Produced by David Starner, Ben Beasley and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team





YALE STUDIES IN ENGLISH
ALBERT S. COOK, EDITOR
LXIII


THE
OLD ENGLISH PHYSIOLOGUS


TEXT AND PROSE TRANSLATION
BY
ALBERT STANBURROUGH COOK
Professor of the English Language and Literature in Yale University


VERSE TRANSLATION
BY
JAMES HALL PITMAN
Fellow in English of Yale University


NEW HAVEN: YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS
LONDON: HUMPHREY MILFORD
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
MDCCCXXI


[FACSIMILE]




PREFACE


The Old English _Physiologus_, or _Bestiary_, is a series of three brief
poems, dealing with the mythical traits of a land-animal, a sea-beast,
and a bird respectively, and deducing from them certain moral or
religious lessons. These three creatures are selected from a much larger
number treated in a work of the same name which was compiled at
Alexandria before 140 B.C., originally in Greek, and afterwards
translated into a variety of languages--into Latin before 431. The
standard form of the _Physiologus_ has 49 chapters, each dealing with a
separate animal (sometimes imaginary) or other natural object, beginning
with the lion, and ending with the ostrich; examples of these are the
pelican, the eagle, the phoenix, the ant (cf. Prov. 6.6), the fox, the
unicorn, and the salamander. In this standard text, the Old English
poems are represented by chapters 16, 17, and 18, dealing in succession
with the panther, a mythical sea-monster called the asp-turtle (usually
denominated the whale), and the partridge. Of these three poems, the
third is so fragmentary that little is left except eight lines of
religious application, and four of exhortation by the poet, so that the
outline of the poem, and especially the part descriptive of the
partridge, must be conjecturally restored by reference to the treatment
in the fuller versions, which are based upon Jer. 17.11 (the texts drawn
upon for the application in lines 5-11 are 2 Cor. 6.17,18; Isa. 55.7;
Heb. 2.10,11).

It has been said: 'With the exception of the Bible, there is perhaps no
other book in all literature that has been more widely current in every
cultivated tongue and among every class of people.' Such currency might
be illustrated from many English authors. Two passages from Elizabethan
literature may serve as specimens--the one from Spenser, the other from
Shakespeare. The former is from the _Faerie Queene_ (1. 11.34):

    At last she saw, where he upstarted brave
    Out of the well, wherein he drenched lay;
    As Eagle fresh out of the Ocean wave,
    Where he hath left his plumes all hoary gray,
    And deckt himselfe with feathers youthly gay,
    Like Eyas hauke up mounts unto the skies,
    His newly budded pineons to assay,
    And marveiles at himselfe, still as he flies:
    So new this new-borne knight to battell new did rise.

The other is from _Hamlet_ (Laertes to the King):

    To his good friends thus wide I'll ope my arms;
    And like the kind life-rendering pelican,
    Repast them with my blood.[1]

However widely diffused, the symbolism exemplified by the _Physiologus_
is peculiarly at home in the East. Thus Egypt symbolized the sun, with
his death at night passing into a rebirth, by the phœnix, which, by a
natural extension, came to signify the resurrection. And the Bible not
only sends the sluggard to the ant, and bids men consider the lilies of
the field, but with a large sweep commands (Job 12.7,8): 'Ask now the
beasts, and they shall teach thee; and the fowls of the air, and they
shall tell thee; or speak to the earth, and it shall teach thee; and the
fishes of the sea shall declare unto thee.'

[Footnote 1: Alfred de Musset, in _La Nuit de Mai_, develops the image
of the pelican through nearly thirty lines.]

The text as here printed is extracted from my edition, _The Old English
Elenc, Phœnix, and Physiologus_ (Yale University Press, 1919), where a
critical apparatus may be found; here it may be sufficient to say that
Italic letters in square brackets denote my emendations, and Roman
letters those of previous editors. The translations have not hitherto
been published, and no complete ones are extant in any language, save
those contained in Thorpe's edition of the _Codex Exoniensis_, which
appeared in 1842. The long conjectural passage in the _Partridge_ is due
wholly to Mr. Pitman.

