CHAPTER II. SPANISH LITERATURE.
The golden age of Spanish literature embraces the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries; but the twelfth and thirteenth centuries were, in Spain as in other European countries, a period of special literary activity. The impulses at work were the same as those to be noted in contemporary France, England, and Germany, and the work produced of the same general types. The chief phases of Spanish mediaeval literature are these:
1. Epic and heroic poetry. Here, as elsewhere, heroic ballads grew up about the national heroes. These were gradually fused into long epic poems by the wandering minstrels. The best of these Chansons de Geste are (1) "The Poem of the Cid", (2) "Rhymed Chronicle of the Cid". Both of them belong probably to the twelfth century.
2. Romances. Many romances, or short semi-epic poems, grew up about the Cid. Of others, some were of the Carlovingian cycle, the most famous being that concerning Bernardo del Carpio, the traditional rival and conqueror of Roland. Some were devoted to the Arthurian legend. This latter cycle of stories was immensely popular in Spain, though rather in translation and imitation than in original works. In the fourteenth century these older romances were technically called "books of chivalry" and their popularity and influence was widespread.
3. Lyric poetry. There seems to have been no special development of lyric poetry early in Spain, such as is found in France. The earliest noteworthy lyric poet is Juan Ruiz (1300-1350).
4. Didactic literature. As early as the first half of the thirteenth century, we have in Spain a strong didactic literature. Gonzalo de Berceo (d. 1268) wrote many lives of the saints, miracles, hymns to the Virgin, and other devotional pieces. But the impulse to allegorizing does not seem to come to Spain till much later.
5. Fables and tales. Though a little later in being developed in Spain than in France, the same delight was taken in fables and short tales. About the middle of the fourteenth century, Juan Manul (d. 1349) made, in his "El Conde Lucanor", a large collection of these tales.
6. Chronicles. Spain had early an excellent school of chroniclers. An example of their work is The General Chronicle of Spain, compiled under Alphonso the Wise (d. 1284).
ANCIENT BALLADS.
Romantic ballads grew up in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries in Spain, centering chiefly about the national hero, Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, who was called THE CID, some account of whom is necessary in order to an understanding of the poems.
History—Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, born 1030-40, died 1099, was the foremost warrior of the great struggle between the Christians and the Moors in Spain. The Moors called him the CID (Seid, the Lord), and the Champion (El Campeador). He was a vigorous, unscrupulous fighter, now on one side, now on the other. He was at one time entrusted with high embassies of state, at others, a rebel. His true place in history seems to be that of a great freebooter and guerrilla. His contemporary fame was really great.
Legend—During the lifetime of the CID many marvels and myths grew up about him, and within the next century they became almost numberless. He became the hero of poet and of romancer to the Spanish people. His story was told everywhere by the wandering minstrels, and his name became the center of all popular romances.
Literature.—At once, then, a large literature sprang up concerning the CID—ballads, romances, and incipient dramas. The chief pieces are (1)"The Ballads of the Cid", composed from the twelfth to the fifteenth century, of which nearly two hundred survive; (2)"The Poem of the Cid", a noble fragment; (3)"The Chronicle of the Cid".
The early history of Spain's popular hero is traced very accurately in (1)"The General Chronicle of Spain", compiled under Alphonso X. (died 1284); (2)"The Chronicle of the Cid", perhaps extracts from the first, and (3) Various Poems and Romances of the CID from the thirteenth to the fifteenth century.
The following give some of his adventures, and show the spirit of this interesting early literature—the earliest ballad literature in Europe.
From the Cid Ballads.
CUYDANDO DIEGO LAYNEZ. (THE TEST.)
Brooding sat Diego Laynez o'er the insult to his name,
Nobler and more ancient far than Inigo Abarca's fame;
For he felt that strength was wanting to avenge the craven blow,
If he himself at such an age to fight should think to go.
Sleepless he passed the weary nights, his food untasted lay,
Ne'er raised his eyes from off the ground, nor ventured forth to
stray,
Refused all converse with his friends, impelled by mortal fear,
Lest fame of outrage unatoned should aggravate his care.
While pondering thus his honor's claims in search of just
redress,
He thought of an expedient his failing house to test;
So summoning to his side his sons, excused all explanation,
Silent began to clutch their hands in proper alternation,
(Not by their tender palms to trace the chiromantic linings,
For at that day no place was found in Spain for such divinings),
But calling on his honor spent for strength and self-denial,
He set aside parental love and steeled his nerves to trial,
Griping their hands with all his might till each cried: "Hold,
Sir, hold!
