Poems Found in Translation: Alliterative Meter
Showing posts with label Alliterative Meter. Show all posts

Al-Mutanabbi: On the Recapture of Al-Ḥadath (From Arabic)

The year is 954 A.D. Al-Ḥadath Al-Ḥamrā is a strategically important town on the Arab-Byzantine border, between Marˁaš and Malaṭiya, which depended for protection on a fortress built on nearby Mount Uḥaydib. After being captured and demilitarized in 950 by the Byzantines, it was retaken in October of 954 by Sayfu l-Dawla Abū Ḥasan Bin Ḥamdān, the Emir of Aleppo (whom I have seen fit to anglicize as Lord Ali the Realmsword) who set about refortifying it, only to be interrupted by the appearance of Byzantine forces under the command of Bardas Phocas. Before the end of the month, a decisive battle was fought around Mount Uhaydib. After a day of heavy fighting, Lord Realmsword with a small company of hardened men broke through the Byzantine line. Bardas' forces retreated, leaving members of his own family as prisoners. Lord Realmsword was then able to finish up the fortification of Al-Hadath, whereupon he had the pleasure of hearing his court poet Abū Ṭayyib Al-Mutanabbī recite the poem translated here in celebration of the occasion.

Oh and here's a recording of me reciting the Arabic text:

In Praise of Lord Realmsword on the Recapture of Al-Hadath
By Al-Mutanabbī
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
This translation is dedicated to Tahera Qutbuddin, in whose wonderful seminar I had the pleasure of reading this and other poems by Al-Mutanabbī and got some idea of how to translate him. 

Resolutions measure a man's resolve
 and noble deeds a noble name.
Small deeds loom large to little eyes
 and great deeds shrink in a great man's gaze.
Behold Lord Ali of the house of Hamdan,
 See how Realmsword is rightly his name.
He wills his forces
 to show the force of his will
 which hardened brigades can hardly attain
He expects of his men
 no more than himself
 but more than the lordliest of lions can claim.
Agelong vultures
 of the vast drylands
 would pledge their lives to protect his blades.
They'd meet no harm though made talonless
 since his sturdy arms of steel were made.
Does that Red City
 still realize her color,(2)
 whether cloudbursts brought the blood or the rain?
Where first she drank of flashing clouds
 she drank of skulls the day he came.
While blade beat blade he built and braced her
 where she shook from the force of the Fates' brute waves.
She lay mad in the hold
 of an unholy spell
 that dead bodies broke at break of day.

Displaced by Fate
 to a foreign creed,
 the strike of your swords restored her Faith.
What nights yield to you
 is yours forever.
 What they steal from you they soon must repay.
Plans you pass are verbs
 in the present now 
 having moved to past before men can negate.
No Roman or Viking
(3)  could raze that stronghold
 raised with pikethrusts  for pillars and base.
No wronged man died and no wrongdoer lived
 when they called her to justice. The Judge was Fate.

So clad in steel they came at you
 their coursers seemed legless crossing the plain.
When they flashed, their blades  all blended in
 with steel garments aglint with day,
An army on the crawl from east and west
 clamoring till the ears of Orion(4) ached,
A horde of tangled tongues and peoples
 with translators for each order relayed. 

Then that molten time melted fake mettle 
 till only war's metal and men remained
Every sword shattered that failed to shatter
 the bulwark of bloodwood and bucklers and mail
Every fool turned gutless in fear of gutting
 fled from the ranks of fighters that day. 
Where standing meant death you stood your ground
 as if on the sleeping eyelids of bane.
While wounded, fright-fouled fighters ran past you
 you fought with a smile and a shining face
and went beyond bounds of bravery and reason
 till they said you knew the Numen's ways.

I know how hawks  will hold birds down
 in a grip to gut  their grounded game.(5)
You squeezed the foe's wings on a squirming heart
 and dealt hard death to downstruck prey.
You skivered their skulls when you still hadn't won
 then their vitals and throats as victory came. 
You detested lances  and tossed them aside,
 your sword spitting on spears at close range. 

Let any who look for the light of conquest
 see it in the luster of lightweight blades.
You strewed them hard over Uháydib like coins
 strewn over a woman on her wedding day.  
Your horses trampled the hilltop nests
 where fodder galore before them lay.
Eaglets imagined  it was their mothers you brought,
 not the sturdy wingfoot  steeds that raced
till they slipped and you had them slide on their bellies 
 across the earth like crawling snakes. 

Will the Domesticus(6) dare every day against you
 with his neck fighting  his advancing face? 
Does he not sense lions'  scent till he tastes it?
 Even wildbeasts can sense a lion on the way. 
Our leader's sorties struck him hard 
 when his son, his wife's brother  and his son were slain.
Troops helped him scamp to escape the swords
 that were busy hacking  their heads away. 
He got the message  of Mashrafi(7) steel
 to his men, though told  in the tongue of strangers. 
He was glad to surrender not in stupidity,
 but after his loss even life was a gain. 
You are no mere king who conquers his peer(8)
     but the one God's triumph over triune pagans,
You have ennobled  all of Adnan(9),
  Pride of the Outlands(10) and all creation. 
The praise is yours for my pearls of verse:
 I just string them.  You set their shape.   
Your gifts(111) gallop with me through the grind of war
 so you bear no regrets and I no blame
On a steed whose feet  fly to battle
 as soon as it hears the howling fray.

Oh Realmsword unsheathed  and ready forever,
 held in no doubt nor held at bay.
Joy to skull-strikers, to stout men's deeds,
 to them that love you and Islam: you are safe. 
And why wouldn't God still guard your edge
 to behead his foes with you for a blade?