                                                                  A.S.C.

March 27, 1921.




PHYSIOLOGUS




[**Transcriber's note: The following texts have been split into small
sections based on the pagination of the original. These sections
alternate as follows, each section being separated from its neighbors by
rows of asterisks: Old English verse; Modern English verse translation;
Modern English prose translation. While this fragments each version, it
facilitates comparison in parallel.]


I

THE PANTHER


      Monge sindon    geond middangeard
    unrīmu cynn,    [_þāra_] þe wē æþelu ne magon
    ryhte āreccan    nē rīm witan;
    þæs wīde sind    geond wor[_u_]l[d] innan
5   fugla and dēora    foldhrērendra
    wornas widsceope,    swā wæter bibūgeð
    þisne beorhtan bōsm,    brim grymetende,
    sealtȳpa geswing.
                         Wē bi sumum hȳrdon
    wrǣtlīc[_um_] gecynd[_e_]    wildra secgan,
10  fīrum frēamǣrne,    feorlondum on,
    eard weardian,    ēðles nēotan,
    æfter dūnscrafum.    Is þæt dēor Pandher
    bi noman hāten,    þæs þe niþþa bear[n],

       *       *       *       *       *

      Of living creatures many are the kinds
    Throughout the world--unnumbered, since no man
    Can count their multitudes, nor rightly learn
    The ways of their wild nature; wide they roam,
    These beasts and birds, as far as ocean sets
    A limit to the earth, embracing her
    And all her sunny fields with salty seas
    And toss of roaring billows.
                                 We have heard
    From men of wider lore of one wild beast,
    Wonderful dweller in a far-off land
    Renowned of men, who loves his native glens
    And dusky caverns. Him have wise men called

       *       *       *       *       *

Many, yea numberless, are the tribes throughout the world whose natures
we can not rightly expound nor their multitudes reckon, so immense are
the swarms of birds and earth-treading animals wherever water, the
roaring ocean, the surge of salt billows, encompasses the smiling bosom
of earth.

We have heard about one marvelous kind of wild beast which inhabits, in
lands far off, a domain renowned among men, rejoicing there in his home
amid the mountain-caves. This beast is called panther, as the learned

       *       *       *       *       *

    wīsfæste weras,    on gewritum cȳþa[_ð_]
15  bi þām ānstapan.
                        Sē is ǣ[_g_]hwām frēond,
    duguða ēstig,    būtan dracan ānum;
    þām hē in ealle tīd    andwrāð leofaþ,
    þurh yfla gehwylc    þe hē geæfnan mæg.
      Ðæt is wrǣtlīc dēor,    wundrum scȳne,
20  hīwa gehwylces.    Swā hæleð secgað,
    gǣsthālge guman,    þætte Iōsēphes
    tunece wǣre    telga gehwylces
    blēom bregdende,    þāra beorhtra gehwylc,
    ǣghwæs ǣnlīcra,    ōþrum līxte
25  dryhta bearnum,    swā þæs dēores hīw,
    blǣc, brigda gehwæs,    beorhtra and scȳnra
    wundrum līxeð,    þætte wrǣtlīcra
    ǣghwylc ōþrum,    ǣnlīcra gīen
    and fǣgerra,    frætwum blīceð,
30  symle sellīcra.
                       Hē hafað sundorgecynd,

       *       *       *       *       *

    The panther, and in books have told of him,
    The solitary rover.
                        He is kind,
    A bounteous friend to every living thing
    Save one alone, the dragon; but with him
    The panther ever lives at enmity,
    Employing every means within his power
    To work him evil.
                      Fair is he, full bright
    And wonderful of hue. The holy scribes
    Tell us how Joseph's many-colored coat,
    Gleaming with varying dyes of every shade,
    Brilliant, resplendent, dazzled all men's eyes
    That looked upon it. So the panther's hues
    Shine altogether lovely, marvelous,
    While each fair color in its beauty glows
    Ever more rare and charming than the rest.
      His wondrous character is mild, and free

       *       *       *       *       *

among the children of men report in their books concerning that lonely
wanderer.