What meaneth this? pray, let me go; thou'rt killing me, behold!"
Now when he came to Roderick, the youngest of them all,
Despair had well-nigh banished hope of cherished fruit withal
(Though ofttimes lingering nearest when farthest thought to be);
The young man's eyes flashed fury, like tiger fierce stood he
And cried: "Hold, father, hold, a curse upon ye, stay!
An ye were not my father, I would not stop to pray,
But by this good right arm of mine would straight pluck out your
life
With a bare digit of my hand, in lieu of vulgar knife!
The old man wept for joy: "Son of my soul," quoth he,
"Thy rage my rage disarmeth, thine ire is good to see;
Prove now thy mettle, Rod'rick; wipe out my grievous stain,
Restore the honor I have lost, unless thou it regain—"
Then quickly told him of the wrong to which he was a prey,
Gave him his blessing and a sword and bade him go his way
To end the Count's existence and begin a brighter day.
—Tr. by Knapp.
PENSATIVO ESTAVA EL CID. (THE SOLILOQUY.)
Pensive stood the young Castilian, musing calmly on his plight;
'Gainst a man like Count Lozano to avenge a father's slight!
Thought of all the trained dependents that his foe could quickly
call,
A thousand brave Asturians scattered through the highlands all;
Thought, too, how at the Cortes of Leon his voice prevailed,
And how in border forays the Moor before him quailed;
At last reviewed the grievance—No sacrifice too great
To vindicate the first affront to Layn Calvo's state;
Then calls on Heaven for justice, and on the earth for space,
Craves strength of honor injured, and of his father grace,
Nor heeds his youthful bearing, for men of rank like he
Are wont from birth to prove their worth by deeds of chivalry.
Next from the wainscot took he down an ancient sword and long:
Once it had been Mudarra's, but now had rusty grown,
And, holding it sufficient to achieve the end he sought,
Before he girt it on him, he addressed the fitting thought:
"Consider, valiant claymore, that Mudarrals arm is mine,
And the cause wherein ye wrestle is Mudarra's cause and thine;
But if, forsooth, thou scornest to be grasped by youthful hand,
Think not 'twill lead thee backward e'en a jot from the demand;
For as firm as thine own steel thou wilt find me in the fray,
And as good as e'er the best man—Thou hast gained a lord to-day;
And if perchance they worst thee, enraged at such a stain,
I shall plunge thee to the cross in my breast for very shame.
Then on to the field away, for the hour to fight is come,
To requite on Count Lozano all the mischief he has done."
So, full of courage and emprise the Cid rode forth to war,
And his triumph was accomplished in the space of one short hour.
—Tr. by KNAPP.
NON ES DE SESSUDOS HOMES. (ON THE FIELD).
"It is not meet for men of brain, nor yet for champion true,
To offer insult to a man of better blood than you!
The brawny warrior, howe'er fierce and valiant he may be,
Was never wont to test his power on aged infirmity.
The men of Leon need not boast of high emprise, forsooth,
Who craven smite the face of age, and not the breast of youth.
Ye should have known who was my sire, and Layn Calvo's line,
A breed that never brook offence, nor challenge fit decline;
How dared ye thus provoke a man whom only Heaven may,
And not another' while the son lives to avenge the day!
Ye cast about his noble face dishonor's sombre pall,
But I am here to strip it off and expiate it all;
For only blood will cleanse the stain attainted honor brings,
And valid blood is that alone which from the aggressor springs;
Yours it must be, Oh tyrant, since by its overplay
It moved ye to so foul a deed and robbed your sense away;
On my father ye laid hand, in the presence of the king,
And I, his son, am here to-day atonement fall to bring.
Count, ye did a craven business and I call ye COWARD here!
Behold, if I await you, think not I come with fear,
For Diego Laynez wrought me well set in his own mould,
And while I prove my birthright I your baseness shall unfold.
Your valor as a crafty blade will not avail ye more,
For to my needs I bring a sword and charger trained to war."
Thus spake to Count Lozano Spain's champion, the Cid,
(Ere long he won the title by achievements which he did)
That day he slew his enemy and severing quick the head,
Bore high the bleeding trophy as he homeward proudly sped.