Notes:


2 — Hali l-ḥadaṯu l-ḥamrā'u taˁrifu lawnahā? (Literally: "Does Red Al-Hadath know her color?")

"Red" was a term that could be used for non-Arabs, especially Persians, Greeks or "Franks" (Western Europeans) who were seen as being of lighter complexion. E.g. Atānī kullu aswada minhum wa'aḥmar "Every one of them, Arab and not, came to me". A saying attributed to Muhammad has it that buˁiṯtu ilā l-'aḥmari wa-l-aswad "I was sent to the red and the black" of which the most straightforward interpretation is "to all mankind, Arab and not." The term Al-Ḥamrā' as a collective adjective may also be used to refer generically to foreigners, or to emancipated slaves.

Al-Hadaṯ Al-Ḥamrā' "Red Hadath" is the traditional appellation of the city. The color is — I think — being played on at multiple levels. She (the city is morphosyntactically feminine) is in the most obvious sense "red" after being soaked with blood. But she was also a "red" (foreign, Greek) city when under Byzantine rule, which she no longer is. She is now "red" (emancipated from bondage) now that Lord Realmsword has relieved her of foreign control. Despite her traditional appellation, she may not even know that she is now red in one sense, and was red in the other, so completely has she now been redeemed to her proper place under Islamdom.

3 — "Vikings". The original text uses the word Rūs which in Modern Arabic simply means "Russians." Anglophone commenters on this poem have usually translated it thus, and Arabic commentaries often leave the word unglossed as though its meaning were transparent. But the Arabic word Rūs, at this time, actually referred to Norsemen (specifically the Byzantine Varangian guard is probably what is meant.) Since English "Rus" is far too scholarly, and "Norsemen" would be a bit too specific, I have used the most readily intelligible term Vikings. (I considered calquing off of Old Norse Garðmaðr and rendering the phrase as "Greeks and Garthmen" or the like. But somehow it felt a bit silly to go to such an extreme.)

4 — The original actually refers to Gemini, a different constellation. But makes for a more transparent image of an anthropomorphized stellar figure.

5 — This verse, like some others in my translation, does not have an exact counterpart in the original. But it served in English to make the image clearer. Al-Mutanabbī's description evokes the way a hawk pounces on larger types of prey. The predator holds its prey to the ground, delivering blows to the skull to dispatch it fully before slashing into the throat.

6 — Domesticus (or, rather δομέστικος) was Bardas' Byzantine military title, loaned into Arabic as dumustuq, which is the word Al-Mutanabbī uses.

7 — In poetry, good swords are often said to be "Mashrafi" after an obscure place called Mashraf. Nobody quite knows why, though everybody likes to guess.

8 — Literally "You are monotheism defeating polytheism (širk)". That Christians have in some sense diluted the principle of monotheism by worshipping a trinity was — as it still is — a commonplace of anti-Christian Muslim polemic.

9 — Adnan: the Northern Arabs are supposedly descendants of ˁAdnān.

10 — "Outlands" is my rendering of ˁawāṣim. The word has often been misread as meaning "capitals" which is its sense in Modern Arabic. The term ˁawāṣim here refers to a part of the frontier zone between the Byzantine Empire and the Empire of the Caliphs. The forward strongholds of this zone were called ṯuġūr "mouths", while those further rearward were called the ˁawāṣim "guardianesses". 

11 — Lord Realmsword had gifted the poet with some horses.

The Original:

عَلى قَدْرِ أهْلِ العَزْم تأتي العَزائِمُ   وَتأتي علَى قَدْرِ الكِرامِ المَكارمُ
وَتَعْظُمُ في عَينِ الصّغيرِ صغارُها وَتَصْغُرُ في عَين العَظيمِ العَظائِمُ
يُكَلّفُ سيفُ الدّوْلَةِ الجيشَ هَمّهُ وَقد عَجِزَتْ عنهُ الجيوشُ الخضارمُ
وَيَطلُبُ عندَ النّاسِ ما عندَ نفسِه وَذلكَ ما لا تَدّعيهِ الضّرَاغِمُ
يُفَدّي أتَمُّ الطّيرِ عُمْراً سِلاحَهُ نُسُورُ الفَلا أحداثُها وَالقَشاعِمُ
وَما ضَرّها خَلْقٌ بغَيرِ مَخالِبٍ وَقَدْ خُلِقَتْ أسيافُهُ وَالقَوائِمُ
هَلِ الحَدَثُ الحَمراءُ تَعرِفُ لوْنَها وَتَعْلَمُ أيُّ السّاقِيَيْنِ الغَمَائِمُ
سَقَتْها الغَمَامُ الغُرُّ قَبْلَ نُزُولِهِ فَلَمّا دَنَا مِنها سَقَتها الجَماجِمُ
بَنَاهَا فأعْلى وَالقَنَا يَقْرَعُ القَنَا وَمَوْجُ المَنَايَا حَوْلَها مُتَلاطِمُ
وَكانَ بهَا مثْلُ الجُنُونِ فأصْبَحَتْ وَمِنْ جُثَثِ القَتْلى عَلَيْها تَمائِمُ
طَريدَةُ دَهْرٍ ساقَها فَرَدَدْتَهَا على  الدّينِ بالخَطّيّ وَالدّهْرُ رَاغِمُ
تُفيتُ کللّيالي كُلَّ شيءٍ أخَذْتَهُ وَهُنّ لِمَا يأخُذْنَ منكَ غَوَارِمُ
إذا كانَ ما تَنْوِيهِ فِعْلاً مُضارِعاً مَضَى قبلَ أنْ تُلقى علَيهِ الجَوازِمُ
وكيفَ تُرَجّي الرّومُ والرّوسُ هدمَها وَذا الطّعْنُ آساسٌ لهَا وَدَعائِمُ
وَقَد حاكَمُوهَا وَالمَنَايَا حَوَاكِمٌ فَما ماتَ مَظلُومٌ وَلا عاشَ ظالِمُ
أتَوْكَ يَجُرّونَ الحَديدَ كَأنّمَا سَرَوْا إليك بِجِيَادٍ ما لَهُنّ قَوَائِمُ
إذا بَرَقُوا لم تُعْرَفِ البِيضُ منهُمُ ثِيابُهُمُ من مِثْلِها وَالعَمَائِمُ
خميسٌ بشرْقِ الأرْضِ وَالغرْبِ زَحْفُهُ وَفي أُذُنِ الجَوْزَاءِ منهُ زَمَازِمُ
تَجَمّعَ فيهِ كلُّ لِسْنٍ وَأُمّةٍ فَمَا يُفْهِمُ الحُدّاثَ إلاّ الترَاجِمُ
فَلِلّهِ وَقْتٌ ذَوّبَ الغِشَّ نَارُهُ فَلَمْ يَبْقَ إلاّ صَارِمٌ أوْ ضُبارِمُ
تَقَطّعَ ما لا يَقْطَعُ الدّرْعَ وَالقَنَا وَفَرّ منَ الفُرْسانِ مَنْ لا يُصادِمُ
وَقَفْتَ وَما في المَوْتِ شكٌّ لوَاقِفٍ كأنّكَ في جَفنِ الرّدَى وهْوَ نائِمُ
تَمُرّ بكَ الأبطالُ كَلْمَى هَزيمَةً وَوَجْهُكَ وَضّاحٌ وَثَغْرُكَ باسِمُ
تجاوَزْتَ مِقدارَ الشّجاعَةِ والنُّهَى إلى قَوْلِ قَوْمٍ أنتَ بالغَيْبِ عالِمُ
ضَمَمْتَ جَناحَيهِمْ على القلبِ ضَمّةً تَمُوتُ الخَوَافي تحتَها وَالقَوَادِمُ
بضَرْبٍ أتَى الهاماتِ وَالنّصرُ غَائِبٌ وَصَارَ إلى اللّبّاتِ وَالنّصرُ قَادِمُ
حَقَرْتَ الرُّدَيْنِيّاتِ حتى طَرَحتَها وَحتى كأنّ السّيفَ للرّمحِ شاتِمُ
وَمَنْ طَلَبَ الفَتْحَ الجَليلَ فإنّمَا مَفاتِيحُهُ البِيضُ الخِفافُ الصّوَارِمُ
نَثَرْتَهُمُ فَوْقَ الأُحَيْدِبِ كُلّهِ كمَا نُثِرَتْ فَوْقَ العَرُوسِ الدّراهمُ
تدوسُ بكَ الخيلُ الوكورَ على الذُّرَى وَقد كثرَتْ حَوْلَ الوُكورِ المَطاعِمُ
تَظُنّ فِراخُ الفُتْخِ أنّكَ زُرْتَهَا بأُمّاتِها وَهْيَ العِتاقُ الصّلادِمُ
إذا زَلِقَتْ مَشّيْتَها ببُطونِهَا كمَا تَتَمَشّى في الصّعيدِ الأراقِمُ
أفي كُلّ يَوْمٍ ذا الدُّمُسْتُقُ مُقدِمٌ قَفَاهُ على الإقْدامِ للوَجْهِ لائِمُ
أيُنكِرُ رِيحَ اللّيثِ حتى يَذُوقَهُ وَقد عَرَفتْ ريحَ اللّيوثِ البَهَائِمُ
وَقد فَجَعَتْهُ بابْنِهِ وَابنِ صِهْرِهِ وَبالصّهْرِ حَمْلاتُ الأميرِ الغَوَاشِمُ
مضَى يَشكُرُ الأصْحَابَ في فوْته الظُّبَى لِمَا شَغَلَتْهَا هامُهُمْ وَالمَعاصِمُ
وَيَفْهَمُ صَوْتَ المَشرَفِيّةِ فيهِمِ على أنّ أصْواتَ السّيوفِ أعَاجِمُ
يُسَرّ بمَا أعْطاكَ لا عَنْ جَهَالَةٍ وَلكِنّ مَغْنُوماً نَجَا منكَ غانِمُ
وَلَسْتَ مَليكاً هازِماً لِنَظِيرِهِ وَلَكِنّكَ التّوْحيدُ للشّرْكِ هَازِمُ
تَشَرّفُ عَدْنانٌ بهِ لا رَبيعَةٌ وَتَفْتَخِرُ الدّنْيا بهِ لا العَوَاصِمُ
لَكَ الحَمدُ في الدُّرّ الذي ليَ لَفظُهُ فإنّكَ مُعْطيهِ وَإنّيَ نَاظِمُ
وَإنّي لَتَعْدو بي عَطَايَاكَ في الوَغَى فَلا أنَا مَذْمُومٌ وَلا أنْتَ نَادِمُ
عَلى كُلّ طَيّارٍ إلَيْهَا برِجْلِهِ إذا وَقَعَتْ في مِسْمَعَيْهِ الغَمَاغِمُ
ألا أيّها السّيفُ الذي لَيسَ مُغمَداً وَلا فيهِ مُرْتابٌ وَلا منْهُ عَاصِمُ
هَنيئاً لضَرْبِ الهَامِ وَالمَجْدِ وَالعُلَى وَرَاجِيكَ وَالإسْلامِ أنّكَ سالِمُ
وَلِمْ لا يَقي الرّحم?نُ حدّيك ما وَقى وَتَفْليقُهُ هَامَ العِدَى بكَ دائِمُ

Anonymous: Deor (From Old English)

This poem refers to stock characters — real and fictional — from Germanic lore. Some of the figures are now obscure, and most are not known directly from Old English versions of the story. I have modernized many of the names in my translation, giving them forms that would be plausible as Modern English versions of the name. The biggest exception is Wayland, whose Old English name would actually have been Weeland or Weland had it survived into the modern period.

