Heriugena

"Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!

Confusion on thy banners wait,

Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing

They mock the air with idle state.

Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,

Nor even thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail

To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,

From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!"

Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride

Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,

As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side

He wound with toilsome march his long array.

Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance;

To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow

Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,

Rob'd in the sable garb of woe,

With haggard eyes the poet stood;

(Loose his beard, and hoary hair

Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air)

And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire,

Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre;

"Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave,

Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!

O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave,

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;

Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,

To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,

That hush'd the stormy main;

Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:

Mountains, ye mourn in vain

Modred, whose magic song

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head.

On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,

Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:

Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail;

The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.

Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,

Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes,

Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,

Ye died amidst your dying country's cries—

No more I weep. They do not sleep.

On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,

I see them sit, they linger yet,

Avengers of their native land:

With me in dreadful harmony they join,

And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line:—

"'Weave the warp, and weave the woof,

The winding sheet of Edward's race.

Give ample room, and verge enough

The characters of hell to trace.

Mark the year, and mark the night,

When Severn shall re-echo with affright

The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,

Shrieks of an agonising King!

She-Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,

That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,

From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs

The scourge of Heav'n. What terrors round him wait!

Amazement in his van, with Flight combin'd,

And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

"'Mighty victor, mighty lord,

Low on his funeral couch he lies!

No pitying heart, no eye, afford

A tear to grace his obsequies.

Is the Sable Warrior fled?

Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.

The swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born?

Gone to salute the rising Morn.

Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,

While proudly riding o'er the azure realm

In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;

Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,

That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

"'Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare;

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast.

Close by the regal chair

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.

Heard ye the din of battle bray,

Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

Long years of havoc urge their destin'd course

And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,

With many a foul and midnight murther fed,

Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,

And spare the meek usurper's holy head.

Above, below, the rose of snow,

Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:

The bristled Boar in infant-gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom

Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

"'Edward, lo! to sudden fate

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun)

Half of thy heart we consecrate.

(The web is wove. The work is done.)'

Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn!

In yon bright track, that fires the western skies!

They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height

Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll?

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,

Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on my soul!

No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.

All-hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail!

"Girt with many a baron bold

Sublime their starry fronts they rear;

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old

In bearded majesty appear.

In the midst a form divine!

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line;

Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,

Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

What strings symphonious tremble in the air,

What strings of vocal transport round her play!

Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.

Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,

Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-colour'd wings.

"The verse adorn again

Fierce War, and faithful Love,

And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.

In buskin'd measures move

Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,

With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

A voice, as of the cherub-choir,

Gales from blooming Eden bear;

And distant warblings lessen on my ear,

That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond impious man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud,

Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?

To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.

Enough for me: with joy I see

The different doom our Fates assign.

Be thine Despair, and scept'red Care,

To triumph, and to die, are mine."

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height

"You Are The Mantras of Consecration to the Gods and the ancestors. At Your Bidding They Are Uttered, and they are your very embodiment.

You Are The Nectar of Immortality, O Imperishable, Eternal One. Truly, You Abide As The Transcendent Being,

Yet in every moment you abide, inseparable and inexpressible, as the eternal source of all becoming. Indeed You Are That.

You Are Sāvitrī, the Source of All Purity and Protection; You Are the Supreme Mother of The Gods.

By You is this universe supported, of You is this world born, by You is it protected, O Devī, and You always Consume it at the end.

You Are the Creative Force at the World’s Birth and Its Sustenance for as long as it endures. So even at the end of this world, You Appear as Its Dissolution, You Who Encompass it all.

You Are The Great Knowledge and The Great Illusion, The Great Intelligence, The Great Memory and The Great Delusion, The Great Goddess and The Great Demoness.

You Are Primordial Matter, Differentiating into the Threefold Qualities of Everything. You Are The Dark Night Of Periodic Dissolution, The Great Night of Final Dissolution, and The Terrifying Night Of Delusion.

You Are Radiant Splendor; You Reign Supreme Yet Are Unassuming; You Are The Light Of Understanding. Modesty Are You, And Prosperity, Contentment, Tranquillity and Forbearance.

Armed With Sword And Spear, And With Club And Discus, Waging War With Conch, Bow And Arrows, Sling And Iron Mace, You Inspire Dread.

Yet, You Are Pleasing, More Pleasing Than All Else That Is Pleasing, and Exceedingly Beautiful. Transcending Both Highest and Lowest, You Are Indeed The Supreme Sovereign.

Whatever exists, true or untrue, and wherever it may be, O Soul of Everything, You Are The Power Of All That. How can I praise You?

By You, even he Who Creates, Protects, and Devours the world is Subdued with Sleep. Who here can praise You?