He is a friend, bountiful in kindness, to every one save only the
dragon; with him he always lives at enmity by means of every injury he
can inflict.

He is a bewitching animal, marvelously beautiful with every color. Just
as, according to men holy in spirit, Joseph's coat was variegated with
hues of every shade, each shining before the sons of men brighter and
more perfect than another, so does the color of this beast blaze with
every diversity, gleaming in wondrous wise so clear and fair that each
tint is ever lovelier than the next, glows more enchanting in its
splendor, more rare, more beauteous, and more strange.

He has a nature all his own, so gentle and so calm is

       *       *       *       *       *

    milde, gemetfæst.    Hē is monþwǣre,
    lufsum and lēoftæl:    nele lāþes wiht
    ǣ[ng]um geæfnan    būtan þām āttorsceaþan,
    his fyrngeflitan,    þe ic ǣr fore sægde.
35    Symle, fylle fægen,    þonne fōddor þigeð,
    æfter þām gereordum    ræste sēceð,
    dȳgle stōwe    under dūnscrafum;
    ðǣr se þēo[d]wiga    þrēonihta fæc
    swifeð on swe[_o_]fote,    slǣpe gebiesga[d].
40  Þonne ellenrōf    ūp āstondeð,
    þrymme gewelga[d],    on þone þriddan dæg,
    snēome of slǣpe.    Swēghlēoþor cymeð,
    wōþa wynsumast,    þurh þæs wildres mūð;
    æfter pære stefne    stenc ūt cymeð
45  of þām wongstede--    wynsumra stēam,
    swēttra and swīþra,    swæcca gehwylcum,
    wyrta blōstmum    and wudublēdum,
    eallum æþelīcra    eorþan frætw[um].

       *       *       *       *       *

    From all disturbing passion. Gracious, kind,
    And full of love, he meditates no harm
    But to that venomous foe, as I have told,
    His ancient enemy.
                       Once he has rejoiced
    His heart with feasting, straight he finds a nook
    Hidden among dim caves, his resting-place.
    There three nights' space, in deepest slumber wrapped,
    The people's champion lies. Then, stout of heart,
    The third day he arises fresh from sleep,
    Endowed with glory. From the creature's mouth
    Issues a melody of sweetest strains;
    And close upon the voice a balmy scent
    Fills all the place--an incense lovelier,
    Sweeter, and abler to perfume the air,
    Than any odor of an earthly flower
    Or scent of woodland fruit, more excellent

       *       *       *       *       *

it. Kind, attractive, and friendly, he has no thought of doing harm to
any save the envenomed foe, his ancient adversary of whom I spoke.

When, delighting in a feast, he has partaken of food, ever at the end of
the meal he betakes himself to his resting-place, a hidden retreat among
the mountain-caves; there the champion of his race, overcome by sleep,
abandons himself to slumber for the space of three nights. Then the
dauntless one, replenished with vigor, straightway arises from sleep
when the third day has come. A melody, the most ravishing of strains,
flows from the wild beast's mouth; and, following the music, there
issues a fragrance from the place--a fume more transporting, sweet, and
strong than any odor whatever, than blossoms of plants or fruits of the
forest, choicer

       *       *       *       *       *

    Þonne of ceastrum    and cynestōlum
50  and of burgsalum    beornþrēat monig
    farað foldwegum    folca þrȳþum;
    ēoredcystum,    ofestum gefȳsde,
    dareðlācende    --dēor [s]wā some--
    æfter þǣre stefne    on þone stenc farað.
55    Swā is Dryhten God,    drēama Rǣdend,
    eallum ēaðmēde    ōþrum gesceaftum,
    duguða gehwylcre,    būtan dracan ānum,
    āttres ordfruman--    þæt is se ealda fēond
    þone hē gesǣlde    in sūsla grund,
60  and gefetrade    fȳrnum tēagum,
    biþeahte þrēanȳdum;    and þȳ þriddan dæge
    of dīgle ārās,    þæs þe hē dēað fore ūs
    þrēo niht þolade,    Þēoden engla,
    sigora Sellend.    Þæt wæs swēte stenc,
65  wlitig and wynsum,    geond woruld ealle.
    Siþþan tō þām swicce    sōðfæste men,

