Bibliotheca Polyglotta

Boethius: De consolatione philosophiae
(Old English by king Alfred the Great, 9th century.)

Alfred the Great’s Boethius: Sedgefield’s Modern English Translation

PROÆMIUM.
Ælfred kuning wæs wealhstod ðisse bec and hie of boclædene on Englisc wende swa hio nu is gedon.

King Alfred was the interpreter of this book, and turned it from book Latin into English, as it is now done.

Hwilum he sette word be worde, hwilum andgit of andgite, swa swa he hit þa sweotolost and andgitfullicast gereccan mihte for þam mislicum and manigfealdum weoruldbisgum þe hine oft ægðer ge on mode ge on lichoman bisgodan.

Now he set forth word by word, now sense from sense, as clearly and intelligently as he was able, in the various and manifold worldly cares that oft troubled him both in mind and in body.

Ða bisgu us sint swiþe earfoþrimu þe on his dagum on þa ricu becoman þe he underfangen hæfde, and þeah ða he þas boc hæfde geleornode and of Lædene to Engliscum spelle gewende, þa geworhte he hi eft to leoðe swa swa heo nu gedon is;

These cares are very hard for us to reckon, that in his days came upon the kingdoms to which he had succeeded, and yet when he had studied this book and turned it from Latin into English prose, he wrought it up once more into verse, as it is now done.

and nu bit and for Godes naman healsað ælcne þara þe þas boc rædan lyste þæt he for hine gebidde, and him ne wite gif he hit rihtlicor ongite þone he meahte, forþam þe ælc mon sceal be his andgites mæðe and be his æmettan sprecan þæt he sprecð and don þæt þæt he deþ.

These cares are very hard for us to reckon, that in his days came upon the kingdoms to which he had succeeded, and yet when he had studied this book and turned it from Latin into English prose, he wrought it up once more into verse, as it is now done.

Ðus Ælfred us ealdspell reahte
cyning westsexna, cræft meldode,
leoðwyrthta list. Him wæs lust micel
ðæt he ðiossum leodum leoð spellode,
monnum myrgen, mislice cwiðas,
þy læs ælinge ut adrife
selflicne secg, þonne he swelces lyt
gymð for his gilpe. Ic sceal giet sprecan,
fon on fitte, folcuðne ræð
hæleðum secgan. Hliste se þe wille.

Thus the old tale   Alfred told us,
West Saxons’ king.   He shewed the cunning,
The craft of songmen.   Keenly he longed
Unto the people   to put forth songs
Men to make merry,   manifold stories,
Lest a weariness   should ward away
The man self-filled,   that small heed taketh
Of such in his pride.   Again I must speak,
Take up my singing,   the tale far known
Weave for mortals;   let who will listen.

I

Book I

METRE ONE.
Ærest hu Gotan gewunnon Romana rice and hu Boethius hi wolde berædan. And Ðeodric þa anfunde and hine het on carcerne gebringan.

I

Hit wæs geara iu ðætte Gotan eastan
of Sciððia sceldas læddon,
þreate geþrungon þeodlond monig,
setton suðweardes sigeþeoda twa.

Twas long ago when the eastern Goths
Sent from Scythia their swarms of shieldmen,
With multitudes harried many a nation.
Two tribes triumphant tramped to the south.

Gotena rice gearmælum weox.
Hæfdan him gecynde cyningas twegen
Rædgod and Aleric; rice geþungon.

The Goths in greatness   grew year by year;
Akin to the clansmen   kings were there twain,
Raedgod and Aleric;   they ruled in power.

Þa wæs ofer muntgiop monig atyhed
Gota gylpes full, guðe gelysted,
folcgewinnes. Fana hwearfode
scir on sceafte. Sceotend þohton
Italia ealla gegongan,
lindwigende. Hi gelæstan swua
efne from Muntgiop oð þone mæran wearoð
þær Sicilia sæstreamum in,
eglond micel, eðel mærsað.

O’er Jove’s mountain   came many a Goth
Gorged with glory,   greedy to wrestle
In fight with foemen.   The banner flashing
Fluttered on the staff.   Freely the heroes
All Italy over were   eager to roam,
The wielders of bucklers,   bearing onward
E’en from Jove’s mount   on to ocean,
Where in sea-streams   Sicily lieth,
That mighty island,   most famous of lands.

Ða wæs Romana rice gewunnen,
abrocen burga cyst; beadurincum wæs
Rom gerymed. Rædgot and Aleric
foron on ðæt festen; fleah casere
mid þam æþelingum ut on Crecas.

Rudely the Roman   rule was shattered;
The shieldmen sacked   the glorious city
Rome was ravaged;   Raedgod and Aleric
Carried the fortress.   Away fled the Caesar,
Aye, and his princes,   off to the Greeks.

Ne meahte þa seo wealaf wige forstandan
Gotan mid guðe; giomonna gestrion
sealdon unwillum eþelweardas,
halige aðas; wæs gehwæderes waa.

The luckless left ones,   losing the combat,
To the Gothic foemen   gave up all,
Unwilling forfeited   their fathers’ treasures,
Their holy allegiance   hard was the loss!

