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قراءة كتاب The Old English Physiologus

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‏اللغة: English
The Old English Physiologus

The Old English Physiologus

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
الصفحة رقم: 3

animals—when once the music has ceased.

Even so the Lord God, the Giver of joy, is gracious to all creatures, to every order of them, save only the dragon, the source of venom, that ancient enemy whom he bound in the abyss of torments; shackling him with fiery fetters, and loading him with dire constraints, he arose from darkness on the third day after he, the Lord of angels, the Bestower of victory, had for three nights endured death on our behalf. That was a sweet perfume throughout the world, winsome and entrancing. Henceforth,

on healfa gehwone,hēapum þrungon
geond ealne ymbhwyrfteorþan scēat[a].
Swā se snottra gecwæðSanctus Paulus:
70 ‘Monigfealde sindgeond middangeard
gōd ungnȳðeþe ūs tō giefe dǣleð
and tō feorhnereFæder ælmihtig,
and se ānga Hyhtealra gesceafta
uppe ge niþre.’Þæt is æþele stenc.

From every side all men whose hearts were true,
Throughout the regions of the circled earth.
Thus spoke the wise St. Paul: ‘In all the world
His gifts are many, which he gives to us
For our salvation with unstinting hand,
Almighty Father, he, the only Hope
Of all in heaven or here below on earth.’
This is that noble fragrance, rare and sweet,
Which draws all men to seek it from afar.

through the whole extent of earth’s regions, righteous men have streamed in multitudes from every side to that fragrance. As said the wise St. Paul: ‘Manifold over the world are the lavish bounties which the Father almighty, the Hope of all creatures above and below, bestows on us as grace and salvation.’ That, too, is a sweet odor.

II
The Whale (Asp-Turtle)

Nū ic fitte gēnymb fisca cynn
wille wōðcræftewordum cȳþan
þurh mōdgemynd,bi þām miclan hwale.
Sē bið unwillumoft gemēted,
5 frēcne and fer[h]ðgrim,fareðlācendum,
niþþa gehwylcum;þām is noma cenned,
fyr[ge]nstrēama geflotan,Fastitocalon.

Is þæs hīw gelīchrēofum stāne,
swylce wōriebi wædes ōfre,
10 sondbeorgum ymbseald,sǣrȳrica mǣst,
swā þæt wēnaþwǣglīþende
þæt hȳ on ēalond sumēagum wlīten;
and þonne gehȳd[i]aðhēahstefn scipu
tō þām unlondeoncyrrāpum,
15 s[ǣ]laþ sǣmearassundes æt ende,

Now will I spur again my wit, and use
Poetic skill to weave words into song,
Telling of one among the race of fish,
The great asp-turtle. Men who sail the sea
Often unwillingly encounter him,
Dread preyer on mankind. His name we know,
The ocean-swimmer, Fastitocalon.

Dun, like rough stone in color, as he floats
He seems a heaving bank of reedy grass
Along the shore, with rolling dunes behind,
So that sea-wanderers deem their gaze has found
An island. Boldly then their high-prowed ships
They moor with cables to that shore, a land
That is no land. Still floating on the waves,
Their ocean-coursers curvet at the marge;

This time I will with poetic art rehearse, by means of words and wit, a poem about a kind of fish, the great sea-monster which is often unwillingly met, terrible and cruel-hearted to seafarers, yea, to every man; this swimmer of the ocean-streams is known as the asp-turtle.

His appearance is like that of a rough boulder, as if there were tossing by the shore a great ocean-reedbank begirt with sand-dunes, so that seamen imagine they are gazing upon an island, and moor their high-prowed ships with cables to that false land, make fast the ocean-coursers at the sea’s end, and, bold of heart, climb up

and þonne in þæt ēglondūp gewītað
collenfer[h]þe;cēolas stondað
bi staþe fæstestrēame biwunden.
Ðonne gewīciaðwērigfer[h]ðe,
20 faroðlācende,frēcnes ne wēnað.

On þām ēalondeǣled weccað,
hēah fyr ǣlað.Hæleþ bēoþ on wynnum,
rēonigmōde,ræste gel[y]ste.
Þonne gefēleðfācnes cræftig
25 þæt him þā fērend onfæste wuniaþ,
wīc weardiað,wedres on luste,
ðonne semningaon sealtne wǣg
mid þā nōþeniþer gewīteþ,
gārsecges gæst,grund gesēceð,
30 and þonne in dēaðseledrence bifæsteð
scipu mid scealcum.Swā bið scinn[en]a þēaw,

dēofla wīse,þæt hī droht[i]ende
þurh dyrne meahtduguðe beswīcað,
and on teosu tyhtaþtilra dǣda,
35 wēmað on willan,þæt hȳ wraþe sēcen,

The weary-hearted sailors mount the isle,
And, free from thought of peril, there abide.

Elated, on the sands they build a fire,
A mounting blaze. There, light of heart, they sit—
No more discouraged—eager for sweet rest.
Then when the crafty fiend perceives that men,
Encamped upon him, making their abode,
Enjoy the gentle weather, suddenly
Under the salty waves he plunges down,
Straight to the bottom deep he drags his prey;
He, guest of ocean, in his watery haunts
Drowns ships and men, and fast imprisons them
Within the halls of death. Such is the way

Of demons, devils’ wiles: to hide their power,
And stealthily inveigle heedless men,
Inciting them against all worthy deeds,
And luring them to seek for help and comfort

on that island; the vessels stand by the beach, enringed by the flood. The weary-hearted sailors then encamp, dreaming not of peril.

On the island they start a fire, kindle a mounting flame. The dispirited heroes, eager for repose, are flushed with joy. Now when the cunning plotter feels that the seamen are firmly established upon him, and have settled down to enjoy the weather, the guest of ocean sinks without warning into the salt wave with his prey (?), and makes for the bottom, thus whelming

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