From a long long time ago
EvilToasterElf
Posts: 1,119
We had an excercise in one of my classes to translate an Anglo Saxon poem that was over a thousand years old. We were to make a literal translation and a "modern" translation. It's very long and most of you won't get through it, but some of you might find it interesting so I figure I'd post it. First is the literal translation of the poem, (the ... are pieces of the poem that are missing) and the second is my modern translation.
The Ruin
Splendid is this stone-wall, broken by fate; in the collapsed city that perished from giant work. Roofs have fallen in, the towers are in ruins, and the barred gate torn off, empty shielding from the storms was rimefrosted, slashed and fallen, eaten away by age, in the hard grip of the Earth. The master builders decayed and passed away grasping the hard dirt of a hundred generations of this nations knowledge. Often has this wall endured the gray lichen, and redstained, remained strong and standing under storms; until it’s high and rounded segments collapsed. (Stillness finds the rubble) The quiet rubble…cut down…fallen on…cruelly ground into…once shined…her…skillful ancient work…bent to a crust of mud, courageous…One man, ingenious in the making of chains, swiftly weaved, bravely tied the foundations of the wall marvelously together with wire.
There were bright buildings, many bathhouses, high gables, and a great noise of soldiers in the many mead halls full of human happiness, until that was changed by a great fate. Murdered men fell widely when the days of pestilence came, when death destroys all brave men; the war buildings become wastelands and perish. Restorers fall like armies to dirt. For that reason these buildings decay, tiles from the vaulted, red-curved roofs fall. Ruins fall to the ground, smashed into piles of stone, where long ago many were born joyful and bright with gold, adorned with splendor, proud and drunk, with gleaming armor looked upon treasure, upon silver, on jewelry, on prosperity, on goods, on gems, on the brightest cities in this strong kingdom. The stone buildings stood as hot streams surged broadly, where baths beat within the bosom of its heart, all enclosed with a wall. That was well conceived. Then they let pour…over gray stones the hot streams…other hot round baths…that is…a royal thing…in houses…in cities.
The Ruin
Splendid was that offspring of mountains,
that wall of stone, broken with the hatchets
of fate’s invisible armies, those soldiers of decay.
That ruined city was wasted by the work of
giants, come to reclaim the stolen stone.
The roofs became quicksand,
the towers watch over only passing insects,
downed parapets vainly yearn for the open sky,
all who visit may enter, the barred entrance
was torn asunder.
The rain and thunder are the only tenants left,
because the storm shielding succumbed to frost,
eaten by the termites of time, in the cold bed of frozen grass.
The rock was choked by the mossy fingers of the Earth.
Those long forgotten architects left only fallen memories,
blueprints of the city became the mind food of maggots.
A hundred generations of this nations knowledge, cry
for past glory, but their words cannot pierce the rubble.
Often has this wall, feast of boulders, endured
the encroachment of gray lichen, repelled the
swaths of marauding blood, drawn strength from
it’s builders, like a pact between dreamer and dream
to deny the wind and lightning passage;
until stillness found the rubble, and it’s high segments
crashed like an avalanche into a small mountain of
its own. The quiet rubble taunted chaos’s scythe and was
cut down, the carvings of cherubs fallen on,
Terminus’ rock face cruelly ground into, leaving the
land to all who yet walked, Pallonia’s smile once shined from
the wind strewn heights of her skillful ancient work,
but her spells could not evade fate’s grasp, her beauty
was bent to a crust of mud.
One man, whose hands were like a loom of fire, blasted
ore into chains, and weaved his art into the heart of the
walls. Buffeted as they were, were doomed to fall as one,
the partitions broke in damning unison.
There were buildings bright enough to arouse the sun
from it’s midnight crevices, there were bathhouses, and
high gables, and the laughter from the mead halls
was a great cistern of happiness, undaunted by their
peril, they bunched their muscles and laughed at the
axe of mortality, unknown to them was the futility of
laughter and armor.
Murdered men fell like stalks of wheat before the scythe,
when the days of pestilence came, when death stole
the soul of bravery from man, when the furnaces of
sword smiths and the barracks of the warrior
became the closets of spiders,
to cover the remnants of battle with the quiet of silk.
The restorers found their chisels blunt, their mortar
watered down, until they became as silent as their
broken tools, their bodies fit to restore only the
soil around their tombs.
With their passing so to did the buildings pass from
vitality, their vaulted crimson roofs shed tiles
like stone lepers. Where long ago, babes were suckled
with smiles from a supple tit, with yellow hair like
mountain treasure, cast in a raiment bright as fire,
they looked upon treasure, drank from goblets
Wrought from silver, with gems glowing like
stars dragged to Earth from the firmament.
They passed by the feet of warriors, clad in
armor and boars, they guarded the jeweled
cities within the crown of the great kingdom.
Those stone buildings surged with hot streams,
and pumped life into the hearts of men.
Those baths beat the rhythm of victory
into those cities enclosed in the bosom
of stone walls.
This life was lived by great minds, who conceived that city.
They pour their genius over the gray stones
in hot streams. Now there is only cold here, like the
chill morning of a funeral, where shadows all play
like ghosts in the corner of the eye.