Wayland (Old English Wéland, Old Norse Vǫlundr, Old High German Wiolant) was a smith renowned for his metal working ability. He was forced to work for Nithad (OE Niþhad, ON Níðuðr) who hamstrung him to stop his escape. Wayland avenged himself by killing the king's sons, raping his daughter Beadild (OE Beadohilde, ON Bǫðvildr). Mathild and Geat are opaque. They appear to be famous lovers that met a tragic end, like Romeo and Juliet, or Layla and Majnun. The ablest guess is that they correspond to Magnhild and Gaute of a Scandinavian ballad tale recorded in the 19th century, but even if so the story as it was known to the poet's English audience may well have differed greatly from the version known from Scandinavia a thousand years later. Thedric is Theodoric, the Ostrogothic emperor who ruled in Italy from 493 to 526. Armenric is Ermanaric the Goth, another famous tyrant, known to us from Beowulf and Widsith. (I confected the form Armenric by positing that the vowel of Eormanric underwent pre-rhotic lowering to /a/ in Late Middle English and, as in most native words, failed to raise again in the Early Modern period. Eormanric becomes Armenric just like "feorr", "deorc" do "far", "dark".)

The phonology of my recording below is not based on the extant West Saxon text in the Exeter Book. That'd be too easy and I wanted to do something different. Trying to date a poem as short as this is difficult, but its subject matter and in particular its preservation of genuine Old English reflexes of mythical proper names suggests that it isn't much younger than the 9th century if that. I based my reading on the Mercian dialect recorded in the Vespasian Psalter. Thus vowel length has collapsed in inflectional endings, /ĕ̄o/ and /ĭ̄o/ have merged, and Mercian second fronting is in full effect. The text shown in the video is meant to give an idea of what the text in the Exeter Book might have looked like if it were copied out faithfully from a Mercian exemplar.

Deor
By Anonymnous
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Wayland in Wormland went through harrows,
The strongminded smith suffered in exile.
Worry and longing  walked beside him,
winter-raw anguish. He ached for escape
after King Nithad cramped his sinews 
and bound a slave of the better man.

That passed in time. So too can this. 

To Beadild's mind her brothers' deaths
weren't as wounding as what she faced
herself when she came to clearly see
that she was pregnant. That princess unwed
could not handle what would become of her.

That passed in time. So too can this.

We know the tale   of tragic Mathild.
the Geat bore her a bottomless passion,
all sleep banished  by a baneful love

That passed in time. So too can this.

Tyrant Thedrick for thirty winters
ruled the Mearings, as many know.

That passed in time. So too can this.

We have all heard tell of Armenrick
and his wolfsick mind. He was one cruel king,
That overlord of the outland Goths
whose state was set in strung-up hearts 
as strong men sat in sorrow-chains
awaiting the worst, and wishing so much
for a foe to liberate the land of their king.

That passed in time. So too can this.

A man sits mournful, mind ripped from joy.
His spirit in dark, he deems himself
foredoomed to endure ordeals forever.
Then he may think how throughout the world
the Wise God goes and works around:
meting out grace, mercy and certain
success to some, suffering to many.

Of myself I want to say just this:
I was high poet  to the Hedenings once,
Dear to my master. "Deer" was my name.
For many winters  I was a man in that hall
And the heart of my lord. But Herrend came
And reaped the riches and rights of land
That guardian of men  once granted me,
And stole my place  with a poet's skill. 

That passed in time. So too can this.

The Original:

Wélond him be wurman  wreces cunnade
ánhýdiġ eorl  earfoða drég
hefde him tó ġesíþþe  sorġe end longoþ
wintercalde wræce  wéan oft onfond
seoþþan hine níþhád on  néde leġde
swoncre seonobende  on sellan mon

þes oferéode  þisses swé meġ

Beadohilde ne wes  hire bróðra déaþ
on seofan swé sár  swé hire seolfre þing,
þet híe ġearolíċe  onġeten hefde
þet híe écen wes;  ǽfre ne mehte
þríste ġeþencan,  hú ymb þet ṡċolde.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ

Wé þet Mǽþhilde  monġe ġefrugnon
wurdon grundléase  Ġéates fríge,
þet him séo sorglufu  slép alle binom.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ

Þéodríċ áhte  þrítiġ wintra
Méringa burg;  þet wes moneġum cúþ.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ

Wé ġeáscadun  Éormonríċes
wylfenne ġeþóht;  áhte wíde folc
Gotena ríċes.  Þet wes grim cyning.
Set seċġ moniġ  sorgum ġebunden,
wéan on wénan,  wyṡċte ġenehhe
þet þes cyneríċes  ofercumen wére.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ

Siteþ sorgċeriġ,  sélum bidǽled,
on seofan swerċeþ,  seolfum þinceþ
þet síe endeléas  earfoða dæl.
Meġ þonne ġeþencan,  þet ġeond þás weoruld
wítiġ dryhten  wendeþ genehhe,
eorle monegum  áre geṡċéawaþ,
wíslícne bléd,  sumum wéana dǽl.

