The Dream of the Rood. Part 2

The Dream stands out supreme above all other religious poetry as an expression of deeply felt personal faith. As we mentioned in the first part of this article, some lines from the poem are carved in runes in the eighth century stone cross at Ruthwell. Two lines also survive in the tenth century Brussel cross. The appearance of quotations in two such devotional works of art is strong evidence of its significance for its Anglo-Saxon audience.

Though the Latin hymns mentioned earlier may have exerted an influence on the Anglo-Saxon poet, it cannot explain the form of the poem. While there are other accounts of dreams - eg. Bede’s story of Caedmon, the unlearned herdsman, who received suddenly the power of song, had a dream and recited the ‘Hymn of Creation,’ it is not until several centuries later that the dream/allegory motif became frequent as the articulating structure of a poem. It seems surprising to find an example so carefully developed in the eighth century.

There are three parts to the poem. In the first, the narrator tells how in a dream he saw a brightly shining cross adorned with gold and jewels and venerated by angels.
In the next part, the cross itself speaks. With simplicity it recounts that it was once a tree in a forest, cut down to make a cross for Christ. It gives an account of the Passion and burial, ending with advice to the dreamer to encourage the veneration of the Cross.
In the third part the dreamer no longer feels sorrow for his sins but hopes in the triumph of Christ on the cross and longs to leave the world and attain the joys of heaven.

Beneath the Dream’s austere and compact style there lies a web of subtleties and paradoxes which points to a sophistication remarkable for such an early period. There is a skilfully preserved balance and duality maintained throughout the poem. The balance reflects Christianity’s view of the co-existence of the two aspects of Christ in the crucifixion: the human and the divine.
It can be seen in the presentation in the poem of Christ as both the victorious hero climbing willingly on to the cross and as the man suffering at the hands of wicked men, a paradox reinforced many times throughout the poem.

But we can also see it in the alternation between the cross as a radiant, bejewelled sign and as a bare, bloodstained wood in its description as first a tree and then the bearer of Christ’s sufferings. In the account of the Passion, it bears the gashes of the nails and the taunts of the persecutors; yet when Christ is seen as a Germanic hero boldly climbing on to the cross, then the cross becomes the retainer boldly serving his lord.
And this image of the Germanic hero is continued in the description of the burial when the warriors, his disciples, take him down from the cross and ‘look on their triumphant lord’ and, as in Beowulf’s funeral (Beowulf is the great Anglo-Saxon epic poem), sing a dirge round their master’s tomb. A further contrast is seen between sin-stained dreamer and the splendid cross: ‘the cross of victory was wondrous, and I stained with sin, afflicted with wrong.’ The Passion itself is the most moving and beautifully written in early literature. Its style is unadorned and reaches a climax in the final simple and poignant line: ‘Crist waes on rode.’

The last section falls short of the high standard set at the beginning, but it does not hinder the cohesion of the poem. Awe-struck by the vision of glory, the poet finally proclaims the saving power of the cross.

The question as to whether an actual dream occasioned the poet’s work is irrelevant. The church of Bede was thoroughly acquainted with the dream or vision as vehicle of prophecy or universal truths. Such visions may well have been considered appropriate to the religious poet at this time. The dream convention must in any case have been recognised as particularly appropriate to a cross cult poem.

The use of ‘treow’ (tree), later to become a common figurative equivalent for the cross, may already have carried such a connotation as early as the eighth century, being used like the Latin ‘lignum,’ ‘arbor’ for special effect. But here the primary denotation of the word is of the greatest structural importance, the concept of a living, natural tree subsequently fulfilling different poetic functions. Already in the context of the opening lines, not only the use of ‘treow’ but phrases like ‘on lyft laeden’ (borne on the air) and ‘leohte bewunden’ (light wound about it) may have been recognised as reminiscent either of relevant church liturgy or vernacular cross tradition.

The choice of words indicates that the vision is of no simple forest tree; it is at the same time a symbol or standard, ‘beacen,’ a vexillum, appropriately covered with gold and jewels like a labarum. The verb ‘begeotan,’ to sprinkle, drench, normally associated with water or blood, is unexpected in the phrase ‘begoten mid golde,’ ‘clad in overlapping gold.’ The application of such an unusual, and perhaps original, word as ‘eaxlegespann’ ‘cross beam or juncture of the cross,’ similarly requires explanation. The use of the word ‘sigebeam,’ ‘wood of victory’ is puzzling. And why does the poet deny that this was a criminal’s gallows? These comments show that we are not dealing with a simple, clear text but one which requires explication and commentary.

The bleeding tree was not without significance for the early Anglo-Saxon church. Trees were believed to have bled at the crucifixion in recognition of Christ’s divinity and a similar sign would herald the approach of Judgement Day. The image here, therefore, tightens the structure of the poem, anticipating not only the climax of the crucifixion, but also its final apocalyptic vision. The use of the verb ‘sweatan’ to describe the bleeding similarly looks forward to the identification of the tree with the physical person of Christ. And the tree is specifically said to bleed on the right-hand side, clearly anticipating the view not of the dreamer but of the tree and therefore of Christ himself. The tree is at once both a shameful instrument of pain and death and the means of triumphant victory and life eternal. The attribution of personality to the cross and, therefore, of volition, allows a moral as well as physical parallel to be established between Christ and the cross.

Thus, it is that words of the cross can bring us dramatically close to the events of the crucifixion, enabling the reader to share in the unique imaginative reconstruction of Christ’s suffering, but at the same time evading the bewildering problem as to the nature of Christ’s consciousness. This reflects Paul’s doctrine that the real cross was not the gallows, but the body of Christ himself. That the cross itself suffers, allows the agony of the saviour to be succinctly and dramatically represented, without putting unwarranted words into the mouth of Christ himself.

The actual crucifixion is presented in a simple, starkly dramatic terms. The poet seems less concerned with specific details of the biblical narrative than to provide an economic representation of what were considered the theological essentials of the event. The imaginative construction that the poet creates, in order to tread so careful a path between doctrinal niceties, results in a singularly memorable visual effect. Natural pathos is absent.
No flogged, suffering, stumbling Christ drags the cross to Calvary; it stands already, a stark symbol set up on a hill. Christ indeed is not led there by as jeering mob; he is stripped by no mocking soldiers. Instead, he is a young and confident champion, striding from afar. Vigorous and single-minded, he strips himself for battle and a kingly victory. The action is entirely his, an eager sacrifice.

A visual representation of the cross which helps us appreciate the riches of the Dream of the Rood is found in the apse mosaic in the Basilica of Sant’Apollinare in Classe near Ravenna. The mosaic, one of the most beautiful in the world, is divided into two zones. The upper shows an unusual version of the Transfiguration, in which Christ is portrayed as a large gemmed cross instead of a human figure. A medallion encloses the gemmed cross, emblazoned on a starry ground; a small bust portrait of Christ lies at the intersection of the cross’s arms. The Greek letters alpha and omega float among the stars to the cross’s left and right. In the lower zone, St Apollinaris stands in the prayer posture within a lush, flower-dotted green meadow.

When Bede found some of his monks reading pagan literature, he scolded them with ‘Quid Hineldus cum Christo?’ What has Ingeld got to do with Christ? The Dream of the Rood is a brilliant example of the melding of Christianity and the indigenous pagan Anglo-Saxon culture.