You have caused even Viṣṇu, Śiva, and Me to assume Our embodied forms.

Heidegger identifies three categories of time, which he calls ecstasies; the past, the present and the future. The present is the experience of the moment becoming history, and of the future becoming known to us by the past, which necessarily creates a determinate path, and the logic of time is only broken by our inattention. When this happens we are attacked by the novum; The new moment, which is the entrail of the future speeding ahead of us, shocks us with itself.

Thus the present is the constant privation of the moment by the past, and the future by the moment, and vice versa; The future steals the context and history of the present and past to create itself, it is the phenomenon of time.

To Heidegger, this category is rigid and within his hermeneutic cycle, though he doesn't explore it too much, unbreakable.

To Husserl, time is self-referential; the present is only the perception of being as the presence of the subjectivity of consciousness. This is a constant cycle of interpretation, whose articulation is, to us, violent; Time becomes consciousness fleeing itself.

The subject, through time, perceives the world beyond presenced perception, and so the world-as-it-is becomes intrasubjective, viewed through the lens of time. Thus, the objectivity of the present is questioned, and reduced to the level of gnosis; "Time is man's ultimate identity."

But in Sámi eschatology, this morphology does not apply; Upon death, the present doesn't self-arrest in the moment, lacking a future to ebb itself into, it doesn't retract into the now-petrifying source of itself and die, rather the dead sublates time and bloats past its own logos to have presentness in all time and every moment. It isn't the anamnesis, the placenta or tree of knowledge whose fruit is bitten out of by the Traditionalists of today or pagans of old Hellas and of Northern Europe, only listening to a conch shell echoing the principles of the distant past, emanating into the future from before as memory; rather, the world comes to encompass the subject, at all points in time, and everything of it is known, understood and lived by the dead: Sein-jenseits-des-Tode, being beyond death, and, seemingly paradoxically, Sein-davor-dem-Leben, being before life. This permeant being was accessed by the living actively, as the veil between death and life was thin and filmy, so an active dialogue was held with one's ancestors, and thus the world was opened to them entirely. Many pagans believe history lives on in their blood, and that it can be affirmed and continued through this acknowledgement. Not to the Sámi. Blood memory was not how they learned of the world, rather through first-hand knowledge acquired of always.

Substrate life was Sáivu, the transcendent realm, from which all being was derived. It dictated the flow of time, which was seen as oscillating according to it, contrary to the ideas of people like Debord where time was something imposed on the individual, a rigid thing that directed movement and thought, the individual only a passive victim to an alien force, rather than a creative agent partaking in its shape. Thence many Sámi shunned watches, under the philosophy that ‘it takes as long as it takes’.

This lack of linearity was displayed also in their spatial understanding; rather than a definite, striated space of borders, streets, grids and buildings, the Saami adhered to a nodal geography, composed of holy sites (sieidi), campsites (gohttensadji), grazing grounds (guohtun) and seasonal settlements (báiku, dálvaddis, geasseorohat). They didn't set trails often, and rather moved either by their own inclination or to the rhythm of the reindeer.

The Same knew intuitively of the landmarks, but might not necessarily have visited them, or would only be familiar in a temporal manner, whereas they might be known in a more holistic manner by the shaman (noaidi) or the father (ahčči) of the family. The noaidi had the ability to transcend space entirely and enter with the essence of his being the pre-extant reality of Sáivu, where spatiality and temporality were both unreal, or rather hyperreal, meaning every moment of time and every place in space was contained within Sáivu in its wholeness, by means of intense contemplative prayer, drum journeys and rituals, and therefore the noaidi had a more complete knowledge of this nodal geography and the premises from which it manifested temporally, and they moved according to these organico-spiritual patterns across the vast expanses, as was reflected in their spirit; Bounded only by the blue sky above, everything on the horizon theirs to tread and subject to ranging boots and the pounding roar of reindeer flocks. Like spring floods or brooding storms on the distant sky, the Saami roved far across their lands, as was their inclination, out and beyond the waning skyline, and this was the telos of their people, to actualize their boundless spirit, and affirm that they would soon wander among the stars

"Deu vi luossauc yntrydar.

Ny pheidun rug deulu heb uyar

Neu vi a elwir gorlassar.

Vygwreys bu enuys ym hescar.

Neu vi tywyssauc yn tywyll

Am rithuy am duy pen kawell.

Neu vi eil kawyl yn ardu.

Ny pheidun heb uyar rug deulu.

Neu via amuc vy achlessur.

Yn difant a charant casnur.

Neur ordyfneis i waet am uythur.

Cledyfal hydyr rac meibon caurnur.

Neu vi araunus vy echlessur.

Nauuetran yg gurhyt arthur.