—Tr. by Knapp.
LLORANDO DIEGO LAYNEZ. (THE TRIUMPH.)
Weeping sat Diego Laynez still o'er his untasted meal;
Still o'er his shame was brooding, the tears his thoughts reveal;
Beset with a thousand fancies, and crazed with honest care,
Sensitive to a footfall lest some foe were lurking there,
When Rod'rick, bearing by the locks the Count's dissevered poll,
Tracking the floor with recent gore, advanced along the hall.
He touched his father's shoulder and roused him from his dream,
And proudly flaunting his revenge he thus addresses him:
"Behold the evil tares, sir, that ye may taste the wheat;
Open thine eyes, my father, and lift thy head, 'tis meet,
For this thine honor is secure, is raised to life once more,
And all the stain is washed away in spite of pride and power:
For here are hands that are not hands, this tongue no tongue is
now,
I have avenged thee, sir, behold, and here the truth avow."
The old man thinks he dreams; but no, no dream is there;
'Twas only his long grieving that had filled his heart with care.
At length he lifts his eyes, spent by chivalrous deeds,
And turns them on his enemy clad in the ghastly weeds:
"Roderick, son of my soul, mantle the spectre anon,
Lest, like a new Medusa, it change my heart to stone,
And leave me in such plight at last, that, ere I wish ye joy,
My heart should rend within me of bliss without alloy.
Oh, infamous Lozano! kind heaven hath wrought redress,
And the great justice of my claim hath fired Rodrigo's breast!
Sit down, my son, and dine, here at the head with me,
For he who bringest such a gift, is head of my family."
—Tr. by Knapp.
THE YOUNG CID.
Now rides Diego Laynez, to kiss the good King's hand,
Three hundred men of gentry go with him from his land,
Among them, young Rodrigo, the proud Knight of Bivar;
The rest on mules are mounted, he on his horse of war.
They ride in glittering gowns of soye—He harnessed like a lord;
There is no gold about the boy, but the crosslet of his sword;
The rest have gloves of sweet perfume,—He gauntlets strong of
mail;
They broidered cap and flaunting plume,—He crest untaught to
quail.
All talking with each other thus along their way they passed,
But now they've come to Burgos, and met the King at last;
When they came near his nobles, a whisper through them ran,—
"He rides amidst the gentry that slew the Count Lozan."
With very haughty gesture Rodrigo reined his horse,
Right scornfully he shouted, when he heard them so discourse,
"If any of his kinsmen or vassals dare appear,
The man to give them answer, on horse or foot, is here."—
"The devil ask the question," thus muttered all the band;—
With that they all alighted, to kiss the good King's hand,—
All but the proud Rodrigo, he in his saddle stayed,—
Then turned to him his father (you may hear the words he said).
"Now, light, my son, I pray thee, and kiss the good King's hand,
He is our lord, Rodrigo; we hold of him our land."—
But when Rodrigo heard him, he looked in sulky sort,
I wot the words he answered they were both cold and short.
"Had any other said it, his pains had well been paid,
But thou, sir, art my father, thy word must be obeyed."—
With that he sprung down lightly, before the King to kneel,
But as the knee was bending, out leapt his blade of steel.
The King drew back in terror, when he saw the sword was bare;
"Stand back, stand back, Rodrigo, in the devil's name beware;
Your looks bespeak a creature of father Adam's mould,
But in your wild behaviour you're like some lion bold."
When Rodrigo heard him say so, he leapt into his seat,
And thence he made his answer, with visage nothing sweet,—
"I'd think it little honour to kiss a kingly palm,
And if my father's kissed it, thereof ashamed I am."—
When he these words had uttered, he turned him from the gate.
His true three hundred gentles behind him followed straight;
If with good gowns they came that day, with better arms they
went;
And if their mules behind did stay, with horses they're content.
—Tr. by Lockhart.
THE CID'S COURTSHIP.
Now, of Rodrigo de Bivar great was the fame that run,
How he five Kings had vanquished, proud Moormen every one;
And how, when they consented to hold of him their ground,
He freed them from the prison wherein they had been bound.
To the good King Fernando, in Burgos where he lay,
Came then Ximena Gomez, and thus to him did say:—
"I am Don Gomez, daughter, in Gormaz Count was he;
Him slew Rodrigo of Bivar in battle valiantly.
