Ubi Sunt Compounere?

This was originally written in October of 2007.

There is a genre of literature known as Ubi sunt. It comes from the Latin phrase Ubi sunt qui anto nos fuerunt, which means, "Where are those who went before us?" In short, this kind of literature looks back to the good ole' days, wondering what has happened to the heroes or good times of yore. Here are some examples.

Many schools used to sing a song which encapsulated the Ubi sunt mentality, De Brevitate Vitae (On the Shortness of Life) more often known as Gaudeamus igitur. Here is a brief excerpt:

Latin lyrics	English translation
Ubi sunt qui ante nos In mundo fuere? Vadite ad superos Transite in inferos Hos si vis videre.	Where are they Who were in the world before us? You may cross over to heaven You may travel into hell If you wish to see them.

Much of Tolkein's The Lord of the Rings involves the main characters looking back to the "elder days" which can be read about in The Silmarillion. Perhaps no one portion shows this better than Aragorn's "Lament of the Rohirrim" from The Two Towers:

Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? 
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing? 
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing? 
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing? 
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow; 
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow. 
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning, 
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?

Tolkein was much influenced by Old English and Anglo-Saxon literature. Probably because he taught it. Aragorn's "Lament" is surprisingly like an excerpt from the OE poem The Wanderer. Here is an excerpt with another poem of Tolkein's, Lay of the Passing Ages (which was probably taken directly from The Wanderer):

Excerpt from The Wanderer	Tolkein's Lay of the Passing Ages
Where is the horse gone? Where the rider? Where the giver of treasure? Where are the seats at the feast? Where are the revels in the hall? Alas for the bright cup! Alas for the mailed warrior! Alas for the splendour of the prince! How that time has passed away, dark under the cover of night, as if it had never been!	What has become of the Firstborn? What has become of the King? What has become of the seats of banquet? Where are the joys of the hall? O for the bright cup! O for the White Towers! O for the glory of the Prince! How that time has passed away And grown dark under cover of night As if it never had been...

The greatest and most well known example of OE literature is Beowulf, itself an almost continuous Ubi sunt. There is a beautiful and haunting portion of the epic called "Lay of the Last Survivor". The last of the line of a great warrior people prepares to die in the barrow of his fathers, and bemoans the greatness of the past now lost until he dies. It is this barrow that the dragon who slays Beowulf inhabits.

OE Lay of the Last Survivor

Modern English translation

Heald þu nu, hruse, nu hæleð ne moston/, eorla æhte. Hwæt, hyt ær on ðe gode begeaton. Guðdeað fornam, feorhbealo/ frecne, fyra/ gehwylcne leoda minra, þara/ ðe þis lif/ ofgeaf, gesawon seledream. Ic/ nah hwa sweord wege oððe feormie/ fæted wæge, dryncfæt deore; duguð/ ellor sceoc/. Sceal se hearda helm hyrsted/ golde fætum befeallen; feormynd swefað, þa ðe beadogriman bywan sceoldon, ge swylce seo herepad, sio æt hilde gebad ofer borda gebræc bite irena, brosnað æfter beorne. Ne mæg byrnan hring æfter wigfruman/ wide feran, hæleðum be healfe. Næs hearpan wyn, gomen gleobeames, ne god hafoc geond sæl swingeð, ne se swifta mearh burhstede beateð. Bealocwealm hafað fela feorhcynna forð/ onsended. Swa giomormod giohðo mænde an æfter eallum, unbliðe hwearf/ dæges ond nihtes, oððæt deaðes wylm hran æt heortan.

"Now hold thou, earth, since heroes may not, what earls have owned! Lo, erst from thee brave men brought it! But battle-death seized and cruel killing my clansmen all, robbed them of life and a liegeman's joys. None have I left to lift the sword, or to cleanse the carven cup of price, beaker bright. My brave are gone. And the helmet hard, all haughty with gold, shall part from its plating. Polishers sleep who could brighten and burnish the battle-mask; and those weeds of war that were wont to brave over bicker of shields the bite of steel rust with their bearer. The ringed mail fares not far with famous chieftain, at side of hero! No harp's delight, no glee-wood's gladness! No good hawk now flies through the hall! Nor horses fleet stamp in the burgstead! Battle and death the flower of my race have reft away." Mournful of mood, thus he moaned his woe, alone, for them all, and unblithe wept by day and by night, till death's fell wave o'erwhelmed his heart.

But it is not just Anglo-Saxons and Anglophiles who use Ubi sunt. This mentality is used consistently, even in the folk music of the 60's (which, I suppose, has Ubi sunt built into it's mentality). Here is an excerpt from an Ukrainian folk song referenced in a novel by Mikhail Sholokhov, And Quiet Flows the Don. See if you can recognize it:

Where are the flowers?
The girls have plucked them.
Where are the girls?
They've all taken husbands.
Where are the men?
They're all in the army.