       *       *       *       *       *

    Than all this world's adornments. Then from town
    And palace, then from castle-hall, come forth
    Along the roads great troops of hurrying men--
    The very beasts come also; all press on
    Toward that sweet odor, when the voice is stilled.
      Such as this creature is the Lord our God,
    Giver of joys, to all creation kind,
    To men benignant, save alone to him,
    The dragon, author of all wickedness,
    Satan, the ancient adversary whom,
    Fettered with fire, shackled with dire constraint,
    Into the pit of torments God cast down.
    The third day Christ arose from out the grave,
    For three nights having suffered death for us,
    He, Lord of angels, he in whom alone
    Is hope of overcoming. Far and wide
    The tidings spread, like perfume fresh and sweet,
    Through all the world. Then to that fragrance thronged

       *       *       *       *       *

than aught that clothes the earth with beauty. Thereupon from cities,
courts, and castle-halls many companies of heroes flock along the
highways of earth; the wielders of the spear press forward in hurrying
throngs to that perfume--and so also do animals--when once the music has
ceased.

Even so the Lord God, the Giver of joy, is gracious to all creatures, to
every order of them, save only the dragon, the source of venom, that
ancient enemy whom he bound in the abyss of torments; shackling him with
fiery fetters, and loading him with dire constraints, he arose from
darkness on the third day after he, the Lord of angels, the Bestower of
victory, had for three nights endured death on our behalf. That was a
sweet perfume throughout the world, winsome and entrancing. Henceforth,

       *       *       *       *       *

    on healfa gehwone,    hēapum þrungon
    geond ealne ymbhwyrft    eorþan scēat[a].
    Swā se snottra gecwæð    Sanctus Paulus:
70  'Monigfealde sind    geond middangeard
    gōd ungnȳðe    þe ūs tō giefe dǣleð
    and tō feorhnere    Fæder ælmihtig,
    and se ānga Hyht    ealra gesceafta
    uppe ge niþre.'    Þæt is æþele stenc.

       *       *       *       *       *

    From every side all men whose hearts were true,
    Throughout the regions of the circled earth.
    Thus spoke the wise St. Paul: 'In all the world
    His gifts are many, which he gives to us
    For our salvation with unstinting hand,
    Almighty Father, he, the only Hope
    Of all in heaven or here below on earth.'
    This is that noble fragrance, rare and sweet,
    Which draws all men to seek it from afar.

       *       *       *       *       *

through the whole extent of earth's regions, righteous men have streamed
in multitudes from every side to that fragrance. As said the wise St.
Paul: 'Manifold over the world are the lavish bounties which the Father
almighty, the Hope of all creatures above and below, bestows on us as
grace and salvation.' That, too, is a sweet odor.




II

THE WHALE (ASP-TURTLE)


      Nū ic fitte gēn    ymb fisca cynn
    wille wōðcræfte    wordum cȳþan
    þurh mōdgemynd,    bi þām miclan hwale.
    Sē bið unwillum    oft gemēted,
5   frēcne and fer[_h_]ðgrim,    fareðlācendum,
    niþþa gehwylcum;    þām is noma cenned,
    fyr[ge]nstrēama geflotan,    Fastitocalon.
      Is þæs hīw gelīc    hrēofum stāne,
    swylce wōrie    bi wædes ōfre,
10  sondbeorgum ymbseald,    sǣrȳrica mǣst,
    swā þæt wēnaþ    wǣglīþende
    þæt hȳ on ēalond sum    ēagum wlīten;
    and þonne gehȳd[_i_]að    hēahstefn scipu
    tō þām unlonde    oncyrrāpum,
15  s[_ǣ_]laþ sǣmearas    sundes æt ende,

