Tor.

There are candles in the dark and cold voices.

I hear mass chanted for master's soul

in Ely isle. Thus ages pass,

and men after men. Mourning voices

of women weeping. So the world passes;

day follows day, and the dust gathers,

his tomb crumbles, as time gnaws it,

and his kith and kindred out of ken dwindle.

So men flicker and in the mirk go out.

The world withers and the wind rises;

the candles are quenched. Cold falls the night.

The lights disappear as he speaks. Torhthelm's voice becomes louder, but it is still the voice of one speaking in a dream.

It's dark! It's dark, and doom coming!

Is no light left us? A light kindle,

and fan the flame! Lo! Fire now wakens,

hearth is burning, house is lighted,

men there gather. Out of the mists they come

through darkling doors whereat doom waiteth.

Hark! I hear them in the hall chanting:

stern words they sing with strong voices.

(He chants) Heart shall be bolder, harder be purpose,

more proud the spirit as our power lessens!

Mind shall not falter nor mood waver,

though doom shall come and dark conquer.

Hey! what a bump, Tída! My bones are shaken,

and my dream shattered. It's dark and cold.

Tíd.

Aye, a bump on the bone is bad for dreams,

and it's cold waking. But your words are queer,

Torhthelm my lad, with your talk of wind

and doom conquering and a dark ending.

It sounded fey and fell-hearted,

and heathenish, too: I don't hold with that.

It's night right enough; but there's no firelight:

dark is over all, and dead is master.

When morning comes, it'll be much like others:

more labour and loss till the land's ruined;

ever work and war till the world passes.

Hey! rattle and bump over rut and boulder!

The roads are rough and rest is short

for English men in Æthelred's day.

The rumbling of the cart dies away. There is complete silence for a while. Slowly the sound of voices chanting begins to be heard. Soon the words, though faint, can be distinguished.

Dirige, Domine, in conspectu tuo viam meam.

Introibo in domum tuam: adorabo ad templum

Sanctum tuum in timore tuo.

(A Voice in the dark):

Sadly they sing, the monks of Ely isle!

Row men, row! Let us listen here a while!

The chanting becomes loud and clear. Monks bearing a bier amid tapers pass across the scene.

Dirige, Domine, in conspectu tuo viam meam.

Introibo in domum tuam: adorabo ad templum

sanctum tuum in timore tuo.

Domine, deduc me in isutitia tua: propter

inimicos meos dirige in conspectu tuo viam meam.

Gloria Patri et Filio et Spiritui Sancto: sicut

erat in principio et nunc et semper et in

saecula saeculorum.

Dirige, Domine, in conspectu tuo viam meam.

They pass, and the chanting fades into silence.

This piece, somewhat larger than the Old English fragment that inspired it, was composed primarily as verse, to be condemned or approved as such.[4] But to merit a place in Essays and Studies it must, I suppose, contain at least by implication criticism of the matter and manner of the Old English poem (or of its critics).

From that point of view it may be said to be an extended comment on lines 89, 90 of the original:ða se eorl ongan for his ofermode alyfan landes to fela laþere ðeode, "then the earl in his overmastering pride actually yielded ground to the enemy, as he should not have done". The Battle of Maldon has usually been regarded rather as an extended comment on, or illustration of the words of the old retainer Beorhtwold, 312, 313, cited above, and used in the present piece. They are the best-known lines of the poem, possibly of all Old English verse. Yet except in the excellence of their expression, they seem to me of less interest than the earlier lines; at any rate the full force of the poem is missed unless the two passages are considered together.

The words of Beorhtwold have been held to be the finest expression of the northern heroic spirit, Norse or English; the clearest statement of the doctrine of uttermost endurance in the service of indomitable will. The poem as a whole has been called "the only purely heroic poem extant in Old English". Yet the doctrine appears in this clarity, and (approximate) purity, precisely because it is put in the mouth of a subordinate, a man for whom the object of his will was decided by another, who had no responsibility downwards, only loyalty upwards. Personal pride was therefore in him at its lowest, and love and loyalty at their highest.

For this "northern heroic spirit" is never quite pure; it is of gold and an alloy. Unalloyed it would direct a man to endure even death unflinching, when necessary: that is when death may help the achievement of some object of will, or when life can only be purchased by denial of what one stands for. But since such conduct is held admirable, the alloy of personal good name was never wholly absent. Thus Leofsunu in The Battle of Maldon holds himself to his loyalty by the fear of reproach if he returns home alive. This motive may, of course, hardly go beyond "conscience": self-judgement in the light of the opinion of his peers, to which the "hero" himself wholly assents; he would act the same, if there were no witnesses.[5] Yet this element of pride, in the form of the desire for honour and glory, in life and after death, tends to grow, to become a chief motive, driving a man beyond the bleak heroic necessity to excess—to chivalry. "Excess" certainly, even if it be approved by contemporary opinion, when it not only goes beyond need and duty, but interferes with it.

Thus Beowulf (according to the motives ascribed to him by the student of heroic-chivalric character who wrote the poem about him) does more than he need, eschewing weapons in order to make his struggle with Grendel a "sporting" fight: which will enhance his personal glory; though it will put him in unnecessary peril, and weaken his chances of ridding the Danes of an intolerable affliction. But Beowulf has no duty to the Danes, he is still a subordinate with no responsibilities downwards; and his glory is also the honour. of his side, of the Geatas; above all, as he himself says, it will redound to the credit of the lord of his allegiance, Hygelac. Yet he does not rid himself of his chivalry, the excess persists, even when he is an old king upon whom all the hopes of a people rest. He will not deign to lead a force against the dragon, as wisdom might direct even a hero to do; for, as he explains in a long "vaunt", his many victories have relieved him of fear. He will only use a sword on this occasion, since wrestling singlehanded with a dragon is too hopeless even for the chivalric spirit. But he dismisses his twelve companions. He is saved from defeat, and the essential object, destruction of the dragon, only achieved by the loyalty of a subordinate. Beowulf's chivalry would otherwise have ended in his own useless death, with the dragon still at large. As it is, a subordinate is placed in greater peril than he need have been, and though he does not pay the penalty of his master's mod with his own life, the people lose their king disastrously.

In Beowulf we have only a legend of "excess" in a chief. The case of Beorhtnoth is still more pointed even as a story; but it is also drawn from real life by a contemporary author. Here we have Hygelac behaving like young Beowulf: making a "sporting fight" on level terms; but at other people's expense. In his situation he was not a subordinate, but the authority to be obeyed on the spot; and he was responsible for all the men under him, not to throw away their lives except with one object, the defence of the realm from an implacable foe. He says himself that it is his purpose to defend the realm of Æthelred, the people, and the land (52-3). It was heroic for him and his men to fight, to annihilation if necessary, in the attempt to destroy or hold off the invaders. It was wholly unfitting that he should treat a desperate battle with this sole real object as a sporting match, to the ruin of his purpose and duty.