Yes, it's Where Have All the Flowers Gone, made famous during the Vietnam protest era. I've paired it with "Empty Chairs" from Les Miserables (where Marius bemoans his dead companions after the barricade) to show the similarity of sentiment across cultures:

Where Have All the Flowers Gone

Empty Chairs

Where have all the flowers gone? Long time passing. Where have all the flowers gone? Long time ago. Where have all the flowers gone? The girls have picked them ev'ry one. Oh, when will you ever learn? Where have all the young girls gone? Long time passing. Where have all the young girls gone? Long time ago. Where have all the young girls gone? They've taken husbands, every one. Oh, when will you ever learn? Where have all the young men gone? Long time passing. Where have all the young men gone? Long time ago. Where have all the young men gone? They're all in uniform. Oh, when will you ever learn? Where have all the soldiers gone? Long time passing. Where have all the soldiers gone? Long time ago. Where have all the soldiers gone? They've gone to graveyards, every one. Oh, when will they ever learn? Where have all the graveyards gone? Long time passing. Where have all the graveyards gone? Long time ago. Where have all the graveyards gone? Gone to flowers, every one. Oh, when will they ever learn?

There's a grief that can't be spoken. There's a pain goes on and on. Empty chairs at empty tables Now my friends are dead and gone. Here they talked of revolution. Here it was they lit the flame. Here they sang about `tomorrow' And tomorrow never came. From the table in the corner They could see a world reborn And they rose with voices ringing I can hear them now! The very words that they had sung Became their last communion On the lonely barricade at dawn. Oh my friends, my friends forgive me That I live and you are gone. There's a grief that can't be spoken. There's a pain goes on and on. Phantom faces at the window. Phantom shadows on the floor. Empty chairs at empty tables Where my friends will meet no more. Oh my friends, my friends, don't ask me What your sacrifice was for Empty chairs at empty tables Where my friends will sing no more.

Why all this Ubi suntacity on my part? My parents are moving. I didn't think it would affect me as much as it did, but it did. Gradually, my parents have moved out of their house into a newer (1930s instead of 1920s), nicer house they just bought. It was a good move and about time. The old house, affectionately known as "The Compound" was as airtight as a whiffle ball and held together by cobwebs and habit. There was a ten ft. diameter cesspool in the back over the collapsed sewage tank. The ceiling of the kitchen was a gaping hole where it had fallen in and here and there were rotten, decrepit areas of the floor where, if one was not careful, one would find oneself in the basement the quick way.

The place was falling apart. So, in fits and starts, my siblings and myself assembled to help move all the years of crap into the new place. My brother started us out with a bang as he, on the first day of moving, backed into the power cable leading to the house, effectively severing the remaining life from the shell that once was our home. It didn't really hit me how final it was until the next day when I brought my brother-in-law to his car at the Compound. He left and I entered the dead house by myself.

I cried uncontrollably for fifteen minutes. It was just so sad, like the corpse of a living thing, like a third parent I had loved which was now dead. As I wandered around, all the snatches of Tolkein and OE poems ran through my head. I began to wonder what the old house would say if it had a voice. So, here it is. The house remembers all its inhabitants, from my great-grandfather who built it, to my grandmother, parents, my siblings and myself.

"Hwaet! In elder days were my walls raised
O'er foundations firm and dark and deep.
Where is the maker who measured and marked
Who planned and placed me here high on his hill?

"His children chose to have me for their home
Here, they waxed in wisdom, bloomed in beauty
Biters of ankles grew as Bonds of God*
Where are the young ones, the woman, God's Sworn?

Like seeds scattered and sown on the strong storm
Her sons stepped surely, the wide world wanderers.
Yet, still, a Free Man** returned to my fold
Bringing his beloved Bride and his Blood.

Though my shores had run rampant to ruin
The Man, his Beloved and his blest Blood
Restored lost honor, reclaimed to my rim
And heaped my hushed halls with hymns and with song.

Slowly, his sons slipped from my fold
Slower still, yet still sure, daughters as well
'Till aged, abandoned, we three, ebbing,
Surrendered to fate, said a sad farewell.

Where is the Man, his Beloved, his Blood?
Where is the life that lived long in my halls?
Where is the music that raised my wrought roof?
Where is the love that leaked through my walls?

The Man, his Beloved, his Blood are gone.
The Vow of God lies gelid in the grave.
The Maker of my form is now formless.
Finally, I take life-leave of this land."

With this, the once hale halls gave up the ghost.
The last light lost, it lingered no longer.
Surrendering, sent out a sigh of such sadness
Birds and beasts hushed their earthly harmony.

Hearing the dirge of the once dear dwelling,
Those the honorable halls once had housed
Returned to render respect and glory
To those walls which had won the one word, "Home."

For her they formed a fitting funeral
Preparing the place for her funeral pyre
As on her they heaped honors and homage
'Midst the detritus of lives spent in love

"Where is the wrought roof, once raised to rend rain?
Where are the walls which warded us from wind?
Where are the halls which once held our happy hearts?
Where is the house which was once our hallowed home?

This oath we make to thee, once our heart-hearth
From the ashes of thy funeral-flame
Will a Phoenix fly. Life will live here yet.
Thy barrow shall be blessed by our own babes."

Their requiem raised o'er the razed ruins
Their torrent of tears and long, loud lament
Sanctified the sepulcher to a shrine
That ancient acre ever exalted.
 

* My grandmother was Isabel, which is Spanish for Elizabeth which means "Promise of God".
** My father's name is Charles, which means "Free Man."