Poems of the Elder Edda

Patricia Terry, Patricia Terry

• Editore: University of Pennsylvania Press
• Anno: 2014
• ISBN:
  9780812291599
• Argomento: Literatur
• Categoria: Antike & klassische literarische Sammlungen

The great poetic tradition of pre-Christian Scandinavia is known to us almost exclusively though the Poetic Edda. The poems originated in Iceland, Norway, and Greenland between the ninth and thirteenth centuries, when they were compiled in a unique manuscript known as the Codex Regius.The poems are primarily lyrical rather than narrative. Terry's readable translation includes the magnificent cosmological poem Völuspá ("The Sibyl's Prophecy"), didactic poems concerned with mythology and the everyday conduct of life, and heroic poems, of which an important group is concerned with the story of Sigurd and Brynhild. Poems of the Elder Edda will appeal to students of Old Norse, Icelandic, and Medieval literature, as well as to general readers of poetry.

Völuspá

Hear my words, you holy gods,

great men and humble sons of Heimdall;

by Odin’s will, I’ll speak the ancient lore,

the oldest of all that I remember.

I remember giants of ages past,

those who called me one of their kin;

I know how nine roots form nine worlds

under the earth where the Ash Tree rises.

Nothing was there when time began,

neither sands nor seas nor cooling waves.

Earth was not yet, nor the high heavens,

but a gaping emptiness nowhere green.

Then Bur’s sons lifted up the land

and made Midgard, men’s fair dwelling;

the sun shone out of the south,

and bright grass grew from the ground of stone.

The sun climbed; the moon’s companion

raised its right hand over heaven’s rim.

The sun did not know where its hall would stand,

the stars did not know where they would be set,

the moon did not know what would be its might.

Then all the gods met to give judgement,

the holy gods took counsel together:

they named night and night’s children,

gave names to morning and noon

afternoon and evening, ordered time by years.

until three of the Æsir assembled there,

strong and benevolent, came to the sea;

they found on the shore two feeble trees,

Ash and Embla, with no fixed fate.

These did not breathe, nor think or speak,

they had no hair, no fairness of face;

Odin gave life’s breath, Hoenir gave mind,

Lodur gave hair, fairness of face.

Then the Æsir in Idavöll

built altars, temples, high timbered halls,

set up forges to fashion gold,

strong tools and well-shaped tongs.

Sitting in meadows, smiling over gameboards,

they never knew any need of gold,

but there came three maidens monstrous to look at,

giant daughters of Jotunheim.

She remembers war, the first in the world.

Countless spears were cast at Gullveig,

her body burned in Odin’s hall;

three times burned, three times born,

again and again, yet even now alive.

Witch was her name in the halls that knew her,

a sorceress, casting evil spells;

she used magic to ensnare the mind,

a welcome friend to wicked women.

Then the mighty gods met to give judgement,

the mighty gods took counsel together:

should the Æsir accept great losses,

or all the gods be given what was due?

Odin’s spear shot into the host—

that was the first war fought in the world.

The wall of Asgard proved too weak—

the victory was won by Vanir magic.

Then the mighty gods met to give judgement

the holy gods took counsel together:

who had filled the air with evil speech,

offered to a giant the goddess Freyja?

Thor alone struck, swollen with anger—

never idle when he heard such news;

vows were broken, promises betrayed,

the solemn treaties both sides had sworn.

There is an ash tree— its name is Yggdrasil—

a tall tree watered from a cloudy well.

Dew falls from its boughs down into the valleys;

ever green it stands beside the Norns’ spring.

Much wisdom have the three maidens

who come from the waters close to that tree;

they established laws, decided the lives

men were to lead, marked out their fates.

She knows that Heimdall’s hearing is hidden

where the holy tree rises to the heavens;

she sees a rushing turbid river

pour from Odin’s pledge. Seek you wisdom still?

She sat alone outside; the old one came,

anxious, from Valhalla, and looked into her eyes.

Why have you come here? What would you ask me?

I know everything— where you left your eye,

Odin, in the water of Mimir’s well.

Every morning Mimir drinks mead

from Warfather’s tribute. Seek you wisdom still?

Valhalla’s lord gave gold and treasure;

she looked far into the future,

spoke with wisdom ...