The Battle of Maldon, page 12
(e) Rhyme
Without any alliteration is 271: æfre embe stunde he sealde sume wunde; st and s do not alliterate. This is also remarkable in having rhyme – which thus appears, for the first time in a poem generally in competent alliterative verse, as a substitute for alliteration, not as a mere ornament. Rhyme as an adornment both aðalhending and skothending is found in all OE verse, either inside the hemistich in the jingles of which Maldon 110 (bord ord onfeng) is an example; or at the end of hemistichs as in Byrhtnoð maþelode bord hafenode 42 (and similarly 309);[11] or in more complex and purposeful (but extra-metrical) arrangements, as in streamas wundon / sund wið sande (Beo. 212–213). In 282 we have a case in which rhyme is nearly victorious.[12]
Yet I do not believe that 271 actually proceeds from the author. It is isolated, and detachable (and weak in effect). It seems to me that it has slipped in from a different style – that of more popular recitations, or semi-metrical ‘gieddas’, which must have been going on, though we have scant record of them in Old English. In such as we have – the giedd passages in the Chronicle, which though treated scribally as distinct from narrative ‘prose’, are not alliterative verse, and in some cases marked only by an antithetical phrase-group style similar to that of verse[13] – it is noticeable that grouping by rhyme is specially frequent with sume. As in 1036 CD Ælfred Æþeling: sume hi man wið feo sealde, sume hreowlice acwealde, etc.
But of course rhyme, which from time immemorial linked words like ceorl and eorl as much as alliteration linked others like þeoden and þegn, and which teased the ears of the poets, even without the example of the hymns of the church, and the example of late Latin known to clerks, cannot be excluded from the knowledge of the author of Maldon. It is really a question of style and suitability: and of this we are perhaps not now the best judges. It has no longer in the vernacular the novelty that might lead even a competent alliterative poet into an error of taste, for the pleasure of showing off a jingle. In all that has been said above, the fact has not been denied that taste can falter or fail – though the rules abide.
(f) Minor defects of scansion
The presence of elongated types has been alluded to above in dealing with siðian mote, þa flotan stodon gearowe and similar half-lines. Also anacrusis in the second hemistich. These have been attributed to an actual difference of rules to those obtaining in certain kinds of composition: Maldon though a ‘good’ poem, in which we scrutinize suspiciously defects in the cardinal matter of alliteration, is in a freer looser scansion, not necessarily (though possibly) a development more recent in time than say the scansion of Beowulf. In general it has resemblances to málaháttr. And it certainly is akin to the development of ME, in which overweighting, especially of the first-half, destroyed the original balance of the older structure. We see in Maldon increasing weight in the beginnings of types that open with ‘dips’, B and C. Thus he hæfde god geþanc 13; 50; 93; 195; 212, etc. But such things are, of course, found in all the older verse: it is only a question of proportion and general effect.[14] The general effect in Maldon is of less compactness, greater wordiness. We therefore note with curiosity examples that seem to fall below minimum. Examples of over-lightness are: folc and foldan feallan sceolon 54; 264; 299. 270 also is notable.
III
ALLITERATION ON ‘G’ IN THE BATTLE OF MALDON
[In ‘The Tradition of Versification’, Tolkien notes that ‘the question of alliteration on g in Old English verse … has not been given the attention it deserves’. The essay from which the following excerpt is drawn shows Tolkien vigorously pursuing the question. Four versions of this work, probably dating again to the early 1930s, are found in Bodleian MS. Tolkien A 30/2. The excerpt given here (version beginning fol. 155) once more demonstrates his esteem for the anonymous Maldon poet.]
Line 192: Godwine and Godwig guþe ne gymdon was treated by Sievers (Altgerm. Metrik p. 41) as possessing four staves, and an example of ‘mangelhaft technik’. It is actually nothing of the kind, but an interesting testimony that at the date when the poem was written front and back g had diverged so far that the ear refused to recognize them as alliterating consonants. Verse was written by ear not letter; but while orthography, the main lines of which were a product of seventh- and eighth-century scholarship, remained conservative, the actual sounds of the language had changed very greatly.