"Now am I come before you, this day a boon to crave,
And it is that I to husband may this Rodrigo have;
Grant this, and I shall hold me a happy damosell,
Much honoured shall I hold me, I shall be married well.
"I know he's born for thriving, none like him in the land;
I know that none in battle against his spear may stand;
Forgiveness is well pleasing in God our Saviour's view,
And I forgive him freely, for that my sire he slew."—
Right pleasing to Fernando was the thing she did propose;
He writes his letter swiftly, and forth his foot-page goes;
I wot, when young Rodrigo saw how the King did write,
He leapt on Bavieca—I wot his leap was light.
With his own troop of true men forthwith he took the way,
Three hundred friends and kinsmen, all gently born were they;
All in one colour mantled, in armour gleaming gay,
New were both scarf and scabbard, when they went forth that day.
The King came out to meet him with words of hearty cheer;
Quoth he, "My good Rodrigo, you are right welcome here;
This girl Ximena Gomez would have ye for her lord,
Already for the slaughter her grace she doth accord.
"I pray you be consenting, my gladness will be great;
You shall have lands in plenty, to strengthen your estate."
"Lord King", Rodrigo answers, "in this and all beside,
Command, and I'll obey you. The girl shall be my bride."—
But when the fair Ximena came forth to plight her hand,
Rodrigo, gazing on her, his face could not command:
He stood and blushed before her;—thus at the last said he—
"I slew thy sire, Ximena, but not in villany:-
"In no disguise I slew him, man against man I stood;
There was some wrong between us* and I did shed his blood.
I slew a man, I owe a man; fair lady, by God's grace,
An honoured husband thou shalt have in thy dead father's place."
[1] See the account of this quarrel, "Non es de Sessudos Homes."
—Tr. by Lockhart.
BAVIECA.
The favorite warrior horse of the Cid. There are several more ballads devoted to this charger.
The King looked on him kindly, as on a vassal true;
Then to the King Ruy Diaz spake after reverence due,—
"O King, the thing is shameful, that any man beside
The liege lord of Castile himself should Bavieca ride:
"For neither Spain or Araby could another charger bring
So good as he, and certes, the best befits my King.
But that you may behold him, and know him to the core,
I'll make him go as he was wont when his nostrils smelt the
Moor."
With that, the Cid, clad as he was in mantle furred and wide,
On Bavieca vaulting, put the rowel in his side;
And up and down, and round and round, so fierce was his career,
Streamed like a pennon on the wind Ruy Diaz' minivere.
And all that saw them praised them—they lauded man and horse,
As matched well, and rivalless for gallantry and force
Ne'er had they looked on horseman might to this knight come near,
Nor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier.
Thus, to and fro a-rushing, the fierce and furious steed,
He snapt in twain his hither rein:—"God pity now the Cid."
"God pity Diaz," cried the Lords,—but when they looked again,
They saw Ruy Diaz ruling him, with the fragment of his rein;
They saw him proudly ruling with gesture firm and calm,
Like a true lord commanding—and obeyed as by a lamb.
And so he led him foaming and panting to the King,
But "No," said Don Alphonso, "it were a shameful thing
That peerless Bavieca should ever be bestrid
By any mortal but Bivar—Mount, mount again, my Cid."
—Tr. by Lockhart.
FROM THE POEM OF THE CID.
The Cid has been banished by King Alphonso, has entered the Moors, country and taken a city. The Moors rally, gather their allies and surround the Cid's army. He turns to consult with his men.
"From water they have cut us off, our bread is running low;
If we would steal away by night, they will not let us go;
Against us there are fearful odds if we make choice to fight;
What would ye do now gentlemen, in this our present plight?"
Minaya was the first to speak: said the stout cavalier,
"Forth from Castile the gentle thrust, we are but exiles here;
Unless we grapple with the Moor bread he will never yield;
A good six hundred men or more we have to take the field;
In God's name let us falter not, nor countenance delay,
But sally forth and strike a blow upon to-morrow's day."
"Like thee the counsel," said my Cid; "thou speakest to my mind;
And ready to support thy word thy hand we ever find."
Then all the Moors that bide within the walls he bids to go
Forth from the gates, lest they, perchance, his purpose come to
know
In making their defences good they spend the day and night,
And at the rising of the sun they arm them for the fight.
