An Introduction to Allusions in Beowulf

The Oxford English Dictionary defines allusion as “an implied, indirect, or passing reference to a person or thing” or “any reference to someone or something”. When it comes to literature, however, it becomes a difficult task to avoid accidentally falling into affective and intentional fallacies when exploring whether or not certain words, phrases, or narratives are meant by the author to be distinct and relevant allusions to particular people or events. In works such as Beowulf, moreover, the task of pointing out allusions and understanding their meaning becomes even more difficult due to the obscurity of their context and cultural situations. Nevertheless, what I aim to explore are some allusions to elements present in Old Norse literature which are readily available to us in the text:  elements which we may assume to have been passed down to Beowulf’s author(s) through the culture of the Danelaw.

The Scyldings

One of the most notable of these allusions is that of the Scyldings. A prominent family not only in Beowulf, their stories also appear in Snorra Edda (Snorri Sturluson’s Prose Edda) and Hrólfs saga kraka (The Saga of King Hrolf Kraki). In the Edda, Skjöldur (Scyld Scefing), the founder of the Skjöldungar (Scyldings), is portrayed as a descendant of the god Óðinn himself. The legends of his descendants are recorded in Beowulf and Hrólfs saga kraka. Being slightly different in perspective to Beowulf, the focus of Hrólfs saga kraka is more so on Hroðgar’s nephew Hrólfur than on himself. Both narratives however include a troll-like being terrorising the halls at nightfall and a hero that comes and eradicates such threats.

Eotenas ond ylfe and gígantas

J.R.R. Tolkien notes in lines 112-113 the author’s use of two culturally different etymological sources to describe the race of Grendel and the descendants of Cain. On the one hand, Tolkien observes the use of gígantas in line 113 as a word borrowed from the Latin version of the Bible. On the other hand, he marks the words eotenas and ylfe in line 112 as distinctly Norse, coming from the words jötnar (giants) and álfar (elves). These words not only depict the author’s blending of pagan and Christian elements into the story of Beowulf, but as cultural allusions they furthermore offer a twofold perspective on Grendel’s background as a fiend – that is, he not only is an enemy of the Christians, being a descendant of Cain and the giants, but also at the sight of the pagan heroes he is considered an outcast of the Norse gods and humanity.

Wæls and Sigemund

The bard in Hroðgar’s hall recounts the story of Sigemund the dragon-slayer in lines 883-915 as words of praise, encouragement, and admonition to Beowulf. Similar narratives can be found in the Snorra Edda and the Völsunga Saga where Völsungur’s (Wæl’s) descendant Sigurður slays a dragon and takes possession of a treasure hoard. Placing these narratives in the context of Beowulf allows its author to portray ironies foreshadowing Beowulf’s death, but also comparative praise, as Sigurður is and will ever be remembered in Northern legend as Fáfnisbani –  the slayer of the dragon Fáfnir – after his death.

Thus allusions such as these allow us to understand more comprehensively the story of Beowulf. They give the text particular shades which reflect dramatic ironies that are not always obvious when the allusions are missed. And although many of these allusions and possibly the text itself are rendered obscure to us as modern audiences, their importance to the Anglo-Saxon audience as antiquarian reflections and contemporary innovations should never be understated, wont as the Anglo-Saxons would have been to do so.

 

 

Works Consulted:

Heaney, Seamus. Beowulf. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2000. Print.

Tolkien, J.R.R. Beowulf: A Translation and Commentary. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. London:        Harper Collins Publishers, 2014. Print.

— . The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. London:                  George Allen & Unwin Publishers, 1983. Print.

 

 

 

 

The Fragment of Elska

I.

I, now awake, have dreamt.

Though ‘tis unclear if indeed ‘twas so.

Misty mountains, whose clouds veil

Unseeing eyes, but lift souls, lost souls,

To mythic havens, where hill-gods

And elven goddesses linger and live —

In these lofty godsteads myself I found.

Embraced by the cold breeze,

I, a vagabond, a dreamland roamed

Where naked Nature,

In the fairest form of her unsullied beauty,

Enclosed her towns of mirth,

Her hidden heaths and turfy mounds;

And looked upon her people,

Forever free and independent,

Unbothered by the world without.