Þet iċ bi mé seolfum  seċġan wille,
þet iċ hwíle wes Heodeninga sċop,
dryhtne déore.  Mé wes Déor noma.
Áhte iċ feola wintra  folgaþ tilne,
holdne hláford,  oþþet Heorrenda nú,
léoþcreftiġ monn  londreht ġeþáh,
þet mé eorla hléow  ǽr ġesalde.

þes oferéode þisses swé meġ






Beowulf 2231-2270: Lament of the Last Survivor (From Old English)

Lament of the Last Survivor 
(Beowulf 2231-2270)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

  There was such ancient wealth in that earthen vault.
In an age long past, with an end in his mind,
someone now nameless had known to hide
his dear treasure in the darkness here,
the heaped legacy of a highborn race
at dynasty's end.  Death already
had taken them all in times gone by,
and left just this one: the last warrior
of a fallen line whose fate he mourned,
expecting the same. This sad watchman
knew that ageless hoard would be only his
to enjoy briefly. The barrow stood
built and waiting  by the breaking waves
crafted for safety, set on the headland.
That keeper of rings  then carried in
all the gold-plated  goods he had there
worth protecting.  His words were these few:
    "Hold now, O earth, what heroes cannot:
Wealth of warriors. It was worthy men
who delved it from you. Death in battle
has mowed them down. Mortal horror
has made away with the mortal souls
of each of my clan who have quit this life,
the hall-mirth of knights. Nobody's here
to bear me a blade or bring my cup's
burnished meadgold. My band moved on.
The hard helmet hasped in goldwork
must lose its hoop. Helm-shiners sleep
that once burnished my battle-mask. 
War-coats that braved the biting steel
when shields burst wide will be worn to bits
with their brave wearers. The whorled hauberk
will wander no more on the warchief's back
in a battle band.  No more brilliant harp
with timbered tune, no trained falcon
swooping the songhall, no swift-hoof horse 
prancing the courtgrounds. Plundering carnage
ousts whole peoples out of existence."
   So he mourned who survived, remembering hurts,
alone after them all, aching and maundering
for days and nights  till death seethed up
and beat his heart.


The Original:


      þér wæs swelcrá feolá
in þǽm eorðselí  ǽrġistréoná,
swé híæ on ġárdagum  gumæná náthwelċ,
iorminláƀǽ  æðilan cynnæs,
þanchycgændí  þér gihýddǽ,
díorǽ máðmas.  Allǽ híæ déaþ fornam
ǽrran mélum,  ænd se án þá ġén
líodá duguðǽ  se þér længist hwearƀ,
weard winiġómor,  wéndǽ þæs ylcan,
þæt hé lýtil fæc  langġistréoná
brúcan móstí.  Berg allġearu 
wunudǽ on wangǽ,  wæterýðum néh
níowi bi næssǽ  nearucræftum fæst.
þér on innan bær  eorlġistréoná
hringá hirdí,  hordwiorðnǽ dǽl,
fǽttan goldæs,  féa wordá cwæþ:

Hald þú nú, hrúsǽ, nú hæliþ ni móstun,
eorlá ǽhti. Hwæt hit ǽr on þé
gódǽ biġétun; gúþdéaþ fornam,
ferhbealu frœ́cni firhá ġihwelċnǽ,
líodá mínrá,  þonǽ þe þis líƀ ofġæƀ,
secgá selidréamas. Náh hwá sweord weġǽ
oþþǽ forþ berǽ fǽtid wéġí,
drynċfæt díorí: duguþ ellor sċóc.
Sċæl se heardá helm hyrstidgoldǽ
fǽtum bifallæn: feormiænd swefaþ,
þá þe beadugríman bíowan sċoldun,
ġé swelċǽ sío heripád, sío æt hildí ġibád
oƀær bordá ġibræc bití íserná,
brosnaþ æftær beornǽ. Ni mæġ byrnan hring
æftær wíġfruman wídǽ fœ́ran,
hæliðum bi halƀǽ; nis hearpan wyn,
gomæn glíwbéamæs, ni gód heaƀuc
ġeond sæl swingiþ, ni se swiftá mærh
burhstedi béatiþ. Bealucwalm haƀaþ
feolá ferhcynná forþ onsændid!
Swé ġómormód ġehþu mǽndǽ
án æftær allum, unblíþí hwearƀ
dæġæs ænd næhtæs, oþþæt déaðæs wælm
hrán æt heortan 


Homeric Hymn to Ares (From Greek)

Hymn to Ares
(C. 2nd-4th century A.D.)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

God-brawned Ares, gold-helmed driver
of the chariot in the stars.  Stout-souled shieldman
bronzed in armor!  Bulwark of Olympus,
Guardian of cities  and spear-potent
Father of Victory, the fair war-dame!
Fear-harrowing friend of Justice,
the righteous man's commander in chief,
scepter-master   of manly good
wheeling Your fireball  amid the wayfaring
planets' seven  paths through cosmic
air where Your firesteeds  forever bear You
over the thirdmost orbit immortal.

Hear me, bequeather of brave youth's bloom,
matchless ally  of mortalkind,
blaze a gentle beam from Your planet
straight into our life with strength of war
to finally beat the bite of cowardice
now and ever from out my skull.