Then said the Cid: "Let all go forth, all that are in our band;
Save only two of those on foot, beside the gate to stand.
Here they will bury us if death we meet on yonder plain,
But if we win our battle there, rich booty we shall gain.
And thou Pero Bermuez, this my standard thou shalt hold;
It is a trust that fits thee well, for thou art stout and bold;
But see that thou advance it not unless I give command."
Bermuez took the standard and he kissed the Champion's hand.
Then bursting through the castle gates upon the plain they is
how;
Back on their lines in panic fall the watchmen of the foe.
And hurrying to and fro the Moors are arming all around,
While Moorish drums go rolling like to split the very ground,
And in hot haste they mass their troops behind their standards
twain,
Two mighty bands of men-at-arms to count them it were vain.
And now their line comes sweeping on, advancing to the fray,
Sure of my Cid and all his band to make an easy prey.
"Now steady, comrades"' said my Cid; "our ground we have to
stand;
Let no man stir beyond the ranks until I give command."
Bermuez fretted at the word, delay he could not brook;
He spurred his charger to the front, aloft the banner shook:
"O loyal Cid Campeador, God give the aid! I go
To plant thy ensign in among the thickest of the foe;
And ye who serve it, be it yours our standard to restore."
"Not so—as thou dost love me, stay!" called the Campeador.
Came Pero's answer, "Their attack I cannot, will not stay."
He gave his horse the spur and dashed against the Moors array.
To win the standard eager all the Moors await the shock,
Amid a rain of blows he stands unshaken as a rock.
Then cried my Cid: "In charity, on to the rescue—ho!"
With bucklers braced before their breasts, with lances pointing
low,
With stooping crests and heads bent down above the saddle bow,
All firm of hand and high of heart they roll upon the foe.
And he that in a good hour was born, his clarion voice rings out,
And clear above the clang of arms is heard his battle shout,
"Among them, gentlemen! Strike home for the love of charity!
The Champion of Bivar is here—Ruy Diaz—I am he!"
Then bearing where Bermuez still maintains unequal fight,
Three hundred lances down they come, their pennons flickering
white;
Down go three hundred Moors to earth, a man to every blow;
And when they wheel three hundred more, as wheeling back they go.
It was a sight to see the lances rise and fall that day;
The shivered shields and riven mail, to see how thick they lay;
The pennons that went in snow-white come out a gory red;
The horses running riderless, the riders lying dead;
While Moors call on Mohammed, and "St. James!" the Christians
cry,
And sixty score of Moors and more in narrow compass lie.
Above his gilded saddle-bow there played the Champion's sword;
And Minaya Alvar Fanez, Zurita's gallant lord;
Add Martin Antolinez the worthy Burgalese;
And Muno Gustioz his squire—all to the front were these.
And there was Martin Mufloz, he who ruled in Mont Mayor;
And there was Alvar Alvarez, and Alvar Salvador;
And the good Galin Garcia, stout lance of Arragon;
And Felix Mufloz, nephew of my Cid the Champion.
Well did they quit themselves that day, all these and many more,
In rescue of the standard for my Cid Campeador.
—Tr. by Ormsby.
THE BATTLE WITH KING BUCAR OF MOROCCO, AT VALENCIA.
Loud from among the Moorish tents the call to battle comes,
And some there are, unused to war, awed by the rolling drums.
Ferrando and Diego most: of troubled mind are they;
Not of their will they find themselves before the Moors that day.
"Pero Burmuez," said the Cid, "my nephew staunch and true,
Ferrando and Diego do I give in charge to you;
Be yours the task in this day's fight my sons-in-law to shield,
For, by God's grace to-day we sweep the Moors from off the
field!"
"Nay," said Bermuez, "Cid, for all the love I bear to thee,
The safety of thy sons-in-law no charge of mine shall be.
Let him who will the office fill; my place is at the front,
Among the comrades of my choice to bear the battle's brunt;
As it is thine upon the rear against surprise to guard,
And ready stand to give support where'er the fight goes hard."
Came Alvar Fanez: "Loyal Cid Campeador," he cried,
"This battle surely God ordains—He will be on our side;
Now give the order of attack which seems to thee the befit,
And, trust me, every man of us will do his chief's behest."
But lo! all armed from head to heel the Bishop Jeronie shows;
He ever brings good fortune to my Cid where'er he goes.
