translation is a good companion of honest labour, while a 'crib' is a (vain) substitute for the essential
work with grammar and glossary, by which alone can be won genuine appreciation of a noble idiom
and a lofty art.
Old English (or Anglo-Saxon) is not a very difficult language, though it is neglected by many of
those concerned with the long period of our history during which it was spoken and written. But the
idiom and diction of Old English verse is not easy. Its manner and conventions, and its metre, are
unlike those of modern English verse. Also it is preserved fragmentarily and by chance, and has
only in recent times been redeciphered and interpreted, without the aid of any tradition or gloss: for
in England, unlike Iceland, the old Northern poetic tradition was at length completely broken and
buried. As a result many words and phrases are met rarely or only once. There are many words only
found in Beowulf. An example is eoten 'giant' 112, etc. This word, we may believe on other
evidence, was well known, though actually it is only recorded in its Anglo-Saxon form in Beowulf,
because this poem alone has survived of the oral and written matter dealing with such legends. But
the word rendered 'retinue' in 924 is hose, and though philologists may with confidence define this
as the dative of a feminine noun hōs (the Anglo-Saxon equivalent of Old High German and Gothic
hansa), it is in fact found in this line of Beowulf alone; and how far it was not only 'poetical', but
already archaic and rare in the time of the poet, we do not know. Yet we need to know, if a
translation strictly true in verbal effect is to be devised. Such lexical niceties may not trouble many
students, but none can help finding that the learning of new words that will seldom or never again
be useful is one of the (accidental) difficulties presented by Old English verse. Another is presented
by the poetical devices, especially the descriptive compounds, which, if they are seldom in fact
'unnatural', are generally foreign to our present literary and linguistic habits. Their precise meaning
and full significance (for a contemporary) is not always easy to define, and their translation is a
problem for the translator over which he often must hesitate. A simple example is sundwudu,
literally 'flood-timber' or 'swimming-timber'. This is 'ship' in 208 (the riddle's bare solution, and
often the best available, though quite an inadequate, rendering), and 'wave-borne timbers' in 1906
(an attempt to unfold, at the risk of dissipating it, the briefly flashed picture). Similar is swan-rad,
rendered 'swan's-road' in 200: the bare solution 'sea' would lose too much. On the other hand, a full
elucidation would take far too long. Literally it means 'swan-riding': that is, the region which is to
the swimming swan as the plain is to the running horse or wain. Old English rad is as a rule used
for the act of riding or sailing, not as its modern descendant 'road', for a beaten track. More difficult
are such cases as onband beadurune in 502, used of the sinister counsellor, Unferth, and rendered
'gave vent to secret thoughts of strife'. Literally it means 'unbound a battle-rune (or battle-runes)'.
What exactly is implied is not clear. The expression has an antique air, as if it had descended from
an older time to our poet: a suggestion lingers of the spells by which men of wizardry could stir up
storms in a clear sky.
These compounds, especially when they are used not with but instead of such ordinary words as
scip 'ship', or sæ 'sea' (already twelve hundred years ago the terms of daily life), give to Old English
verse, while it is still unfamiliar, something of the air of a conundrum. So the early scholars of the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries thought: to them, even when they understood Ælfred or Ælfric
well enough, 'Saxon poetry' often seemed a tissue of riddles and hard words woven deliberately by
lovers of enigma. This view is not, of course, just: it is a beginner's misapprehension. The riddle
element is present, but Old English verse was not generally dark or difficult, and was not meant to
be. Even among the actual verse-riddles extant in Anglo-Saxon, many are to be found of which the
object is a cameo of recognizable description rather than a puzzle. The primary poetic object of the
use of compounds was compression, the force of brevity, the packing of the pictorial and emotional
colour tight within a slow sonorous metre made of short balanced word-groups. But familiarity with
this manner does not come all at once. In the early stages - as some to whom this old verse now
seems natural enough can doubtless well remember - one's nose is ground close to the text: both
story and poetry may be hard to see for the words. The grinding process is good for the noses of
scholars, of any age or degree; but the aid of a translation may be a welcome relief. As a general
guide, not only in those hard places which remain the cruces of the expert, this translation can be