, the glory of the great hills is unspoiled;
every wood is fair from the crest to the ground, fair each great goodly field.

Delightful is the season’s splendour, winter’s rough wind has gone;
bright is every fertile wood, a joyful peace is summer.

A flock of birds settle…;
the green field re-echoes, where there is a brisk bright stream.

A mad ardour upon you to race horses, where the serried host is ranged around;
very splendid is the bounty of the cattle-pond, the iris is gold because of it.

A timid persistent frail creature sings at the top of his voice, the lark chants a clear tale –
excellent May-time of calm aspect!

~ Irish, 9th/10th Century, Author: Known Only to God

Editorial Note

: For those of you who love poetry, and especially those works which adhere to a given ‘tradition’, you may find it interesting to compare this poem with another more contemporary one: “Songs of Summer” by Brendan Kennelly (https://peregrinatioprodeiamore.wordpress.com/2013/05/02/songs-of-summer-begins-may-1st/ )

The following is an ancient Celtic/Anglo-Saxon account of the crucifixion of Christ – from the (crucifixion-tree’s (Rood’s) perspective!

Listen! I want to declare the most excellent of visions which I dreamt in the middle of the night, when human creatures lay at rest. It seemed to me that I saw a wondrous tree rising aloft, encompassed with light, the most magnificent timber. All that sign was overlaid with gold; fair jewels were set at the surface of the earth; there were also five upon the cross-beam. All the angels of God, fair by creation, looked on there; certainly that was no malefactor’s cross, but holy spirits gazed on Him there, men upon earth and all this glorious creation.

Magnificent was the cross of victory, and I, stained with sins, stricken with foulness; I saw the glorious tree joyfully gleaming, adorned with garments, decked with gold; jewels covered the tree of the Lord. Yet through that gold I could perceived the former strife of wretched men, in that it had once bled on the right side. I was all troubled with sorrows; I was full of fear at the fair sight. I saw the changeful sign alter in garments and colours; at times it was bedewed with moisture, stained with the flowing of blood, at times adorned with treasure. Nevertheless, lying there a long while, I gazed, troubled, upon the Saviour’s cross – until I heard it talking. Then that most excellent tree spoke these words:

‘Long ago was it – I still remember it – that I was cut down at the edge of the forest, removed from my root. Strong enemies seized me there, fashioned me to be a spectacle for them, and required me to hoist up their felons. Men bore me on their shoulders there, till they set me on a hill; many foes made me fast there. I saw then the Lord of mankind hasten with great zeal that He might be raised upon me. I dare not bow or break against the Lord’s behest, when I saw the surface of the earth shake; I could have felled all the foes, yet I stood firm.

‘Then the young Warrior – He was God almighty – firm and unflinching, stripped Himself; He mounted the high cross, brave in the sight of many, when He was minded to redeem mankind. Then I trembled when the Hero clasped me; yet I dare not bow to the earth, fall to the level of the ground, but had to stand fast.

‘As a rood was I raised up; I bore aloft the mighty King, the Lord of heaven; I dare not stoop. They pierced me with dark nails; the wounds are still plain to view in me, gaping gashes of malice; I dare not do hurt to any of them. They bemocked us both together. I was all bedewed with blood, shed from the Man’s side, after he had sent forth His Spirit. I have endured many stern trials on the hill; I saw the God of hosts violently stretched out; darkness with its clouds had covered the Lord’s corpse, the fair radiance; a shadow went forth, dark beneath the clouds. All creation wept, lamented the King’s death; Christ was on the cross!

‘Yet eager ones came there from afar to the Prince; I beheld all that. I was grievously troubled with sorrows, yet I bowed to the hands of men in humbleness with great zeal. There they took Almighty God, lifted Him from the heavy torment; the warriors left me standing, covered with blood; I was all stricken with shafts. Then they laid Him down, weary of limb; stood at His body’s head; there they looked on the Lord of heaven; and he rested there for a space, tired after the mighty strife. Then in sight of the slayers men began to fashion Him a tomb; they hewed it out of bright stone; they placed therein the Lord of victories. Then, unhappy in the eventide, they began to sing a dirge, when they were about to depart in their sorrow from the glorious Prince; He rested there alone.

‘Yet for a long space we stood there in our place streaming with blood after the voice of warriors had risen up. Cold grew the corpse, fair house of the Soul. Then they began to cut us all down to earth; that was a dread trial. They buried us in a deep pit. Yet there the followers of the Lord, friends, found me out; (then they raised me from the ground), decked me with gold and silver.