"Mass have I said, and now I come to join you in the fray;
To strike a blow against the Moor in battle if I may,
And in the field win honor for my order and my hand.
It is for this that I am here, far from my native land.
Unto Valencia did I come to cast my lot with you,
All for the longing that I had to slay a Moor or two.
And so in warlike guise I come, with blazoned shield and lance,
That I may flesh my blade to-day, if God but give the chance,
Then send me to the front to do the bidding of my heart:
Grant me this favor that I ask, or else, my Cid, we part."
"Good!" said my Cid. "Go, flesh thy blade; there stand thy Moorish
foes.
Now shall we see how gallantly our fighting Abbot goes."
He said; and straight the Bishop's spurs are in his charger's
flanks,
And with a will he flings himself against the Moorish ranks.
By his good fortune, and the aid of God, that loved him well,
Two of the foe before his point at the first onset fell.
His lance he broke, he drew his sword—God! how the good steel
played!
Two with the lance he slew, now five go down beneath his blade.
But many are the Moors and round about him fast they close,
And on his hauberk, and his shield, they rain a shower of blows.
He in the good hour born beheld Don Jerome sorely pressed;
He braced his buckler on his arm, he laid his lance in rest,
And aiming where beset by Moors the Bishop stood at bay,
Touched Bavieca with the spur and plunged into the fray;
And flung to earth unhorsed were seven, and lying dead were four,
Where breaking through the Moorish ranks came the Campeador.
God it so pleased, that this should be the finish of the fight;
Before the lances of my Cid the fray became a flight;
And then to see the tent-ropes burst, the tent-poles prostrate
flung!
As the Cid's horsemen crashing came the Moorish tents among.
Forth from the camp King Bucar's Moors they drove upon the plain,
And charging on the rout, they rode and cut them down amain
Here severed lay the mail-clad arm, there lay the steel-capped
head,
And here the charger riderless, ran trampling on the dead.
Behind King Bucar as he fled my Cid came spurring on;
"Now, turn thee, Bucar, turn!" he cried; "here is the Bearded
One:
Here is that Cid you came to seek, King from beyond the main,
Let there be peace and amity to-day between us twain."
Said Bucar, "Nay; thy naked sword, thy rushing steed, I see;
If these mean amity, then God confound such amity.
Thy hand and mine shall never join unless in yonder deep,
If the good steed that I bestride his footing can but keep."
Swift was the steed, but swifter borne on Bavieca's stride,
Three fathoms from the sea my Cid rode at King Bucar's side;
Aloft his blade a moment played, then on the helmet's crown,
Shearing the steel-cap dight with gems, Colada he brought down.
Down to the belt, through helm and mail, he cleft the Moor in
twain.
And so he slew King Bucar, who came from beyond the main.
This was the battle, this the day, when he the great sword won,
Worth a full thousand marks of gold—the famous Brand Tizon.
—Tr. by Ormsby.
CHAPTER III. SCANDINAVIAN LITERATURE.
Scandinavian literature embraces the literature of Norway,
Sweden, Iceland, and their western colonies. In the Middle Ages
this literature reached its fullest and best development in
Iceland.
The earliest and greatest portion of this literature is the heroic poetry forming the collection called the Poetic or Elder Edda. Like all early poetry these were minstrel poems, passing orally from singer (skald) to singer for centuries. Some of them were composed as early as the eighth century. The collection was probably made in the thirteenth century (1240). The collection consists of thirty-nine distinct songs or poems. They are based upon common Norse mythology and tradition. In one section of this collection is found in outline the story of the Nibelungs and Brunhild-the story which later formed the basis of the "Niebelungen-Lied". This fact connects the two literatures with the original common Teutonic traditions. Anderson says, "The Elder Edda presents the Norse cosmogony, the doctrines of the Odinic mythology, and the lives and doings of the gods. It contains also a cycle of poems on the demigods and mythic heroes and heroines of the same period. It gives us as complete a view of the mythological world of the North as Homer and Hesiod do of that of Greece" (Norse Mythology). Almost equal in importance and interest is the Prose Edda, sometimes called the Younger Edda, arranged and in part written by Snorra Sturleson, who lived from 1178 to 1241. The chief portions of it are:
1. "Gylfaginning," in which Odin recounts to Gylf the history of the gods.