       *       *       *       *       *

      Now will I spur again my wit, and use
    Poetic skill to weave words into song,
    Telling of one among the race of fish,
    The great asp-turtle. Men who sail the sea
    Often unwillingly encounter him,
    Dread preyer on mankind. His name we know,
    The ocean-swimmer, Fastitocalon.
      Dun, like rough stone in color, as he floats
    He seems a heaving bank of reedy grass
    Along the shore, with rolling dunes behind,
    So that sea-wanderers deem their gaze has found
    An island. Boldly then their high-prowed ships
    They moor with cables to that shore, a land
    That is no land. Still floating on the waves,
    Their ocean-coursers curvet at the marge;

       *       *       *       *       *

This time I will with poetic art rehearse, by means of words and wit, a
poem about a kind of fish, the great sea-monster which is often
unwillingly met, terrible and cruel-hearted to seafarers, yea, to every
man; this swimmer of the ocean-streams is known as the asp-turtle.

His appearance is like that of a rough boulder, as if there were tossing
by the shore a great ocean-reedbank begirt with sand-dunes, so that
seamen imagine they are gazing upon an island, and moor their
high-prowed ships with cables to that false land, make fast the
ocean-coursers at the sea's end, and, bold of heart, climb up

       *       *       *       *       *

    and þonne in þæt ēglond    ūp gewītað
    collenfer[_h_]þe;    cēolas stondað
    bi staþe fæste    strēame biwunden.
    Ðonne gewīciað    wērigfer[_h_]ðe,
20  faroðlācende,    frēcnes ne wēnað.
      On þām ēalonde    ǣled weccað,
    hēah fyr ǣlað.    Hæleþ bēoþ on wynnum,
    rēonigmōde,    ræste gel[y]ste.
    Þonne gefēleð    fācnes cræftig
25  þæt him þā fērend on    fæste wuniaþ,
    wīc weardiað,    wedres on luste,
    ðonne semninga    on sealtne wǣg
    mid þā nōþe    niþer gewīteþ,
    gārsecges gæst,    grund gesēceð,
30  and þonne in dēaðsele    drence bifæsteð
    scipu mid scealcum.
                           Swā bið scinn[_en_]a þēaw,
    dēofla wīse,    þæt hī droht[i]ende
    þurh dyrne meaht    duguðe beswīcað,
    and on teosu tyhtaþ    tilra dǣda,
35  wēmað on willan,    þæt hȳ wraþe sēcen,

       *       *       *       *       *

    The weary-hearted sailors mount the isle,
    And, free from thought of peril, there abide.
      Elated, on the sands they build a fire,
    A mounting blaze. There, light of heart, they sit--
    No more discouraged--eager for sweet rest.
    Then when the crafty fiend perceives that men,
    Encamped upon him, making their abode,
    Enjoy the gentle weather, suddenly
    Under the salty waves he plunges down,
    Straight to the bottom deep he drags his prey;
    He, guest of ocean, in his watery haunts
    Drowns ships and men, and fast imprisons them
    Within the halls of death.
                               Such is the way
    Of demons, devils' wiles: to hide their power,
    And stealthily inveigle heedless men,
    Inciting them against all worthy deeds,
    And luring them to seek for help and comfort

       *       *       *       *       *

on that island; the vessels stand by the beach, enringed by the flood.
The weary-hearted sailors then encamp, dreaming not of peril.

On the island they start a fire, kindle a mounting flame. The dispirited
heroes, eager for repose, are flushed with joy. Now when the cunning
plotter feels that the seamen are firmly established upon him, and have
settled down to enjoy the weather, the guest of ocean sinks without
warning into the salt wave with his prey (?), and makes for the bottom,
thus whelming ships and men in that abode of death.