In the line quoted the first three initial gs, the stave-bearers, are back gs. A similar arrangement occurs also in line 32: þæt ge þisne garræs mid gafole forgyldon. This fragmentary poem contains 325 lines, and in these two cases alone is there any (apparent) infraction of the cardinal rule of Old English verse: that the second half-line must contain only one stave. This by itself is sufficient to suggest that in these two lines the rule was not broken to the ear. The front g had probably at this period ceased to be spirantal, and was already the semi-vowel, as in our yet; while the back g had certainly become (as it certainly had not yet in the archaic period) a stop, as in our good. The suggestion becomes certainty if the remainder of the lines are examined. There are 23 lines in all that alliterate on g. In every case the alliteration is between 2 (or 3) back gs, or between 2 (or 3) front gs; in no case is the alliteration left solely to a mere letter-correspondence between 2 written gs representing different sounds. Only one doubtful case occurs: 100 þær ongean gramum gearowe stodon … But the author probably, in fact certainly, regarded his line as alliterating ongean / gearowe with gramum not participating – its spelling with a similar letter is accidental …
The only apparent exception thus disappears; and we have, in the only poem by a man who had a command of his metre and its technique that has survived from the latter age of Old English, clear evidence of the careful distinction in verse between the two gs. We may deduce then that by whatever process the rules and practice of alliterative verse was handed down, it was by ear and not book …
Old English verse technique as we know it though working on an inherited metre, manner, and vocabulary, is English and not primitive Germanic. It is a product of the seventh and eighth centuries, to the language of which period it must have been extraordinarily true – observing with nicety most departments of phonetic structure consonantal and vocalic, stress and tone. The English had good ears, and though their verse is the most interesting and remarkable evidence of this, their orthography – for its period an achievement – should not be forgotten. Both were products of the same golden age. But it is of the nature of orthography to fossilize, and of metre to change for good or ill, so we already see the two at variance before the end of the Old English period, before metre sank to stuttering, and good spelling was overthrown by bad French to its lasting confusion.
IV
AN EARLY HOMECOMING IN RHYME
[As has been noted, one of the remarkable features of the early drafts of Tolkien’s verse drama is that the dialogue rhymes rather than alliterates. The text given below is that of Version D (Bodleian MS. Tolkien 5, fols. 16–22)]
THE HOME-COMING OF BEORHTNOTH BEORHTHELM’S SON
The scene throughout is in darkness. Two voices are heard: those of Totta the gleeman’s son, a youth, and Tudda an old servant of the duke Beorhtnoth, who have been sent by the Abbot of Ely to the battlefield not far from Maldon. There the abbot and some monks are waiting to bear Beorhtnoth’s body to Ely.
Darkness. Noise of a man moving about & breathing heavily.
TOTTA
A! Who is there? You, Tudda! I had thought
That, God!, ’twas one of them. An hour I’ve sought
here, waiting for you, groping among the slain,
alone.
TUDDA
Nigh here is where he should have lain;
but the moon is sunk.
[He lets a light shine from a dark-lantern.]
TOTTA
No, no! cover that light!
[An owl hoots.]
Hish! What was that?
TUDDA
Come, come, lad! What’s your fright?
[He covers the light.]
Help me to lift ’em, and spare breath! Less talk!
What do you think? That their ghosts so soon would walk?
Or wolves wander out of lays of Goths and Huns
in Essex here? Nay! Not two-legged ones
neither – they’ll not come here to-night, to prowl
round corpses stripped near naked! ’Twas an owl!
TOTTA
Curse owls! I’m glad you’re here at last. But ‘fright’!
I’m not afraid – though I don’t like the night,
with all these dead unburied. ’Tis like the shade
of heathen hell. Where has our master laid
his mighty head, so proud and old, to-night –
so cold and strange, when soul has taken flight?
TUDDA
Look where they’re thickest lad! As here. Come, see!
[Opens the light.]
Here Wulfmær lies! And close to his lord he’ll be.
TOTTA
Which one is that?
TUDDA
Which? Why, they both are here,
tumbled together: the man he held most dear –
not far from kin will lie his sister-son –
and Wulfstan’s boy, too.
TOTTA
He that used to run
so swift, and swim? It seems an hour ago.
TUDDA
And Ælfnoth by him too.
TOTTA
And rightly so,
they were never far apart.
TUDDA
Nor far from him!
A plague on this lamplight, and my eyes are dim.
But it was here they made their last stout stand,
I’ll warrant we find the old man near at hand.
TOTTA
Poor lads! While men with beards and tried blades ran,
the young boys died, God’s pity! Curse the man
who left them to it. Young Ælfwine, look!
TUDDA
He was a stout one. His knees never shook.
Proud heart, proud tongue, like Offa.
TOTTA
There were some
took Offa’s words with scowls, and wished him dumb–
they cut too nigh – or so I’m told, that day
at counsel of the lords. As old songs say:
‘’Tis shame to take the ring and drink the mead,
and leave the giver of the gift at need’.
But days are worsened. I wish that I’d been here,
not left with the baggage like a thrall in rear.
I loved him as much as they. A plain churl
may prove more tough when tested than an earl
that traces kin to Woden and old kings!
TUDDA
You talk! Your time’ll come, my lad. Then things
will look less easy. Iron has a bitter taste,
and swords are cruel. If you’d ever faced
the yell of spears, now thanking God you’d be
you’re neither dead nor shamed. Come stand by me!
[A pause in which they struggle with bodies. The lamp is stood open on the ground.]