Neu vi a torreis cant kaer.

Neu vi aledeis cant maer.

Neu vi arodeis cant llen.

Neu vi aledeis cant pen.

Neu vi arodeis i henpen,

Cledyfaur goruaur gyghallen.

Neu vi oreu terenhyd

Hayarndor edeithor penmynyd.

Ym gueduit ym gofit, hydyr oed gyhir.

Nyt oed vyt ny bei fy eissillyd.

Miduyf bard moladuy yghywreint.

Poet y gan vrein ac eryr ac uytheint.

Auacdu ae deubu y gymeint.

Pan ymbyrth petrywyr rug duy geint.

Drigyau y nef oed ef vychwant.

Rac eryr rac ofyn amheirant.

Uyf bard ac uyf telynaur.

Uy pibyd ac uy crythaur.

Seith vgein kerdaur dygoruaur

Gyghallen. Bu kalch vri vriniat.

Hu escyll edeinat.

Dy vab dy veirdnat

Dy veir dewndat.

Vyn tauaut y traethu vy marunat.

Handit o meinat gurth glodyat

Byt pryt prydein huyscein ymhullat.

Guledic nef ygkennaden nam doat."

•

"Am I not with hosts making a din?

I would not cease, between two hosts, without gore.

Am I not he that is called Gorlassar?

My belt was a rainbow to my foe.

Am I not a prince, in darkness,

(To him) that takes my appearance with my two chief baskets?

Am I not, like Cawyl, ploughing?

I would not cease without gore between two hosts.

Is it not I that will defend my sanctuary?

In separating with the friends of wrath.

Have I not been accustomed to blood about the wrathful,

A sword-stroke daring against the sons of Cawrnur?

Have I not shared my cause.

A ninth portion in the prowess of Arthur?

Is it not I that have destroyed a hundred Caers?

Is it not I that slew a hundred governors?

Is it not I that have given a hundred veils?

Is it not I that cut off a hundred heads?

Is it not I that gave to Henpen

The tremendous sword of the enchanted?

Is it not I that performed the rights of purification,

When Hayarndor went to the top of the mountain?

I was bereaved to my sorrow. My confidence was commensurate.

There was not a world were it not for my progeny.

I am a bard to be praised. The unskilful

May he be possessed by the ravens and eagle and bird of wrath.

Avagddu came to him with his equal,

When the bands of four men feed between two plains.

Abiding in heaven was he, my desire,

Against the eagle, against the fear of the unskilful.

I am a bard, and I am a harper,

I am a piper, and I am a crowder.

Of seven score musicians the very great

Enchanter. There was of the enamelled honour the privilege,

Hu of the expanded wings.

Thy son, thy barded proclamation, Thy steward, of a gifted father.

My tongue to recite my death-song.

If of stone-work the opposing wall of the world.

May the countenance of Prydain be bright for my guidance,

"Hörð er, síz hermenn gerðu,

hlíf raufsk fyrir gram, lífi,

auðn at Engla stríði,

úmjúk, konung sjúkan.

Ör brá Ólafs fjörvi

öld, þars herr klauf skjöldu,

fólks odda gekk fylkir

fund, en Dagr hélt undan.

Ok enn kvað hann þetta:

Áðr vitu eigi meiðar

ógnar skers né hersa,

þjóð réð þengils dauða,

þann styrk búandmanna,

er slíkan gram sóknum

sárelds viðir feldi,

mörg lá dýr í dreyra

drótt, sem Ólafr þótti.

[...]

Sumir trúðu á guð gumnar,

grein varð liðs á miðli;

fólkorrostur fylkir

framráðr tjogu háði.

Frægr bað hann á hœgri

hönd kristit lið standa;

feðr Magnús bið ek fagna

"On Khakhmat's sacred altar gleamed

A candle's quiv'ring feeble light,

Its yellow rays embraced the trees,

Expiring there in sheer delight.

At times the light gleamed brighter still

And flung the shadows black aside,

Then, like a soul in agony

Of death, it flickered low and died.

Enough remained of sombre light

To see two figures on the plain;

One held a blood-stained sword, and on

The ground there lay a bullock slain.

'God's blessings on thee, Mindia,

Upon thy faith and sacrifice,

May He thy ardent prayers receive

And hearken to thy endless sighs.

Thou art the comfort of our lives,

The Pshav-Khevsuris' faith and pride.

Heaven and earth extol thy name

With hymns that echo far and wide.

I wonder much, my Mindia.

To see thee here both night and day.

What troubles thee, what hast thou done

Thus ceaselessly to weep and pray?

To God we owe immortal thanks,

His praise resounds beyond the skies;

May He forgive me, but thy ways