Such is the way of demons, the wont of devils: they spend their lives in
outwitting men by their secret power, inciting them to the corruption of
good deeds, misguiding

       *       *       *       *       *

    frōfre tō fēondum,    oþþæt hy fæste ðǣr
    æt þām wǣrlogan    wīc gecēosað.
    Þonne þæt gecnāweð    of cwicsūsle
    flāh fēond gemāh,    þætte fīra gehwylc
40  hæleþa cynnes    on his hringe biþ
    fæste gefēged,    hē him feorgbona,
    þurh slīþen searo,    siþþan weorþeð,
    wloncum and hēanum    þe his willan hēr
    firenum fremmað;    mid þām hē fǣringa,
45  heoloþhelme biþeaht,    helle sēceð,
    gōda gēasne,    grundlēasne wylm
    under mistglōme,    swā se micla hwæl
    se þe bisenceð    sǣlīþende
    eorlas and ȳðmearas.
                            Hē hafað ōþre gecynd,
50  wæterþisa wlonc,    wrǣtlīcran gīen.
    Þonne hine on holme    hunger bysgað,
    and þone āglǣcan    ǣtes lysteþ,
    ðonne se mereweard    mūð ontȳneð,

       *       *       *       *       *

    From unsuspected foes, until at last
    They choose a dwelling with the faithless one.
    Then, when the fiend, by crafty malice stirred,
    From where hell's torments bind him fast, perceives
    That men are firmly set in his domain,
    With treachery unspeakable he hastes
    To snare and to destroy the lives of those,
    Both proud and lowly, who in sin perform
    His will on earth. Donning the mystic helm
    Of darkness, with his prey he speeds to hell,
    The place devoid of good--all misty gloom,
    Where broods a sullen lake, black, bottomless,
    Just as the monster, Fastitocalon,
    Destroys seafarers, overwhelming men
    And staunch-built ships.
                             Another trait he has,
    This proud sea-swimmer, still more marvelous.
    When hunger grips the monster on the deep,
    Making him long for food, his gaping mouth
    The ocean-warder opens, stretching wide

       *       *       *       *       *

them at will so that they seek help and support from fiends, until they
end by making their fixed abode with the betrayer. When, from out his
living torture, the crafty, malicious enemy perceives that any one is
firmly settled within his domain, he proceeds, by his malignant wiles,
to become the slayer of that man, be he rich or poor, who sinfully does
his will; and, covered by his cap of darkness, suddenly betakes himself
with them to hell, where naught of good is found, a bottomless abyss
shrouded in misty gloom--like that monster which engulfs the
ocean-traversing men and ships.

This proud tosser of the waves has another and still more wonderful
trait. When hunger plagues him on the deep, and the monster longs for
food, this haunter of the sea opens his mouth, and sets his lips agape;

       *       *       *       *       *

    wīde weleras;    cymeð wynsum stenc
55  of his innoþe,    þætte ōþre þurh þone,
    sǣfisca cynn,    beswicen weorðaþ.
    Swimmað sundhwate    þǣr se swēta stenc
    ūt gewīt[e]ð.    Hī þǣr in farað,
    unware weorude,    oþþæt se wīda ceafl
60  gefylled bið;    þonne fǣringa
    ymbe þā herehūþe    hlemmeð tōgædre
    grimme gōman.
                     Swā biþ gumena gehwām
    se þe oftost his    unwærlīce,
    on þās lǣnan tīd,    līf biscēawað:
65  lǣteð hine beswīcan    þurh swētne stenc,
    lēasne willan,    þæt hē biþ leahtrum fāh
    wið Wuldorcyning.    Him se āwyrgda ongēan
    æfter hinsīþe    helle ontȳneð,
    þām þe lēaslīce    līces wynne
70  ofer ferh[ð]gereaht    fremedon on unrǣd.
    Þonne se fǣcna    in þām fæstenne
    gebrōht hafað,    bealwes cræftig,

