Or, “Where now the horse and the rider” by JRR
Tolkien
For the third week of September’s
Tolkien-themed Inspiration Fridays, I’ve chosen one of my favourite poems from Lord of the Rings. Tolkien’s inspiration for this poem can be traced to the
Anglo-Saxon poem “The Wanderer”. Below
is Tolkien’s poem, followed by the Anglo-Saxon and contemporary English
translation from the appropriate passage of “The Wanderer”.
Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the
horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?
John DiBartolo has also set this
poem to music – you can find out more at this website.
From “The Wanderer”
Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær
cwom mago?
Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa?
Hwær cwom symbla
gesetu?
Hwær sindon
seledreamas?
Eala beorht bune!
Eala byrnwiga!
Eala þeodnes þrym!
Hu seo þrag gewat,
genap under nihthelm,
swa heo no wære.
Stondeð nu on laste
leofre duguþe
weal wundrum heah,
wyrmlicum fah.
Eorlas fornoman
asca þryþe,
wæpen wælgifru,
wyrd seo mære,
ond þas stanhleoþu
stormas cnyssað,
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hrið
hreosende
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hrusan
bindeð,
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wintres
woma,
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þonne
won cymeð,
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nipeð
nihtscua,
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norþan
onsendeð
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hreo
hæglfare
And in contemporary English:
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Where
is the horse gone? Where the rider?
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Where
the giver of treasure?
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Where
are the seats at the feast?
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Where
are the revels in the hall?
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Alas
for the bright cup!
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Alas
for the mailed warrior!
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Alas
for the splendour of the prince!
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How
that time has passed away,
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dark
under the cover of night,
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as
if it had never been!
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Now
there stands in the trace
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of
the beloved troop
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a
wall, wondrously high,
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wound
round with serpents.
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The
warriors taken off
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by
the glory of spears,
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the
weapons greedy for slaughter,
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the
famous fate (turn of events),
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and
storms beat
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these
rocky cliffs,
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falling
frost
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fetters
the earth,
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the
harbinger of winter;
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Then
dark comes,
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nightshadows
deepen,
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from
the north there comes
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a
rough hailstorm
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in
malice against men.
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