Give my mind clout to crush the soul's
treacherous impulse, help me temper
the spirit-furies that spur me into
bloody mayhem, and make me brave
enough to keep within the kindly
laws of peace,  O Lord of War. 
Help me flee the fray of foul rancor,
and dodge the wraiths of a violent death.

The Original:

Ἆρες ὑπερμενέτα, βρισάρματε, χρυσεοπήληξ,
ὀβριμόθυμε, φέρασπι, πολισσόε, χαλκοκορυστά,
καρτερόχειρ, ἀμόγητε, δορισθενές, ἕρκος Ὀλύμπου,
Νίκης εὐπολέμοιο πάτερ, συναρωγὲ Θέμιστος,
ἀντιβίοισι τύραννε, δικαιοτάτων ἀγὲ φωτῶν,
ἠνορέης σκηπτοῦχε, πυραυγέα κύκλον ἑλίσσων
αἰθέρος ἑπταπόροις ἐνὶ τείρεσιν, ἔνθα σε πῶλοι
ζαφλεγέες τριτάτης ὑπὲρ ἄντυγος αἰὲν ἔχουσι:
κλῦθι, βροτῶν ἐπίκουρε, δοτὴρ εὐθαρσέος ἥβης,
πρηὺ καταστίλβων σέλας ὑψόθεν ἐς βιότητα
ἡμετέρην καὶ κάρτος ἀρήιον, ὥς κε δυναίμην
σεύασθαι κακότητα πικρὴν ἀπ᾽ ἐμοῖο καρήνου,
καὶ ψυχῆς ἀπατηλὸν ὑπογνάμψαι φρεσὶν ὁρμήν,
θυμοῦ αὖ μένος ὀξὺ κατισχέμεν, ὅς μ᾽ ἐρέθῃσι
φυλόπιδος κρυερῆς ἐπιβαινέμεν: ἀλλὰ σὺ θάρσος
δός, μάκαρ, εἰρήνης τε μένειν ἐν ἀπήμοσι θεσμοῖς
δυσμενέων προφυγόντα μόθον Κῆράς τε βιαίους.

Homeric Hymn to Poseidon (From Greek)

Hymn to Poseidon
(Ca. 6th century BC)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

My song begins for great Poseidon
the Earthmover,  endless shifter
of the gaping deep; god of waters,
Lord of Helicon, homed in the expanse
of ancient Aegae.  Earthshaker, you
the gods endowed with double honor
to be tamer of steeds and savior of ships.
Hail, Poseidon sire of waveroads
the blue-haired god  who girds the earth.
Blessed one, I pray your broad kind heart
take care of us who cross your seas.

The Original:

Εἲς Ποσειδῶνα

ἀμφὶ Ποσειδάωτα, μέγαν θεόν, ἄρχομ᾽ ἀείδειν,
γαίης κινητῆρα καὶ ἀτρυγέτοιο θαλάσσης,
πόντιον, ὅσθ᾽ Ἑλικῶνα καὶ εὐρείας ἔχει Αἰγάς.
διχθά τοι, Ἐννοσίγαιε, θεοὶ τιμὴν ἐδάσαντο,
ἵππων τε δμητῆρ᾽ ἔμεναι σωτῆρά τε νηῶν.
χαῖρε, Ποσείδαον γαιήοχε, κυανοχαῖτα,
καί, μάκαρ, εὐμενὲς ἦτορ ἔχων πλώουσιν ἄρηγε.

Bible: Song of Heshbon (From Hebrew)

This may or may not be a very old text, but I think it is. As befits an old text, there are points of obscurity. Scholarly opinion is much divided as to what exactly it is: a taunt-song celebrating an Israelite victory over Sihon, an ancient Amorite victory-song celebrating Sihon's victory over Moab, an Israelite victory song celebrating the conquest of Moab, or a taunt-song referring to the defeat of Moab by some non-Israelite enemy. The great uncertainty is a function of the obscurity of several components of the last verse, where a text that ceased to be intelligible spawned multiple different attempts to make sense of it. As far as the redactor of the prose text is concerned, it celebrates an Amorite victory over Moab. Its purpose in the Book of Numbers does not seem mysterious. Heshbon was a great Amorite city, apparently famous in song for how its king wrested land from the Moabites. For the Israelites to be written into the story as a people that did to Sihon what he did to Moab magnifies their stature, and de-fangs the song of Sihon's accomplishments into mere prelude to his downfall. At some point before the close of the Masoretic period, this ceased to be understood, resulting in a revocalization of the key word ונירם as if it were a verb and messing up the rhythm.

If it is an adaptation into Judean Canaanite of a passage from what was once a well-known Amorite epic, it may be counted the first known instance of literary translation in Jewish history. Then again, I'm not quite sure the party that sutured this passage into the Book of Numbers even conceived of Amorite and Judean as entitely different languages from each other. It's tempting, but probably pointless, to ask how different might the "real" original have been. Perhaps enormously, and perhaps not very.

At verse 28 I emend בלעה for בעלי per the LXX and follow a version of Hanson's reconstruction in this and much else including the ending. At 17 the MT's parsing of the opening of the poetic passage is screwy. The Masoretic accents make perfectly good sense as is (something like "Come to Heshbon! Let the city of Sihon be built and stand firm.") But poetically it seems like it would work better to shift the ʔaṯnåḥ over to תבנה. (This would require making באו חשבון a level 2 conjunctive-disjunctive unit, and letting ותכונן stand as an unbound disjunctive.) So hypothetically, I think: בֹּ֥אוּ חֶשְׁבּ֖וֹן תִּבָּנֶ֑ה וְתִכּוֹנֵ֖ן עִ֥יר סִיחֽוֹן׃. This gives a neater syntactic balance, and the two clauses stand in chiastic relationship to each other. Perhaps the habit of joining תיבנה ותיכנה (as e.g. when mentioning Jerusalem among some Mizrahim, as a friend informs me) gave the Masoretes a sense — at a late date — that those two verbs had to stand as a single conjunctive-disjunctive phrase.