She, with the peaceful waves of her pristine shores

Caressing ancient stones on steep slopes,

Slopes grazed by sheep and horses wild —

Verdant were the pastures, and so will they ever be –

She called the sun and moon,

And, hark, they played, and paused,

While anon and henceforth the birds did sing

Above candle-lit barnyards and steeples.

II.

There she was, further up the mighty mount.

Like the nightingale’s, her tale-like song,

Soft and sweet, resounded clear.

Near she was, yet quite afar,

Her melody to me flowed, however,

As river water smoothly runs

Tow’rds valley fields and dale downs.

Enchanted, awe-struck – such was I.

The daughter of the mountain,

Slowly did she reveal herself to me.

Calmly she came,

Forth into the frosty wind,

Her graceful stride ‘gainst the storm.

Elska was she called.

Not even winter’s woes, nor its grinding gales

Could quench her spirit, warm and kind:

For though her ocean eyes may see the deep,

And bore with them the burdens of years,

How yet did they meet mine with friendly gaze,

Captivating effortlessly.

Thus we walked,

Travellers alike,

Down towards the valley vast,

Where spring and summer dance away

The sunlit days.

During my brief stay in Iceland I was able to compose this poem. It is a fragment, a brief vision or dream from the speaker, an idyll; although the speaker is not certain whether it is a dream or whether it is actual reality. The speaker starts off by recounting himself being lost in “a dreamland”, a land which people may recognise as, or connect with, Iceland. All of these happen in Part I. Part II sees the full personification of the land, of Iceland, as Elska, which in Icelandic means “love”. Elska, though introduced and seen only in passing, embodies certain characteristics of Icelandic nature and those of her people. The readers – and the speaker – never really get to know Elska in depth, as it is a fragment of a dream; something that is obscured by the reality of waking up. But the fragmented memories of the speaker of Elska show enough of the essence of her being, but only enough as to leave her to remain as the mysterious being that she is perceived to be. After all, the fragments of our dreams that rest with us upon our waking up are memories most poignant, those which leave us in a state surreal yet wanting — a state that makes us long for the unattainable reality found only in dreams.

Midsummer

Midsummer’s breeze,

the breath of June, no sooner blows

than floods the leaves of trees

and songs of birds

with your ‘membrance –

thoughts puffed into clouds

and sent back through the tears of the warm summer rain,

memories as keep our bond bound and sheltered

in my empty deep.

Empty it is, yet filled

with fragments of your once-attached soul,

splintered firmly upon the heart’s soft soil;

souls afore kindled leave embers which,

though turn cold, last awhile.

The loud silence

of these hollow summer days

echo the deep longing that follow

the blurred trail left behind

by your vagrant heart.

Vagabonds alike,

we so wander, called by empty summer

whose sunlit escapes bring not joy nor passion,

but wintered vigour that seek gladsome life in vain.

So we sail forth, you and I,

fooled by the season’s sparkling grin,

towards that which paradise

uncertainly points,

longing once more

to seek what in us abides though we know it not,

thus lost forever, with souls apart.

Night Gale

Dark is the night sky, a canvas

written upon with graceful strokes by poetic eve:

The stars, the glittering tears of its observing author,

thereat fashioned wanderers of never-ending space,

shed light upon us in our distant present,

Present unattainable with their ancient souls that

look and watch

from far upon their extant, undying

Past.

Ever do their spirits watch,

themselves long passed

away into the fading memory of old Universe. And yet.

Fixed into the tenderly woven sheet of  night,

gingerly they sparkle,

careful to keep peace

and leave us in wonder

to stand in awe.

We watch them, and they, us.

Deeds and lives echoed into their mysterious place,

beyond all knowledge.

And, when our lives be long passed,

there live on ourselves, in time, again —

all of earth, in the realm of stars,

all but memories that light the celestial way.

Mundane deeds, written upon the stellar nothingness,

lost perhaps to the present, but never forgotten

by the old souls that bear tales in starlight.