       *       *       *       *       *

    His monstrous lips; and from his cavernous maw
    Sends an entrancing odor. This sweet scent,
    Deceiving other fishes, lures them on
    In swiftly moving schools toward that fell place
    Whence comes the perfume. There, unwary host,
    They enter in, until the yawning mouth
    Is filled to overflowing, when, at once,
    Trapping their prey, the fearful jaws snap shut.
      So, in this fleeting earthly time, each man
    Who orders heedlessly his mortal life
    Lets a sweet odor, some beguiling wish,
    Entice him, so that in the eyes of God,
    The King of glory, his iniquities
    Make him abhorrent. After death for him
    The all-accursed devil opens hell--
    Opens for all who in their folly here
    Let pleasures of the body overcome
    Their spirits' guidance. When the wily fiend
    Into his hold beside the fiery lake

       *       *       *       *       *

whereupon there issues a ravishing perfume from his inwards, by which
other kinds of fish are beguiled. With lively motions they swim to where
the sweet odor comes forth, and there enter in, a heedless host, until
the wide gorge is full; then, in one instant, he snaps his fierce jaws
together about the swarming prey.

Thus it is with any one who, in this fleeting time, full oft neglects to
take heed to his life, and allows himself to be enticed by sweet
fragrance, a lying lure, so that he becomes hostile to the King of glory
by reason of his sins. The accursed one will, when they die, throw wide
the doors of hell to those who, in their folly, have wrought the
treacherous delights of the body, contrary to the wise guidance of the
soul. When the deceiver, skilful in wrongdoing, hath brought into that
fastness,

       *       *       *       *       *

    æt þām [_ā_]dwylme,    þā þe him on cleofiað,
    gyltum gehrodene,    and ǣr georne his
75  in hira līfdagum    lārum hȳrdon,
    þonne he þā grimman    gōman bihlemmeð,
    æfter feorhcwale,     fæste tōgædre,
    helle hlinduru.    Nāgon hwyrft nē swice,
    ūtsīþ ǣfre,    þā [_þe_] þǣr in cumað,
80  þon mā þe þā fiscas,    faraðlācende,
    of þæs hwæles fenge    hweorfan mōtan.
      Forþon is eallinga  . . . . . . . . .
    . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
    dryhtna Dryhtne, and ā dēoflum wiðsace
85  wordum and weorcum,    þæt wē Wuldorcyning
    gesēon mōton.    Uton ā sibbe tō him,
    on þās hwīlnan tīd,    hǣlu sēcan,
    þæt wē mid swā lēofne    in lofe mōtan
    tō wīdan feore    wuldres nēotan.

       *       *       *       *       *

    With evil craft has led those erring ones
    Who cleave to him, sore laden with their sins,
    Those who in earthly life have hearkened well
    To his instruction, after death close shut
    He snaps those woful jaws, the gates of hell.
    Whoever enters there has no relief,
    Nor may he any more escape his doom
    And thence depart, than can the swimming fish
    Elude the monster.
                       Therefore it is [best
    And[1]] altogether [right for each of us
    To serve and honor God,[1]] the Lord of lords,
    And always in our every word and deed
    To combat devils, that we may at last
    Behold the King of glory. In this time
    Of transitory things, then, let us seek
    Peace and salvation from him, that we may
    Rejoice for ever in so dear a Lord,
    And praise his glory everlastingly.

[Footnote 1: Conjecturally supplied.]

       *       *       *       *       *

the lake of fire, those that cleave to him and are laden with guilt,
such as had eagerly followed his teachings in the days of their life, he
then, after their death, snaps tight together his fierce jaws, the gates
of hell. They who enter there have neither relief nor escape, no means
of flight, any more than the fishes that swim the sea can escape from
the clutch of the monster.

Therefore is it by all means [best for every one of us to serve[1]] the
Lord of lords, and strive against devils with words and works, that so
we may come to behold the King of glory. Let us ever, now in this
fleeting time, seek from him grace and salvation, that so with the
Beloved we may in worship enjoy the bliss of heaven for evermore.

[Footnote 1: Conjecturally supplied.]