2. "Bragaraethur, the conversations of Braga the god of poetry.
Other and less important varieties of Scandinavian literature are the romances of history and romances of pure fiction.
VOLUSPA. THE ORACLE OF THE PROPHETESS VALA.
The Voluspa is the first song in the Elder Edda. It is a song of a prophetess and gives an account of the creation of the world, of man, giants, and dwarfs; of the employments of fairies or destinies; of the functions of the gods, their adventures, their quarrels, and the vengeance they take; of the final state of the universe and its dissolution; of the battle of the lower deities and the evil beings; of the renovation of the world; of the happy lot of the good, and the punishment of the wicked. The first passage selected gives the account of creation.
In early times,
When Ymer[1] lived,
Was sand, nor sea,
Nor cooling wave;
No earth was found,
Nor heaven above;
One chaos all,
And nowhere grass:
Until Bor's[2] sons
Th' expanse did raise,
By whom Midgard [3]
The great was made.
From th' south the sun
Shone on the walls;
Then did the earth
Green herbs produce.
The sun turned south;
The moon did shine;
Her right hand held
The horse of heaven.
The sun knew not
His proper sphere;
The stars knew not
Their proper place;
The moon know not
Her proper power.
Then all the powers
Went to the throne,
The holy gods,
And held consult:
Night and cock-crowing
Their names they gave,
Morning also,
And noon-day tide,
And afternoon,
The years to tell.
The Asas[4] met
On Ida's plains,
Who altars raised
And temples built;
Anvils they laid,
And money coined;
Their strength they tried
In various ways,
When making songs,
And forming tools.
On th' green they played
In joyful mood,
Nor knew at all
The want of gold,
Until there came
Three Thursa maids,
Exceeding strong,
From Jotunheim:[5]
. . . .
Until there came
Out of the ranks,
Powerful and fair,
Three Asas home,
And found on shore,
In helpless plight,
Ask and Embla [6]
Without their fate.
They had not yet
Spirit or mind,
Blood, or beauty,
Or lovely hue.
Odin gave spirit,
Heinir gave mind,
Lothur gave blood
And lovely hue.
[1] Ymer, the progenitor of the giants.
[2] Bor, the father of Odin, Vile, and Ve.
[3] Midgard, the earth.
[4] Asas, the gods.
[5] The home of the giants.
[6] The first man and first woman made out of pine trees by the three gods Odin, Heinir, and Lothur.
—Tr. by Henderson.
The second passage gives an account of the universal dissolution—called Ragnarok, the Twilight of the Gods.
Loud barks Garm 1]
At Gnipa-cave;
The fetters are severed,
The wolf is set free,
Vala[2] knows the future.
More does she see
Of the victorious gods,
Terrible fall.
From the east drives Hrym,[3]
Bears his child before him;
Jormungander welters
In giant fierceness;
The waves thunder;
The eagle screams,
Rends the corpses with pale beak,
And Naglfar[4] is launched.
A ship from the east nears,
The hosts of Muspel
Come o'er the main,
But Loke is pilot.
All grim and gaunt monsters
Conjoin with the wolf,
And before them all goes
The brother of Byleist.[5]
From the south wends Surt [6]
With seething fire;
The sun of the war-god
Shines in his sword;
Mountains together dash,
And frighten the giant-maids;
Heroes tread the paths to Hel,
And heaven in twain is rent.
Over Him [7] then shall come
Another woe,
When Odin goes forth
The wolf to combat.
. . . .
All men
Abandon the earth.
The sun darkens,
The earth sinks into the ocean;
The lucid stars
From heaven vanish;
Fire and vapor
Rage toward heaven;
High flames
Involve the skies.
Loud barks Garm
At Gnipa-eave:
The fetters are severed,
The wolf is set free,—
Vala knows the future.
More does she see
Of the victorious gods,
Terrible fall.
[1] Hel's dog.
[2] Vala, the prophetess.
[3] The winter.
[4] Naglfar, a ship of the gods.
[5] The brother of Byleist, Loke.
[6] Surt, a fire-giant.
[7] Hlin, a name sometimes used for the goddess, Frigg.
—Tr. by Thorpe.
The conclusion of the "Voluspa "is the following picture of the regenerated earth.
She sees arise,
The second time,
From the sea, the earth
Completely green:
Cascades do fall;
The eagle soars,
That on the hills
Pursues his prey.