‘Now, my loved man, you have heard that I have endured bitter anguish, grievous sorrows. Now the time has come when far and wide over the earth and all this splendid creation, men do me honour; they worship this sign. On me the Son of God suffered for a space; wherefore now I rise glorious beneath the heavens, and I can heal all who fear me.

‘Long ago I became the severest of torments, most hateful to me, before I opened to mankind the true path of life. Listen! The Prince of glory, the Lord of heaven honoured me then above the trees of the forest, even as Almighty God also honoured his mother Mary herself above the whole race of women.

‘Now, my beloved man, I enjoin you to declare this vision unto men; reveal in words that it is the glorious tree on which Almighty God suffered for the many sins of mankind and the old deeds of Adam.

‘There He tasted death; yet God rose up again with His mighty power to help men. Then he ascended to heaven; hither again will the Lord Himself make His way to this world to seek mankind on the day of judgment, Almighty God and His angels with Him, when He who has power of judgment will judge each one according as he merits in this transitory life. No one can be without fear there at the word the Lord says: He will ask before the multitude where the man is who for God’s sake would taste bitter death, as He once did on the cross; but then they will be afraid, and think little of what they begin to say to Christ. No one need be terrified there who beforehand bears in his heart the noblest of signs, but through that Cross every soul which desires to dwell with the Lord must seek the kingdom which is far from earth.’

Then glad at heart I worshipped the cross with great zeal, where I was alone with my little company. My soul was eager to depart and experienced many longings. Now I have joy of life that I can seek the triumphant cross alone more often than all men, do it full honour. Great is the desire for that in my heart, and to the cross I turn for help. I have not many powerful friends on earth, but they have gone away hence from the joys of the world, have sought the King of heaven, live now in heaven with God the Father, dwell in glory; and each day I look for the time when the Lord’s cross, which I once gazed upon here on earth, will fetch me from this transitory life, and bring me then where there is great happiness, joy in heaven, where God’s people are placed at the banquet, where there is bliss unending; and will set me then where I may thereafter dwell in glory, enjoy happiness fully with the saints. May the Lord, who here on earth once suffered on the cross for the sins of men, be a friend unto me; He has redeemed us and has given us life, a heavenly home.

Hope was born anew with blessedness and joy for those who before endured the burning. The Son was triumphant on His journey, mighty and successful, when He, the Master almighty, came with the throng, the company of spirits,* into God’s kingdom – to the gladness of the angels and all the saints who before dwelt in heaven in glory, when their Lord, Almighty God, came where his home was…

* Those whom Christ redeemed when He descended to hell.

Contextual/Historical Notes

The Dream of the Rood is perhaps the most beautiful of all extant Anglo-Saxon religious poems. Its radiant vision, the simple – but devout – wonder of the dreamer, coupled with the pathos of the Crucifixion (as told by the Cross itself) are unmatched by the lifeless phrases which so typify much of Old English religious verse. Here Christ is portrayed not so much as the meek/mild sacrificial lamb (a popular motif throughout much of western/contemporary Christianity), but as a warrior-hero, who in manly fashion ‘mounts’ the tree/rood. The poem itself likely dated from the mid to late 9th century and is part of a document known as The Vercelli Book. A great deal of discussion surrounds the poem’s authorship. Early research pointed to some of the poem’s lines found and deciphered on a stone cross at Ruthwell, near Dumfries which were ascribed to a Celtic monk Caedmon; however, these arguments were later discredited. Intriguingly, the work’s style and mood offer a number of striking resemblances to other poems by Cynewulf, however, here too, there is still no agreement on this. Regardless, the poem’s powerful verbal iconography and compunction-arousing emotionalism is superb: a tribute to a profound spiritual sensibility. (B.R.O.)

Summer, the king of seasons
wears a cloak of all colours.
Nothing can stop the blackbird singing
when he gets a hint of morning.

The thieving cuckoo is glad to call
his welcome,
I can’t imagine bad weather.
The land is home.

The skilled fingers of a breeze
plays the harp of the forest.
Close your eyes, you hear music,
north, south, east and west.

Ireland in Maytime (Photo by Brendan R. O’Gorman)

Men flourish like wheat,
women are proud as fields.
All things hope to be perfect:-
I begin to believe in peace.

A flock of birds descends
into a stretch of grass:
there is a rustling, whispering
a sense of singing and laughter.

I have this longing to race horses
all over the land from shore to shore.
Come with me!
Each will find how wild is the other…

But not just yet – listen!
That great-hearted singer, the lark
is singing how we feel;
The joy of summer is God’s work.

~Brendan Kennelly

Maytime is the fairest season,
With its loud bird-song and green trees,
When the plough is in the furrow
And the oxen under the yoke.