Now! Heave him off! ’Tis only a cursed Dane,
great hulking heathen.
TOTTA
Shutter that light again!
I can’t abide his eyes. They glare so grim –
like Grendel’s in the moon. Look! There’s a limb,
like three men’s legs!
TUDDA
Peace! It’s the master! Yes,
that’s him – the longest in this land, I guess.
TOTTA
His head was o’er the crowns of heathen kings!
Here lies he now at last, who dealt the rings
like princes in old songs. He’s gone to God,
Beorhtnoth our lord.
TUDDA
And the ground about is trod
to bloody mire.
TOTTA
His sword is over here!
You know it, Tudda: with the golden hilts.
TUDDA
I fear
’tis well the moon’s gone. Little have they left
of what we knew.
TOTTA
Woe! Tudda, they have reft
his head, and with their axes mangled him!
And the body – a! is battle then so grim?
TUDDA
Yes, yes – that’s war. But we must make a shift
to bear what’s left. Hold here! Now come! You lift!
TOTTA
None the less dear shall be this flesh and bone,
though foes have marred it. Now for ever moan
The Saxon and the English men
From Mercian wood to Eastern fen.
The wall is fallen. Women weep.
Build high the mound his bones to keep!
And there shall lie his helm and sword,
And golden rings be laid in hoard.
For of the friends of men was he
The first and best from sea to sea;
To folk most fair, to kin most kind,
And ever shall be held in mind
While from the sea there riseth sun;
Glory he loved and glory won!
TUDDA
Come on! No dirges yet! ’Twill be the part
of Ely monks, with luck. Now for the cart!
Hey, steady there. Keep step with me. Now slow!
Dead men drag earthward. Hey, look where you go!
What is it?
TOTTA
Look! There goes one, see? No, two!
Two men! Or shadow-walkers foul of hue,
bowed, with long arms!
TUDDA
Quick! Put him down! And wait,
and keep your tongue.
[He puts the lamp out.]
[A pause in which the noise of stealthy steps is heard approaching. Tudda raises his voice.]
Hi, there! You’re over late
to join the fight. But I can give you some
if that is what you want.
[To Totta in hoarse whisper.]
Look out! They come!
[There is a noise of scuffling.]
[Tudda loudly] Go on! Trip him!
[A blow and a shriek.]
TOTTA
A! there, that settles you!
(Crying aloud) Heaven be praised, Tudda! I’ve run him through, with master’s sword! Quicker than he thought he found the best thing left to plunder on this ground!
TUDDA
No need. That sword was made for better fare.
A fist and boot was quite enough to scare
the likes of them. There’s dead enough about.
When you have killed a Dane, begin to shout!
There’s plenty of them near, and by the Rood
I hate ’em, heathen or sprinkled, devil’s brood.
TOTTA
Then hurry! There may be more at hand. Away!
We’ll have the pirate pack on us.
TUDDA
Nay, nay!
These were no Northmen! What should they come for?
They’re all in Ipswich now, and drink to Thor.
These are corpse-strippers, native carrion-crows
of waste and fen. They have no friends nor foes,
save want and hunger. One has found the gear
of dead men sharper than he thought. D’you hear?
Come on!
TOTTA
God help us, and these wretched days
when men lie unavenged, and wolvish ways
folk take for need, to pill like carrion-bird
and plunder their own. All hallows! There’s a third
in the shadows yonder!
TUDDA
Let be. He will not wait.
That sort will fight no odds, early nor late.
They sneak in when all’s over. Up again!
Steady once more.
TOTTA
Say, Tudda, where’s the wain?
I wish we were by it! Come now, more this way:
we’re walking near the brink. Look out, I say.
We’ll fall into Panta. And the tide is high.
TUDDA
We’re at the causeway – and the wain’s hard by.
There then – the first step of the journey’s done.
By Edmund’s head! our lord’s not light with none!
[A pause. Sound of men slowly walking, and panting again.]
TUDDA
The wain at last! I wish that I could drink
his funeral ale right now upon the brink
near where he died! Good beer he gave; not thin,
but sweet and strong … …
… … How came they thus to win
across the causeway, think you? There’s little sign
here of hard fight, and yet just here the brine
should have been choked with them. But by the bank
there’s only one there lying.
TOTTA
They’ve him to thank,
alas! Or so men say now in the town.
Too bold, too proud! But he is fallen down,
made fool of by great heart. So we’ll not chide.
He let them cross to taste his sword – and died:
the last of the true sons of men of old
that sailed the seas, as songs and books have told,
from Angel in the East, and under helm
upon war’s anvil smote the Welsh, and realm
here in this isle they founded, long ago.
Now from the North again the winds do blow!
TUDDA
And poor men catch it in the neck, today
as long ago; whatever the songs may say,
perish all Vikings! Poor men robbed of land
they loved, must die and dung it. Lend a hand!