The gods convene
On Ida's plains,
And talk of man,
The worm of dust:
They call to mind
Their former might,
And the ancient runes
Of Fimbultyr.[1]
The fields unsown
Shall yield their growth;
All ills shall cease;
Balder[2] shall come,
And dwell with Hauthr[3]
In Hropt's[4] abodes.
Say, warrior-gods,
Conceive ye yet?
A hall she sees
Outshine the sun,
Of gold its roof,
It stands in heaven:
The virtuous there
Shall always dwell,
And evermore
Delights enjoy.
[1] Fimbultyr, Odin.
[2] Balder, the god of the summer.
[3] Hauthr, Hoder, the brother of Balder.
[4] Hropt, Odin. of Odinic morality and precepts of wisdom, in the form of social and moral maxims.
—Tr. by Henderson.
HAVAMAL.
The High-Song of Odin. This is the second song in the Elder Edda. Odin himself is represented as its author. It contains a pretty complete code.
All door-ways
Before going forward,
Should be looked to;
For difficult it is to know
Where foes may sit
Within a dwelling.
. . . .
Of his understanding
No one should be proud,
But rather in conduct cautious.
When the prudent and taciturn
Come to a dwelling,
Harm seldom befalls the cautious;
For a firmer friend
No man ever gets
Than great sagacity.
. . . .
One's own house is best,
Small though it be;
At home is every one his own master.
Though he but two goats possess,
And a straw-thatched cot,
Even that is better than begging.
One's own house is best,
Small though it be;
At home is every one his own master.
Bleeding at heart is he
Who has to ask
For food at every meal-tide.
. . . .
A miserable man,
And ill-conditioned,
Sneers at everything:
One thing he knows not,
Which he ought to know,
That he is not free from faults.
. . . .
Know if thou hast a friend
Whom thou fully trustest,
And from whom thou would'st good derive;
Thou should'st blend thy mind with his,
And gifts exchange,
And often go to see him.
If thou hast another
Whom thou little trustest,
Yet would'st good from him derive,
Thou should'st speak him fair,
But think craftily,
And leasing pay with lying.
But of him yet further
Whom thou little trustest,
And thou suspectest his affection,
Before him thou should'st laugh,
And contrary to thy thoughts speak;
Requital should the gift resemble.
I once was young,
I was journeying alone
And lost my way;
Rich I thought myself
When I met another:
Man is the joy of man.
Liberal and brave
Men live best,
They seldom cherish sorrow;
But a bare-minded man
Dreads everything;
The niggardly is uneasy even at gifts.
My garments in a field
I gave away
To two wooden men:
Heroes they seemed to be
When they got cloaks:[1]
Exposed to insult is a naked man.
. . . . .
Something great
Is not always to be given,
Praise is often for a trifle bought.
With half a loaf
And a tilted vessel
I got myself a comrade.
Little are the sand grains,
Little the wits,
Little the minds of men;
For all men
Are not wise alike:
Men are everywhere by halves.
Moderately wise
Should each one be,
But never over-wise;
For a wise man's heart
Is seldom glad,
If he is all-wise who owns it.
. . . .
Much too early
I came to many places,
But too late to others;
The beer was drunk, or not ready:
The disliked seldom hits the moment.
. . . .
Cattle die,
Kindred die,
We ourselves also die;
But the fair fame
Never dies of him who has earned it.
Cattle die,
Kindred die,
We ourselves also die;
But I know one thing
That never dies,
Judgment on each one dead.
[1] The tailor makes the man.
—Tr. by Thorpe.
VAFTHRUDNISMAL. THE SONG OF VAFTHRUDNER.
From the third poem in the Elder Edda came the following lines, describing the day and the night:
Delling called is he
Who the Day's father is,
But Night was of Norve born;
The new and waning moons
The beneficent powers created
To count years for men.
Skinfaxe[1] he is named
That the bright day draws
Forth over human kind;
Of coursers he is best accounted
Among faring men;
Ever sheds light that horse's mane.
Hrimfaxe[2] he is called
That each night draws forth
Over the beneficent powers;
He from his bit lets fall
Drops every morn
Whence in the dells comes dew.
—Tr. by Thorpe
[1] Skinfaxe (shining mane), the horse of Day.
[2] Hrimfaxe (Rime mane), the horse of Night.