King Alfred's Version of the Consolations of Boethius/The Lays of Boethius

PRELUDE
Thus the old tale    Alfred told us,

West Saxons' king. He showed the cunning,

The craft of songmen. Keenly he longed

Unto the people    to put forth songs

To make men merry,    manifold stories,

Lest a weariness    should ward away

The man self-filled,    that small heed takes

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
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.

The Goths in greatness    grew year by year;

Akin to the clansmen    kings were there twain,

Raedgod and Aleric;    they ruled in power.

Over 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

Even from Jove's mount    on to ocean,

Where in sea-streams    Sicily lies,

That mighty island,    most famous of lands.

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,

Yes, and his princes,    off to the Greeks.

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!

The hearts of the heroes    held with the Greeks,

If they dared follow    the folk's foemen.

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.

Oath after oath;    Arian error

He loved better    than the law of the Lord.

The good Pope John    he judged in his anger,

Robbed of his head;    a heinous deed!

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;

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.

Time after time    he turned in his mind

The evil and insult    by alien princes

Grievously given. To the Greeks he was true,

Remembering 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    over his people.

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.

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.

Sad was the hero    he hoped for no mercy,

Locked in prison;    past all comfort

On the floor he fell    with his face downwards,

Woefully spread,    his sorrow speaking,

Hopeless utterly,    ever thinking

He should linger in fetters. He called on the Lord

With cheerless voice,    and thus he chanted.

II
Ah! many a lay    once so merrily

I sang in my joy. Now must I sighing,

Worn with weeping,    a woeful outcast,

Sing words of sorrow. Me has this sobbing

And this wailing dazed,    so that no more little songs

Can I compose so impressively,    though many tales

Once I wove,    when I was happy.

Often now I find not    the words familiar,

I that in old times    often made strange ones.

Me, nearly 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 you 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.

III
Ah! it is fearful    and fathomless deep,

The murky pit    where the mind toils,

When the blasts of tempests    beat against it

Of worldly afflictions;    then in its fighting

Its own true light    it leaves behind it,

And in woe forgets    the weal eternal.

It dashes onward    into this world's darkness,

Weary with sorrows. So has it now

This soul befallen,    for now it nought knows

Of good before God,    but great grief

From the world unfriendly;    it wants comfort.