Þeah wæs magorinca mod mid Crecum
gif hi leodfruman læstan dorsten.

The hearts of the heroes held with the Greeks,
If they durst follow the folk’s foemen.

Stod þrage on ðam. Þeod wæs gewunnen
wintra mænigo, oð þæt wyrd gescraf
þæt þe Ðeodrice þegnas and eorlas
heran sceoldan. Wæs se heretema
Criste gecnoden, cyning selfa onfeng
fulluht þeawum. Fægnodon ealle
Romwara bearn and him recene to
friðes wilnedon. He him fæste gehet
þæt hy ealdrihta ælces mosten
wyrde gewunigen on þære welegan byrig,
ðenden God wuolde, þæt he Gotena geweald
agan moste. He þæt eall aleag.

Thus things stood   the folk was stressed
Many a winter,   till Weird appointed
That Theodoric   the thanes and nobles
Should lord it over.   This leader of them
Was claimed by Christ,   the king himself
Brought to baptism   a blessed day
For the sons of Rome.   They sought right soon
Help from the high one;   he then vowed
To give the Romans   all rights olden,
Safe to sojourn   in their wealthy city,
While God him granted   the Goths’ dominion
To own and possess.   All this the prince broke.

Wæs þæm æþelinge Arrianes
gedwola leofre þonne drihtes æ.
Het Iohannes, godne papan,
hæfde beheawon; næs ðæt hærlic dæd.

Oath after oath; Arian error
He loved better than the law of the Lord.
The good Pope John he judged in his anger,
Reft of his head; a heinous deed!

Eac þam wæs unrim oðres manes
þæt se Gota fremede godra gehwilcum,
Ða wæs ricra sum on Romebyrig
ahefen heretoga, hlaforde leof,
þenden cynestole Crecas wioldon.

Countless wrongs   were likewise wrought
By the Gothic leader   on each of the good.
In those days a leader   in Rome was living,
A high-born chieftain,   cherishing his lord,
While that the high-seat   was held by the Greeks;

Ðæt wæs rihtwis rinc; næs mid Romwarum
sincgeofa sella siððan longe.
He wæs for worulde wis, weorðmynða georn,
beorn boca gleaw; Boitius
se hæle hatte se þone hilsan geþah.

A man most righteous.   He was ’mid the Romans
A giver of treasure   glorious ever,
Wise toward this world,   wishful of honour,
Learned in booklore;   Boethius the name was
That this hero had,   that so highly was famed.

Wæs him on gemynde mæla gehwilce
yfel and edwit þæt him elðeodge
kyningas cyðdon; wæs on Creacas hold,
gemunde þara ara and ealdrihta
þe his eldran mid him ahton longe,
lufan and lissa. Angan þa listum ymbe
ðencean þearflice, hu he ðider meahte
Crecas oncerran, þæt se casere eft
anwald ofer hi agan moste.

Time after time   he turned in his mind
The evil and insult   by alien princes
Grievously given.   To the Greeks he was true,
Rememb’ring the honours   and ancient rights
By his fathers aforetime   fully enjoyed,
Their love and kindness.   Then with cunning
He planned and brooded   how he might bring
The Greeks to his country,   that once more the Caesar
Might have full power   o’er his people.

Sende ærendgewrit ealdhlafordum
degelice, and hi for drihtne bæd
ealdum treowum ðæt hi æft to him
comen on þa ceastre, lete Creca witan
rædan Romwarum, rihtes wyrðe
lete þone leodscipe. Ða þa lare ongeat
Ðeodric Amuling and þone þegn oferfeng
heht fæstlice folcesiðas
healdon þone hererinc. Wæs him heroh sefa,
ege from ðam eorle. He hine inne heht
on cacernes cluster belucan.

Then to their former lords   letters of embassy
He sent in secret,   summoning them by God,
By their former faith,   forthwith to him
To speed Romewards;   Greek senators
Should rule the Romans,   their rights render
Free to the folk.   When he found this out,
Theodoric the Amuling,   the thane he had seized,
Charging the braves   that did his bidding
To hold fast the hero;   fierce was his heart,
The chieftain dreading.   Deep in a dungeon
Bolted and barred   he bade them cast him.

Þa wæs modsefa miclum gedrefed
Boetius. Breac longe ær
wlenca under wolcnum; he þy wyrs meahte
þolian þa þrage þa hio swa þearl becom.

Then was the man’s mood   mightily troubled,
The mind of Boethius.   Long had he borne
High state worldly;   the harder it was
Bravely to bear   this bitter fortune.

Wæs þa ormod eorl, are ne wende,
ne on þam fæstene frofre gemunde,
ac he neowol astreaht niðer ofdune
feol on þa flore, fela worda spræc,
forþoht ðearle; ne wende þonan æfre
cuman of ðæm clammum. Cleopode to drihtne
geomran stemne, gyddode þus.

Sad was the hero   he hoped for no mercy,
Locked in prison;   past all comfort
On the floor he fell   with his face downwards,
Wofully spread,   his sorrow speaking,
Hopeless utterly,   ever weening
He should linger in fetters.   He called on the Lord
With cheerless voice,   and thus he chaunted.