When the sea is green,
And the land many colours.
But when the cuckoos sing on the tops
Of the lovely trees, my sadness deepens,
The smoke stings and my grief is clear
Since my brothers have passed away.

On the hill and in the valley,
On the islands of the sea,
Whichever path you take,
You shall not hide from blessed Christ.

It was our wish, our Brother, our way,
To go to the land of your exile
Seven saints and seven score and seven hundred
Went to the one court with blessed Christ,
And were without fear.

The gift I ask, may it not be denied to me,
Is peace between myself and God.
May I find the way to the gate of glory,
May I not be sad, O Christ, in your court.

NOTE: Here the author of the poem contemplates death and the fragility of life. His ‘brothers’ are probably his fellow monks who are (quite likely) members of his own family also. The reference to ‘exile’ is related to the ‘white martyrdom’ as found in the Cambrai Homily and the concept of peregrinus (stranger/exile). The poem is probably 10th/11th century as was first written in early Middle Welsh. ~ R.O./O.D.

Colman’s Bed (Of Glendalough)

Make a nesting now, a place to which
the birds can come, think of Kevin’s
prayerful palm holding the blackbird’s egg
and be the one, looking out from this place
who warms interior forms into light.
Feel the way the cliff at your back
gives shelter to your outward view
and then bring in from those horizons
all discordant elements that seek a home.

Be taught now, among the trees and rocks,
how the discarded is woven into shelter,
learn the way things hidden and unspoken
slowly proclaim their voice in the world.
Find that far inward symmetry
to all outward appearances, apprentice
yourself to yourself, begin to welcome back
all you sent away, be a new annunciation,
make yourself a door through which
to be hospitable, even to the stranger in you.

See with every turning day,
how each season makes a child
of you again, wants you to become
a seeker after rainfall and birdsong,
watch now, how it weathers you
to a testing in the tried and true,
admonishes you with each falling leaf,
to be courageous, to be something
that has come through, to be the last thing
you want to see before you leave the world.

Above all, be alone with it all,
a hiving off, a corner of silence
amidst the noise, refuse to talk,
even to yourself, and stay in this place
until the current of the story
is strong enough to float you out.

Ghost then, to where others
in this place have come before,
under the hazel, by the ruined chapel,
below the cave where Coleman slept,
become the source that makes
the river flow, and then the sea
beyond. Live in this place
as you were meant to and then,
surprised by your abilities,
become the ancestor of it all,
the quiet, robust and blessed Saint
that your future happiness
will always remember.

– David Whyte
from River Flow: New & Selected Poems 1984-2007
©2006 Many Rivers Press

I went to Ireland with a woman who’d never been there before… I was delighted to take her to some of my favourite spots and she was (as some might say) totally ‘gob-smacked’.  We moved from one of part of the west coast to another, and every time we left one of these beautiful spots, I’d tell her – “Wait, there’s more!”

Towards the end of several days of it, she broke down in (happy) tears, confessing she’d never experienced anything so beautiful before…   I was then reminded of a poetic word given to me some years ago, after I thought I’d glimpsed a bit of heaven!   On that day, an angel whispered in my ear – “Wait… there’s more…”

Have a great day!

“The Seafarer”: An Old English (Anglo-Saxon)Poem

“The Seafarer” is an Anglo-Saxon or Old English poem similar to “The Wanderer” in representing the laments of an exile. Many scholars have described “The Seafarer” simply as an insular sailor’s lamentations, concluding with faith in God’s ultimate mercy;  however, many others have associated the poem with the persona of the Christian wanderer, pilgrim, or hermit’s view – one’s ultimate search for God.

Historians have pointed out the emergence of the peregrinus influence of Celtic/Irish Orthodox monks and recluses living in or travelling through early medieval England.  This poem may be considered penitential poetry, the motive of exile being penitential in nature; however, a better description might be ascetic, in that exile is pursued as an ascetic exercise, in keeping with the motives of the early medieval Celtic/English Christian hermits and wayfarers.

Historian Dorothy Whitelock thus accurately assesses “The Seafarer” to be “the monolgue of a religious ascetic who has chosen exile on and beyond the sea for the love of God.” – literally, a pilgrimage for the love of God (peregrinatio pro dei amore).  F. N. M. Diekstra adds: “Just as the exile feels the persistent urge to travel back to his homeland, the soul, constantly mindful of its origins, attempts to escape from the prison of the body and fly to heaven.”  (In Orthodox Christian terms, this is the pursuit of theosis,  or deification.)

Many translations of “The Seafarer” exist, but the best by far are those of  S. A. J. Bradley, R. K. Gordon and Richard Marsden. The following version amalgamates and modernizes several versions, including those cited.

