Often the lone-goer undergoes grace,
the Maker’s mercy, though full of mind-care
he wanders the long waterways;
his hands row the rime-rimmed sea,
wading the wretch’s way. Fate is fully fixed!
So says the earth-walker, ward of his woes,
the savage slaughters of friends and family:
“Often I must myself before morning
cry out my cares. No one quick
can hear what heart-thoughts I dare rehearse
aloud but look to lock in my ribcage,
the warrior’s truth, the noble trait
kept best in the breast-coffin, come what comes.
“No soul who is weary can out-wear fate,
no hurt heart give help.
Grief gets the glory-eager
to fetter fast the breast-cage,
where I want my homeless heart
locked up, far from my folks and friends.
Sorrow-shadow sheltered in earth
my gold-lord long ago, and lowly
I wandered, winter-sad, over ice-bound waves.
Homesick, how I sought new gold-givers,
tried to find friends far or near,
some man whose meadhall once hosted my liege,
and who would feast and enfold friendless me
and jewel me with joy.
………………………………..Journeyers know
how care’s company cripples with sorrow
those with few friends to confide in.
The wanderer of the wretch-road hardly can wind gold
round his wrist, while his frozen ribcage
scarcely senses the splendors of earth.
He thinks of thanes, the thrill of treasure
when just-grown, his generous gold-lord
the fount of feasting. But finished, all that joy.
Alone, when he knows he has long lost
his liege lord’s love and lore,
then sorrow and sleep conspire to bind
the lowly lone-goer, and his longing heart
imagines he is at court, called and kissed
by his liege, and laying on that lordly knee
both hand and head, as in the high old days
of gold and gift-giving rites.
“Again he awakens, aimless and friendless,
dark water-dunes dancing before his eyes,
seabirds bathing, broadening their feathers,
snow and sleet descending, scumbled with hail.
Then heart-wounds weigh heavily;
sore sorrows restart for loved ones,
men remembered in the mind. He sees them,
gleefully greets them, gazing in hope.
My friends! O my friends! But they float away,
and the seabirds’ boasts broadcast
few phrases friendly to a wanderer.
Sorrow resurges, sending the solitary,
faint-hearted human over frozen waters.
“I wonder why, in a world such as this,
my deep heart doesn’t darken
when I imagine the metal-man’s life,
how any second he forsakes the safe meadhall,
how any one warrior wastes his youth
and ends his days, as everyone must.
“No one has knowledge who has not aged
many winters in this middle-world. The wise man must wait,
not be a hothead or hasty in speech,
or weasly in war, or too reckless in his ways,
neither goose-hearted nor too glad, nor too greedy for coin,
and never too bold in boasting till he best knows:
a man must wait to make a vow
until his strong spirit can surely say
where his heart’s longing will have him land.
“The wise one weighs how ghastly it will grow
when all world-wealth stands waste,
a future foretold by famous places
where windswept walls now stand,
snow-steeped buildings, filigreed in frost.
The wine-court crumbles, its lord lies
enjoined from joy, his fighters all fallen
brave under battlements. Some whom war wrecked
found the way forth. Some the fierce bird bore,
soaring over the sea. Some the sooty wolf
dealt death. With dropping tears,
an earl hid some in an earth-pit.
“The Shaper of men unshaped this city, shaken
to pieces until its people suspended their clamor
and the colossus-sized stronghold stood waste.
The wise one who sought this sore sight
and deeply dwelt on this dark life,
stout-souled, often replays the past
slaughter of warriors and speaks the word:
“‘What has happened to the horse and its rider? To the ring-giver?
What has come of the feast-hall and all its joys?
Alas gold goblet! Alas mail-girded warrior!
Alas princely power! How time passes,
night’s helmet usurping, as if they never were!’
“Over the footlines of these lovely men now looms
a wondrous high wall, woven with worm-forms.
Warriors whisked away, with their wealth of ash-spears,
their war-greedy weapons, world-famous their fate—
storms batter the stony slopes,
a snowstorm swirls, shutting the earth,
winter’s woe bringing chaos and want.
Nightshadow nixes and the north sends
a hellish hailstorm as a hurt to men.
“All is awful in this ever-ending kingdom.
Fate’s form fails us in the world under heaven.
Here treasure is fleeting; here friends are fleeting;
fellows are fleeting; family is fleeting.
All this world’s frame is worth nothing.”
So said the sage and sat alone in thought:
“Happiest is he who hoards his passion and never hurries
to unleash it from his heart-locker unless he learns the cure
and can back it up boldly. Best off is he who hunts for grace,
our Father’s help in heaven; there ever-holding awaits us all.”
The Wanderer
Oft him anhaga…..are gebideð,
metudes miltse,…..þeah þe he modcearig
geond lagulade…..longe sceolde
hreran mid hondum…..hrimcealde sæ
wadan wræclastas.…..Wyrd bið ful aræd!
Swa cwæð eardstapa,…..earfeþa gemyndig,
wraþra wælsleahta,…..winemæga hryre:
Oft ic sceolde ana…..uhtna gehwylce
mine ceare cwiþan.…..Nis nu cwicra nan
þe ic him modsefan…..minne durre
sweotule asecgan.…..Ic to soþe wat
þæt biþ in eorle…..indryhten þeaw,
þæt he his ferðlocan…..fæste binde,
healde his hordcofan,…..hycge swa he wille.
Ne mæg werig mod…..wyrde wiðstondan,
ne se hreo hyge…..helpe gefremman.