Metre 2
Hu Boethius on ðæm carcerne his sar seofiende wæs.¹

1. Cf. Lat.

II

Hwæt, ic lioða fela lustlice geo
sanc on sælum; nu sceal siofigende,
wope gewæged, wreccea giomor,
singan sarcwidas. Me þios siccetung hafað
agæled, ðes geocsa, þæt ic þa ged ne mæg
gefegean swa fægre, þeah ic fela gio þa
sette soðcwida þonne ic on sælum wæs.

Ah! many a lay   once so merrily
I sang in my joy.   Now must I sighing,
Worn with weeping,   a woful outcast,
Sing words of sorrow.   Me hath this sobbing
And this wailing dazed,   so that no more ditties
Can I turn so featly,   though many tales
Once I wove,   when I was happy.

Oft ic nu miscyrre cuðe spræce
and þeah uncuðre ær hwilum fond.

Oft now I find not the words familiar,
I that in old times oft made strange ones.

Me þas woruldsælða welhwæs blindne
on ðis dimme hol dysine forlæddon,
and me þa berypton rædes and frofre
for heora untreowum, þe ic him æfte betst
truwian sceolde. He me to wendon
heora bacu bitere and heora blisse from.
Forhwam wolde ge, woruldfrynd mine,
secgan oððe singan þæt ic gesællic mon
wære on worulde? Ne synt þa word soð
nu þa gesælða ne magon simle gewunigan.

Me, wellnigh blind,   have these worldly blessings
Drawn in my folly   to this dim cavern,
And robbed me entirely   of reason and comfort
With their false faith,   when I had fain ever
To them trusted.   To me they have turned
Their backs, oh! cruelly,   and kept joy from me.
Ah! why were ye minded,   my friends of this world,
In speech or in song   to say I was happy
Here in this world?   The words are not true ones.
For worldly blessings   abide not always.

Þa ic þa þis leod, cwæd Boethius, geomriende asungen hæfde, þa com þær gan in to me heofencund Wisdom and þæt min murnende Mod mid his wordum gegrette and þus cwæd. ² Hu ne eart ðu se mon þe on mindre scole wære afeded and gelæred? ³

2. Cf. Lat. 3. Cf. Lat. (1); and Lat. (2)

WHEN I had sung thus plaintively, saith Boethius, there entered unto me divine Philosophy, who, addressing words of greeting to my mournful mind, said, ’Art thou not the man that was once nourished and taught in my school?

Ac hwonon wurde þu mid þissum woruldsorgum þis swiðe geswenced? Butan ic wat þæt þu hæfst þara wæpna to hraðe forgiten þe ic þe ær sealde. Ða cleopode se Wisdom and cwæd.

Then how comes it that thou art thus grievously oppressed with these worldly sorrows? Unless, methinks, thou hast too soon forgotten the weapons that once I gave thee.’ Then, lifting up her voice, she cried,

Gewitaþ nu awirgede woruldsorga of mines þegenes Mode forþam ge sind þa mæstan sceaþan. Lætaþ hine eft hweorfan to minum larum.⁴

4. Cf. Lat

’Depart from the mind of my servant, ye worldly cares accursed, for ye are the worst of foes, and suffer him to return again to my teachings.’

Þa eode se Wisdom near, cwæd Boethius, minum hreowsiendum geþohte and hit swa niowul hwæthwugu up arærde.

And she drew nearer unto my grieving intelligence, saith Boethius, and raised it up somewhat from its prostrate state;

Adrigde þa mines Modes eagan and hit frægn liðum wordum hwæðer hit oncneowe his fæstermodor.

then, drying its eyes, she asked it cheerily whether, it knew again its foster-mother.

Mid þam þe ða þæt Mod wið his bewende, þa gecneow hit swiðe sweotele his agene modor, þæt wæs se Wisdom ðe hit lange ær tyde and lærde.

With that the Mind turned towards her and forthwith clearly recognized his own mother, that same Philosophy that long before had trained and taught him.

Ac hit ongeat his lare swiðe totorene and swiðe tobrogdene mid dysigra hondum, and hine þa frægn hu þæt gewurde.

And perceiving that the mantle of her doctrine was much rent and torn by the hands of foolish men, he asked her how this came about.

Þa andwyrde se Wisdom him and sæde þæt hsi gingran hæfdon hine swa totorenne þær þær he teohhodon þæt hi hine eallne habban sceoldon.

And Philosophy made answer and said that her disciples had torn her thus, being minded to possess her altogether.

Ac hi gegaderiað monifeald dysig on ðære fortruwunga and on þam gilpe butan heora hwelc eft to rihtre bote gecirre.

But of a truth they will gather much folly by their presumption and vainglory unless every one of them shall turn again to her healing care.

Ða ongan se Wisdom hrewosian for þæs Modes tydernesse and ongan þa giddian and þus cwæð.

Here Philosophy began to take pity on the Mind's feebleness, and fell to singing, and these were her words:

.

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