---

The Seafarer

Let me speak, in truth, of my life,
tell of toilsome days of travel,
days suffering hardship,
bitterness of heart:
how I endured sorrowful times on ships,
on dreadful rolling seas.
Hard night’s watch at the ship’s prow
was by frequent task,
the ship often tossed along towering cliffs,
afflicted with cold feet, numbed by frost, chill bonds.
My sorrows burned in my heart,
I sighed forth hunger that rent my mind,
I, the sea-weary man.

He who fares so prosperously on land
knows not that I have spent great careworn winters
an exile on the ice-cold sea,
cut off from kin,
hung round with icicles,
hail pelting me in showers,
I heard nothing but the booming sea
and the cold billowing sea-waves.
Sometimes I heard the song of the swan,
seized gladness in the cry of the gannet
and the sound of the curlew, instead of
the laughter of men; in the screaming gull,
instead of the clanking mead-cups.

On the sea, storms beat against the rocky cliffs,
the icy-feathered tern echoed the storm-winds,
as, too, the wing-soaked eagle.
No protector could comfort the heart in need.
He who holds the bliss of life, proud-flushed with wine,
who suffers few hardships in cities, disbelieves
how often in weariness I had to dwell upon the ocean path.
The shadow of night grew dark,
snow flew in from the north,
fast bound the land,
hail, coldest of grains, falling upon the earth.
And yet my heart’s thoughts are stirred
that I should make trial again of the high seas,
of the tossing salt waves.
My heart’s desire exhorts me to venture forth again
and discover the land of strange peoples far hence.
Ah, there is no man on earth so proud,
so generous of gifts,
so bold in youth,
so daring in his deeds,
nor with a lord so gracious unto him,
that he is not always anxious about his seafaring,
as to what God will bestow upon him next.
His thoughts are not of the harp
nor of gift-rings,
nor of the pleasures of a woman,
nor of joy in the world,
nor of aught else but the rolling waves.

Yet he who would set out upon the sea-waters
ever feels longing.
The land puts forth blossoms,
the fields are fair,
the world revives —
but all these urge my eager heart to wandering asea,
proposing to fare far upon ocean paths.
The cuckoo warns with sad cry,
that harbinger of summer sings,
boding bitter sorrow to the heart.
But the man who does not understand,
the prosperous man,
knows not that those endure
who must widely pace the paths of exile.

My heart is restless within me,
my mind is dwelling on the sea-flood,
over the whale’s domain.
My mind fares widely over the face of the earth,
but returns unsatisfied.
The lone-flier screams, urging my heart
to the whale-way over the stretch of seas.
For the joys of the Lord are more inspiring
than this dead fleeting life on earth.
I have no trust that earthly riches
will abide forever.
Three things are bound to visit the doomed and dying,
certain to take life away:
illness, age, or violence.
Left only, then, is the praise of the living who speak
after the dead are gone.
Such is the best of fame after death,
that one should strive before he must depart,
work bold deeds while on earth,
against the malice of demons, against the devil,
so that the children of men may later exalt him,
that his praise live thereafter
among the angels, joy of eternal light.

The days have departed.
The pomps of earth’s kingdom:
kings, emperors, givers of gold,
and not as of yore,
when men wrought great deeds of glory,
and lived in most lordly splendor.
This host has fallen;
their delights have departed;
only the weak live on,
possessing this world only in toil.
Glory is laid low,
the noblest of earth age and wither,
as does every man throughout the world.
Old age befalls him,
his face grows pale,
gray-haired he laments.
He knows that his old friends, sons of princes,
have been laid in the earth.
And when life departs him, too,
his body will neither taste sweetness,
nor feel pain, nor stir a hand,
nor ponder in thought.
Though his grave by kin be strewn with gold,
buried with various treasures beside him,
none of this will go with him.
And what gold he hoarded in life
gives no succor in the face of God’s wrath.

Great is the fear of God, whereby the earth turns.
He established the mighty plains,
the face of the earth, and the sky above.
Foolish is he who does not fear this power.
Death comes to him unexpectedly.
Blessed is he who lives humbly,
mercy comes to him from above.
God establishes that heart in him
because he trusts in God’s strength.

Check a violent mind,
control it with firmness,
be trustworthy to others,
pure in the ways of life.
Let each show moderation,
through the good and through the adverse.
Fate is strong,
but God is mightier than any man’s thoughts.
Consider where we may possess a home, and
think on how we may come to that place, and
strive to attain it: eternal bliss,
where life springs from God’s love,
joy in heaven.

Thanks be to the Holy One, he who has made us worthy, for he is the Prince of glory, the Lord everlasting, forever and ever. Amen.