I have translated the text according to this hypothetical reconstruction of the original parsing, and with heavy emendation. But in my recording, I have allowed the Masoretic text to stand as is. This is because, when I do Tiberian readings to accompany my translations of Biblical verse, my principle is to let the MT stand in the audio reading without emendation of any kind— no matter how obviously garbled a given word or passage may be. The Tiberian reading is a descendant of, and liturgical heir to, the "proto-Masoretic" reading tradition cultivated in priestly circles of the Second Temple. Particular effort was expended to stabilize and preserve it in the Middle Ages (obviously, without success). Tiberian Hebrew being the most direct heir to the priestly reading of the temple, it seems proper for a reading in it to respect the Masoretic text with all its quirks and wrinkles.

I've translated the poetic passage into a slightly loose accentual alliterative meter of the kind known from early Germanic.

Audio recording of the original text read in Tiberian Hebrew:



The Song of Heshbon: The Amorites' Defeat of Moab
Numbers 21:26-30
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Heshbon is the city of Sihon, king of the Amorites. He had battled the first king of Moab and wrested all the land from him as far as the Arnon. So the tale-singers tell it:

Come to Heshbon  be it built high
 Let the city of Sihon  stand unshaken. 
A fire has burst  forth from Heshbon,
 A flame from the town  of towering Sihon.
It consumed all  of Ar in Moab,
 swallowed whole  the heights of Arnon.
Woe is you  wallowing Moab.
 People of Chemosh your kind is done. 
He has turned his sons  to sorry refugees
 surrendered his daughters  as slaves to a king
  to the Amorite sire,  to King Sihon.
Their yoke is done  from Heshbon to Dibon.
 Chemosh annulled  from Nofah to Medba.

The Original: (Masoretic Text)




כִּ֣י חֶשְׁבּ֔וֹן עִ֗יר סִיחֹ֛ן מֶ֥לֶךְ הָאֱמֹרִ֖י הִ֑וא וְה֣וּא נִלְחַ֗ם בְּמֶ֤לֶךְ מוֹאָב֙ הָֽרִאשׁ֔וֹן וַיִּקַּ֧ח אֶת־כׇּל־אַרְצ֛וֹ מִיָּד֖וֹ עַד־אַרְנֹֽן׃ עַל־כֵּ֛ן יֹאמְר֥וּ הַמֹּשְׁלִ֖ים 

בֹּ֣אוּ חֶשְׁבּ֑וֹן תִּבָּנֶ֥ה וְתִכּוֹנֵ֖ן עִ֥יר סִיחֽוֹן׃ 
כִּי־אֵשׁ֙ יָֽצְאָ֣ה מֵֽחֶשְׁבּ֔וֹן לֶהָבָ֖ה מִקִּרְיַ֣ת סִיחֹ֑ן 
אָֽכְלָה֙ עָ֣ר מוֹאָ֔ב בַּעֲלֵ֖י בָּמ֥וֹת אַרְנֹֽן׃ 
אוֹי־לְךָ֣ מוֹאָ֔ב אָבַ֖דְתָּ עַם־כְּמ֑וֹשׁ 
נָתַ֨ן בָּנָ֤יו פְּלֵיטִם֙ וּבְנֹתָ֣יו בַּשְּׁבִ֔ית לְמֶ֥לֶךְ אֱמֹרִ֖י סִיחֽוֹן׃ 
וַנִּירָ֛ם אָבַ֥ד חֶשְׁבּ֖וֹן עַד־דִּיבֹ֑ן 
וַנַּשִּׁ֣ים עַד־נֹ֔פַח אֲשֶׁ֖רׄ עַד־מֵֽידְבָֽא׃


Emended: 


כי חשבון עיר סיחן מלך האמרי הוא והוא נלחם במלך מואב הראשון ויקח את כל ארצו מידו עד ארנן על כן יאמרו המשלים

באו חשבון תבנה     ותכונן עיר סיחון
אש יצאה מחשבון    להבה מקרית סיחן
אכלה ער מואב    בלעה במות ארנן
אוי לך מלך מואב   אבדת עם כמוש
נתן בניו פליטם      ובנתיו בשבית לסיחון
נירם אבד   חשבון עד דיבן
נשם כמוש   נפח עד מידבא

Venerable Bede: Deathsong (From Old English)

Death Song
Attributed to the Venerable Bede
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Before departing  on the compelled journey
Through death's narrows,   none is so clever
That he knows his own end and needn't think
On what judgment he'll get for good or evil,
Consider the soul's sentencing hereafter.


The Original:

(West Sахon)

For þām nīedfere  nǣniġ wyrþeþ
þances snotora,  þonne him þearf sȳ
tō ġehycgenne  ǣr his heonangange
hwæt his gāste  gōdes oþþe yfeles
æfter dēaþe heonon  dēmed weorþe.