Forðon domgeorne…..dreorigne oft
in hyra breostcofan…..bindað fæste;
swa ic modsefan…..minne sceolde,
oft earmcearig,…..eðle bidæled,
freomægum feor…..feterum sælan,
siþþan geara iu…..goldwine minne
hrusan heolstre biwrah,…..ond ic hean þonan
wod wintercearig…..ofer waþema gebind,
sohte seledreorig…..sinces bryttan,
hwær ic feor oþþe neah…..findan meahte
þone þe in meoduhealle…..mine wisse,
oþþe mec freondleasne…..frefran wolde,
wenian mid wynnum.…..Wat se þe cunnað
hu sliþen bið…..sorg to geferan
þam þe him lyt hafað…..leofra geholena:
warað hine wræclast,…..nales wunden gold,
ferðloca freorig,…..nalæs foldan blæd.
Gemon he selesecgas…..ond sincþege,
hu hine on geoguðe…..his goldwine
wenede to wiste.…..Wyn eal gedreas!
Forþon wat se þe sceal…..his winedryhtnes
leofes larcwidum…..longe forþolian:
ðonne sorg ond slæð…..somod ætgædre
earmne anhogan…..oft gebindað.
þinceð him on mode…..þæt he his mondryhten
clyppe ond cysse,…..ond on cneo lecge
honda ond heafod,…..swa he hwilum ær
in geardagum…..giefstolas breac.
Ðonne onwæcneð eft…..wineleas guma,
gesihð him biforan…..fealwe wegas,
baþian brimfuglas,…..brædan feþra,
hreosan hrim ond snaw…..hagle gemenged.
Þonne beoð þy hefigran…..heortan benne,
sare æfter swæsne.…..Sorg bið geniwad
þonne maga gemynd…..mod geondhweorfeð;
greteð gliwstafum,…..georne geondsceawað
secga geseldan;…..swimmað oft on weg
fleotendra ferð…..no þær fela bringeð
cuðra cwidegiedda.…..Cearo bið geniwad
þam þe sendan sceal…..swiþe geneahhe
ofer waþema gebind…..werigne sefan.
Forþon ic geþencan ne mæg…..geond þas woruld
for hwan modsefa…..min ne gesweorce
þonne ic eorla lif…..eal geondþence,
hu hi færlice…..flet ofgeafon,
modge maguþegnas.…..Swa þes middangeard
ealra dogra gehwam…..dreoseð ond fealleð;
forþon ne mæg weorþan wis…..wer, ær he age
wintra dæl in woruldrice.…..Wita sceal geþyldig,
ne sceal no to hatheort…..ne to hrædwyrde,
ne to wac wiga…..ne to wanhydig,
ne to forht ne to fægen,…..ne to feohgifre
ne næfre gielpes to georn,…..ær he geare cunne.
Beorn sceal gebidan,…..þonne he beot spriceð,
oþþæt collenferð…..cunne gearwe
hwider hreþra gehygd…..hweorfan wille.
Ongietan sceal gleaw hæle…..hu gæstlic bið,
þonne ealre þisse worulde wela…..weste stondeð,
swa nu missenlice…..geond þisne middangeard
winde biwaune…..weallas stondaþ,
hrime bihrorene,…..hryðge þa ederas.
Woriað þa winsalo,…..waldend licgað
dreame bidrorene,…..duguþ eal gecrong,
wlonc bi wealle.…..Sume wig fornom,
ferede in forðwege,…..sumne fugel oþbær
ofer heanne holm,…..sumne se hara wulf
deaðe gedælde,…..sumne dreorighleor
in eorðscræfe…..eorl gehydde.
Yþde swa þisne eardgeard…..ælda scyppend
oþþæt burgwara…..breahtma lease
eald enta geweorc…..idlu stodon.
Se þonne þisne wealsteal…..wise geþohte
ond þis deorce lif…..deope geondþenceð,
frod in ferðe,…..feor oft gemon
wælsleahta worn,…..ond þas word acwið:
Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago?….Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa?
Hwær cwom symbla gesetu?…..Hwær sindon seledreamas?
Eala beorht bune!…..Eala byrnwiga!
Eala þeodnes þrym!…..Hu seo þrag gewat,
genap under nihthelm,…..swa heo no wære.
Stondeð nu on laste…..leofre duguþe
weal wundrum heah,…..wyrmlicum fah.
Eorlas fornoman…..asca þryþe,
wæpen wælgifru,…..wyrd seo mære,
ond þas stanhleoþu…..stormas cnyssað,
hrið hreosende…..hrusan bindeð,
wintres woma,…..þonne won cymeð,
nipeð nihtscua,…..norþan onsendeð
hreo hæglfare…..hæleþum on andan.
Eall is earfoðlic…..eorþan rice,
onwendeð wyrda gesceaft…..weoruld under heofonum.
Her bið feoh læne,…..her bið freond læne,
her bið mon læne,…..her bið mæg læne,
eal þis eorþan gesteal…..idel weorþeð!
Swa cwæð snottor on mode,…..gesæt him sundor æt rune.
Til biþ se þe his treowe gehealdeþ,…..ne sceal næfre his torn to rycene
beorn of his breostum acyþan,…..nemþe he ær þa bote cunne,
eorl mid elne gefremman.…..Wel bið þam þe him are seceð,
frofre to Fæder on heofonum,…..þær us eal seo fæstnung stondeð.