       *       *       *       *       *




III

THE PARTRIDGE[1]


      Hȳrde ic secgan gēn    bi sumum fugle
    wundorlīcne[2]. . . . . . . . . . . . .
    . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
    . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
    . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
    . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . fǣger
    þæt word þe gecwæð    wuldres Ealdor:
5   'In swā hwylce tiid    swā gē mid trēowe tō mē
    on hyge hweorfað,    and gē hellfirena
    sweartra geswīcað,    swā ic symle tō ēow
    mid siblufan    sōna gecyrre
    þurh milde mōd;    gē bēoð mē siþþan

[Footnote 1: The partridge (like the cuckoo) broods the eggs of other
birds. When they are hatched and grown, they fly off to their true
parents. So men may turn from the devil, who has wrongfully gained
possession of them, to their heavenly Father, who will receive them as
his children.]

[Footnote 2: Gap in the manuscript, probably of considerable length.]

       *       *       *       *       *

      About another creature have I heard
    A wondrous [tale.] [There is] a bird [men call
    The partridge. Strange is she, unlike all birds
    In field or wood who brood upon their eggs,
    Hatching their young. The partridge lays no eggs,
    Nor builds a dwelling; but instead, she steals
    The well-wrought nests of others. There she sits,
    Warming a stranger brood, until at last
    The eggs are hatched. But when the stolen chicks
    Are fledged, they straightway fly away to seek
    Their proper kin, and leave the partridge there
    Forsaken. In such wise the devil works
    To steal the souls of those whose youthful minds
    Or foolish hearts in vain resist his wiles.
    But when they reach maturer age, they see
    They are true children of the Lord of lords.
    Then they desert the lying fiend, and seek
    Their rightful Father, who with open arms
    Receives them, as he long since promised them.[1]]
      Fair is that word the Lord of glory spoke:
    'In such time as you turn with faithful hearts
    To me, and put away your hellish sins,
    Abominable to me, then will I turn
    To you in love for ever, for my heart
    Is mild and gracious. Thenceforth you shall be

[Footnote 1: Conjecturally supplied, on the basis of other versions.]

       *       *       *       *       *

So, too, I have heard tell a wondrous [tale[1]] about a certain bird.[2]
... fair the word[3] spoken by the King of glory: 'At whatsoever time ye
turn to me with faith in your soul, and forsake the black iniquities of
hell, I will turn straightway to you with love, in the gentleness of my
heart; and thenceforth ye shall be reckoned to

[Footnote 1: Conjecturally supplied.]

[Footnote 2: Gap in the manuscript, probably of considerable length.]

[Footnote 3: Cf. 2 Cor. 6.17,18; Isa. 55.7; Heb. 2.10,11.]

       *       *       *       *       *

10  torhte, tīrēadge,    talade and rīmde,
    beorhte gebrōþor    on bearna stǣl.'
      Uton wē þȳ geornor    Gode ōliccan,
    firene fēogan,    friþes earnian,
    duguðe tō Dryhtne,    þenden ūs dæg scīne,
15  þæt swā æþelne    eardwīca cyst
    in wuldres wlite    wunian mōtan.
                                                                  Finit.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Refulgent, glorious, numbered with the host
    Of heaven, and, instead of children, called
    Bright brethren of the Lord.'
                                  Let us by this
    Be taught to please God better, hating sin,
    And strive to earn salvation from the Lord,
    His full deliverance, so long as day
    Shall shine upon us, that we may at last
    Inhabit heavenly mansions, nobler far
    Than earthly dwellings, gloriously bright.

                                                                  Finit.

       *       *       *       *       *

me as glorious and renowned, as my illustrious brethren, yea, in the
place of children.'

Let us therefore propitiate God with all zeal, abhor evil, and gain
forgiveness and salvation from the Lord while for us the day still
shines, so that thus we may, in glorious beauty, inhabit a dwelling
excellent beyond compare. Finit.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Old English Physiologus, by Albert S. Cook