(Northumbrian)

Fore þēm nēdfæræ  nǣnig wiorðit
þoncsnotora  þan him þarf sīe
tō ymbhycggannæ  ǣr his hionongǣ,
hwæt his gāstæ  gōdæs æþþa yflæs
æfter dēoþdæge dœ̄mid wiorðæ




Dafydd ap Gwilym: The Ruin (From Welsh)

The Ruin
By Dafydd ap Gwilym
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Battered hovel  bare-holed you stand
Between the moor  and meadowland
They sorrow who once  saw your prime
As a comely little  cottage of pastime
To see you a shattered  shack today
With ramshackle roof  and rafters agley.

Near your cheerful wall  there was a day 
I do recall — rebuke of pain — 
When you were more  merry inside
Than now, unsightly  little sty,
When I caught sight  (and sang bright praise)
In your good corner  of her gorgeous face. 
As lovely and noble  a lady as could be,
Shapely and lively  she lay with me
Each one's arm   (oh did I love her)
Knotted a bond   about the other
Her svelte arm fine  as snowflurry lingered 
To pillow the ear of her praise-singer
And (simplest of tricks) my own arm lay
At the cute left ear  of that courtwise maid.
Good times we had  in your greenwood heyday
But no, today  is not that day.

The Ruin Speaks:  

"With shelter's magic  moan I do 
Bewail the way  the wildwind blew.
Spawned of the east  a stormwind squall
Smacked the stones  of my slender wall.
On its wrathful path grim wind groaned 
From the south and turned me  out of a home."

The Poet Speaks  

"So it was the late wind wrought such riot?
Well, it gnashed the thatch  of your roof all night.
Ripped your lathing  like a leaf.
The world is always illusion and grief. 
Your corner which gives  me cause to cry
Was once our bed. Not a wildhog sty.
You stood that day  sturdy and stalwart
Snug above  my noble sweetheart
But clear and true   by Christ today 
You are ravished  of roof and doorway.
Some things cause instant  insanity
Is this smashed shack  sheer fantasy?"

The Ruin Speaks: 

"The household is gone with their livelihood  
To the grave, Dafydd. Their lives were good." 

The Original:

Yr Adfail

'Tydi, y bwth tinrhwth twn
Rhwng y gweundir a'r gwyndwn,
Gwae a'th weles, dygesynt,
Yn gyfannedd gyntedd gynt,
Ac a'th wŷl heddiw'n friw frig,
Dan dy ais yn dŷ ysig.

A hefyd ger dy hoywfur
Ef a fu ddydd, cerydd cur,
Ynod ydd oedd ddiddanach
Nog yr wyd, y gronglwyd grach,
Pan welais, pefr gludais glod,
Yn dy gongl, un deg yngod,
Forwyn, foneddigfwyn fu,
Hoywdwf yn ymgyhydu,
A braich pob un, cof un fydd,
Yn gwlm amgylch ei gilydd:
Braich meinir, briw awch manod,
Goris clust goreuwas clod,
A'm braich innau, somau syml,
Dan glust asw dyn glwys disyml.
Hawddfyd gan fasw i'th fraswydd,
A heddiw nid ydiw'r dydd'.

   'Ys mau gŵyn, gwirswyn gwersyllt,
Am hynt a wnaeth y gwynt gwyllt.
Ystorm o fynwes dwyrain
A wnaeth cur hyd y mur main.
Uchenaid gwynt, gerrynt gawdd,
Y deau a'm didyawdd'.

    'Ai'r gwynt a wnaeth helynt hwyr?
Da nithiodd dy do neithwyr.
Hagr y torres dy esyth.
Hudol enbyd yw'r byd byth.
Dy gongl, mau ddeongl ddwyoch,
Gwely ym oedd, nid gwâl moch.
Doe'r oeddud mewn gradd addwyn
Yn glyd uwchben fy myd mwyn.
Hawdd o ddadl, heddiw 'dd ydwyd,
Myn Pedr, heb na chledr na chlwyd.
Amryw bwnc ymwnc amwyll.
Ai hwn yw'r bwth twn bath twyll?'

'Aeth talm o waith y teulu,
Dafydd, â chroes. Da foes fu'.

Caedmon's Hymn (From Old English)

This is arguably the oldest extant sample of English poetry. The Old Northumbrian version of it is preserved in a manuscript datable to precisely 737. It is attributed by Bede to the poet Caedmon. Fun fact (at least for me): this translation was used by BBC Radio 4 as its first broadcast in celebration of National Poetry day in the UK on Oct 7.  2015. 

Hymn
Attributed to Cædmon
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Now hail with me   Heaven's keeper,
The framer's might,  his mind's workings,
King forever, father of glory,
Ultimate crafter  of all wonders,
Holy Maker  who hoisted heaven
To roof the heads  of the human race,
And fashioned land  for the legs of man,
Liege of the worldborn Lord Almighty.

The Original:

(West Saxon)

Nū sculon heriġean  heofonrīċes weard,
Meotodes meahte  ond his mōdġeþanc,
weorc wuldorfæder  swā hē wundra ġehwæs,
ēċe Drihten  ōr onstealde.
Hē ǣrest sceōp  eorðan bearnum
heofon tō hrōfe  hāliġ Scyppend;
þā middanġeard   monncynnes weard,
ēċe Drihten æfter tēode
fīrum foldan  Frēa ælmihtiġ.

(Northumbrian)

Nū scylun hergan hefænrīcæs ward
Metudæs mæhti  end his mōdgiðanc,
weork wuldurfadur swǣ hē wundra gihwæs,
ēci Dryhtin, or āstelidæ.
Hē ǣrist scōp ælda barnum
heben til hrōfe hāleg scēpen
þā middungeard  moncynnæs ward
ēci Dryhtin,  æfter tīadæ
fīrum foldu,  frēa allmehtig

Manuscript page containing the Hymn