Volturnius played in those hot round baths,
he granted heat as a royal gift to the houses
of this city. These heathen gods were wasted
with their flock. What matter of man can prevent this
judgment, prevent this ruin from coming to our
own cities when the time comes?
The Ruin
Splendid is this stone-wall, broken by fate; in the collapsed city that perished from giant work. Roofs have fallen in, the towers are in ruins, and the barred gate torn off, empty shielding from the storms was rimefrosted, slashed and fallen, eaten away by age, in the hard grip of the Earth. The master builders decayed and passed away grasping the hard dirt of a hundred generations of this nations knowledge. Often has this wall endured the gray lichen, and redstained, remained strong and standing under storms; until it’s high and rounded segments collapsed. (Stillness finds the rubble) The quiet rubble…cut down…fallen on…cruelly ground into…once shined…her…skillful ancient work…bent to a crust of mud, courageous…One man, ingenious in the making of chains, swiftly weaved, bravely tied the foundations of the wall marvelously together with wire.
There were bright buildings, many bathhouses, high gables, and a great noise of soldiers in the many mead halls full of human happiness, until that was changed by a great fate. Murdered men fell widely when the days of pestilence came, when death destroys all brave men; the war buildings become wastelands and perish. Restorers fall like armies to dirt. For that reason these buildings decay, tiles from the vaulted, red-curved roofs fall. Ruins fall to the ground, smashed into piles of stone, where long ago many were born joyful and bright with gold, adorned with splendor, proud and drunk, with gleaming armor looked upon treasure, upon silver, on jewelry, on prosperity, on goods, on gems, on the brightest cities in this strong kingdom. The stone buildings stood as hot streams surged broadly, where baths beat within the bosom of its heart, all enclosed with a wall. That was well conceived. Then they let pour…over gray stones the hot streams…other hot round baths…that is…a royal thing…in houses…in cities.
The Ruin
Splendid was that offspring of mountains,
that wall of stone, broken with the hatchets
of fate’s invisible armies, those soldiers of decay.
That ruined city was wasted by the work of
giants, come to reclaim the stolen stone.
The roofs became quicksand,
the towers watch over only passing insects,
downed parapets vainly yearn for the open sky,
all who visit may enter, the barred entrance
was torn asunder.
The rain and thunder are the only tenants left,
because the storm shielding succumbed to frost,
eaten by the termites of time, in the cold bed of frozen grass.
The rock was choked by the mossy fingers of the Earth.
Those long forgotten architects left only fallen memories,
blueprints of the city became the mind food of maggots.
A hundred generations of this nations knowledge, cry
for past glory, but their words cannot pierce the rubble.
Often has this wall, feast of boulders, endured
the encroachment of gray lichen, repelled the
swaths of marauding blood, drawn strength from
it’s builders, like a pact between dreamer and dream
to deny the wind and lightning passage;
until stillness found the rubble, and it’s high segments
crashed like an avalanche into a small mountain of
its own. The quiet rubble taunted chaos’s scythe and was
cut down, the carvings of cherubs fallen on,
Terminus’ rock face cruelly ground into, leaving the
land to all who yet walked, Pallonia’s smile once shined from
the wind strewn heights of her skillful ancient work,
but her spells could not evade fate’s grasp, her beauty
was bent to a crust of mud.
One man, whose hands were like a loom of fire, blasted
ore into chains, and weaved his art into the heart of the
walls. Buffeted as they were, were doomed to fall as one,
the partitions broke in damning unison.
There were buildings bright enough to arouse the sun
from it’s midnight crevices, there were bathhouses, and
high gables, and the laughter from the mead halls
was a great cistern of happiness, undaunted by their
peril, they bunched their muscles and laughed at the
axe of mortality, unknown to them was the futility of
laughter and armor.
Murdered men fell like stalks of wheat before the scythe,
when the days of pestilence came, when death stole
the soul of bravery from man, when the furnaces of
sword smiths and the barracks of the warrior
became the closets of spiders,
to cover the remnants of battle with the quiet of silk.
The restorers found their chisels blunt, their mortar
watered down, until they became as silent as their
broken tools, their bodies fit to restore only the
soil around their tombs.
With their passing so to did the buildings pass from
vitality, their vaulted crimson roofs shed tiles
like stone lepers. Where long ago, babes were suckled
with smiles from a supple tit, with yellow hair like
mountain treasure, cast in a raiment bright as fire,
they looked upon treasure, drank from goblets
Wrought from silver, with gems glowing like
stars dragged to Earth from the firmament.
They passed by the feet of warriors, clad in
armor and boars, they guarded the jeweled
cities within the crown of the great kingdom.
Those stone buildings surged with hot streams,
and pumped life into the hearts of men.
Those baths beat the rhythm of victory
into those cities enclosed in the bosom
of stone walls.
This life was lived by great minds, who conceived that city.
They pour their genius over the gray stones
in hot streams. Now there is only cold here, like the
chill morning of a funeral, where shadows all play
like ghosts in the corner of the eye.
Volturnius played in those hot round baths,
he granted heat as a royal gift to the houses
of this city. These heathen gods were wasted
with their flock. What matter of man can prevent this
judgment, prevent this ruin from coming to our
own cities when the time comes?
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