Wiglaf

No wassail have we but a winsome loaf-ward
Whose heart we hear ever honing for glory.
Men of might, Almighty’s ordained,
Athwart our threshold a threat awaketh:
A dragon flies dreadful from deep his barrow –
His gilded hall, once begirt by galdor ancient,
Ransacked and robbed by a ratty thrall.
Mark! Our hero wends unheedful tow’rds hellish, biting flames;
Ecgtheow’s son, evading death, with endeavors magnificent,
A protector brave, a powerful lord, pacing the halls of sovereign Fate;
The fire-drake he faceth, his thede perforce he guards,
Beowulf the brass-hearted, bairn-noblesse of the Geatish kings.
My liege, wherefore in a lonesome wise do you so lash against
This gruesome beast, this Geat-bane of gargantuan size?
To arms, men of the Atheling! Let our acts be in sagas told,
And in elegant songs be ever our ne’erending kinship live.
We are chosen, champions for challenging times,
Bestowed with swords, with spears trusted to win,
Warriors in bewuthered lands, born worthy of lofty praise.
I go, hence to gather strength that’s mine, my aid to give our princeling.

Amongst flames he fights, and with ferrous armaments
He hacks at the heinous wyrm: much horror be in the battlefield.
How striketh the serpent, what seething rage he shows;
Yet how more blessed with battle-sense is Beowulf our defender!
Such clanging of kings, clamours set afield,
Thunders from thrusting wills and tholing spirits –
The glorious drake against the godlike warrior,
In fateful frenzies, in fearsome engagement –
Lo and behold the hardy pair, gaze heavenward for that spectacle,
Remember ye this meeting, this moment unsurpassable.

—

To my injured lord rushed I: an incident grievous,
The dragon has dealt a deathblow to the Atheling.
It so befell that fangs have fiercely bit Beowulf:
The serpent’s swords, from out his slithery mass.
And still Beowulf the battle won, his bravery prevailed,
Our liege the longsome fight with lithesome skill overcame.

The wounded warrior quoth: ‘My Wiglaf, take this hoard,
This wonder of the wyrm, and wield it for our kingdom’s gain.
My glory last begets now these gifts unique;
And thus satisfied, I may sojourn into the sacred halls of my forbears,
Till perhaps a heavenly fight, in heroic tones, bids me battle.
Farewell to you, good Wiglaf; think it not woe, my passing,
But as grandest news for gladful men, and so atop garrets declare.
Cheers, be thou hale, and fare thee well.’

A downpour of drastic heart-wounds thence descended upon me.
But, ye cowards, ye kinless beasts, your king have ye abandoned,
Ye nithings of numb souls, there’s nought glorious in your deeds,
Running tow’rds rock crags, upon rills taking shelter.
For granted take ye his given trust? How glib ye declare your oaths!
In hellish havoc ye have hurried off yonder.
Away ye worthless men, save your wee hearts from lasting shame,
For as the ground stays no gormful man will pity you!
As for me, I mourn for my master, the Fearless,
Battle-ready and forbearing, embellished with a kindly heart.
Mere death and desolation I do fore-wit
For the wardless Weather-Geats, the welkin’s once-great lot.
Their king most caring, full of courage,
Now has passed on next to his proud fathers.
‘Mongst all of earth’s kings, most earnest was he
For acclaim, yet kind was he too to kinfolk great and low.
Thus I’ll mourn till the morrow, for a man such as he,
Leave me and let me be, forlorn as I am,
I’ll stand by the serpent-bane, till sunward They take him.

The Blacksmith

Staged below the night sky, sooty and strong,

The smithy stands spewing smoke and heat.

Within, the blacksmith hard at work:

A craftsman, a symbol, a mere figure perhaps.

 

His hammer he wields, and they are one.

Sparks cast off by its strike against the sword

Mark their bond, the bridge to the smith’s soul,

Tugging his heart to the blade,

Sending off thunders, the music of steel.

 

The anvil awaits, a platform for greatness.

Plain and blank, yet strong and patient –

The heart of the forge, a craftstand for beauty,

Working wonders and winning wars,

An essence of kingdoms, a slate for glory.

 

The sword, sharp and shiny,

A worthy warrior’s weapon, a stuff for legends,

Its handle gilt, its blade moon-kissed,

Sits meekly upon the wooden bench.

 

The man beholds,

Overtaken by wonder, soothed by satisfaction.

The man,

A bard of metallic poetry,

Weaver of empires, a knight unknown,

Rests. Proud of the day’s work.

 

Staged below the night sky, sooty and strong,

The smithy stands spewing smoke and heat –

Amongst mead-halls and huts,

Castles and pavements,

The highways and the by-ways.

Within, the blacksmith rests.

Within, the fire of his dreams, the sparks of his life.

My recording of the Battle of Brunanburgh

This is what happens when someone who loves English literature gets bored.