Glǽmscrafu - The Wanderer

Oft him ánhaga áre gebídeð,

Often the solitary man himself experiences favour,

metudes miltse, þéah þe hé módcearig

the mercy of the Lord, although sorrowful in heart he

geond laguláde longe sceolde

must long throughout the waterways

hréran mid hondum hrímcealde sǽ

stir with his hands the ice-cold sea,

wadan wræclástas. Wyrd bið ful arǽd!

travel the paths of an exile. Fate is very inflexible.

Swá cwæð eardstapa, earfeþa gemyndig,

So spoke the earth-stepper, mindful of miseries,

wraþra wælsleahta, winemǽga hryre:

of the cruel battles, the death of kinsmen:

Oft ic sceolde ána úhtna gehwylce

Often, at every dawn, alone I must

míne ceare cwiþan. Nis nú cwicra nán

lament my sorrows. There is now no one living

þe ic him módsefan mínne durre

to whom I might dare to reveal clearly

sweotule ásecgan. Ic tó sóþe wát

my heart. I know too truly

þæt biþ in eorle indryhten þéaw,

that it is a noble custom that a man

þæt he his ferðlocan fæste binde,

should bind fast his breast,

healde his hordcofan, hycge swá hé wille.

should hold fast his thoughts, think as he will.

Ne mæg wérig mód wyrde wiðstondan,

Nor can the weary mind withstand fate,

ne se hréo hyge helpe gefremman.

nor the turbulent mind find help.

Forðon dómgeorne dréorigne oft

Therefore those eager for glory must often

in hyra bréostcofan bindað fæste;

bind a heavy heart fast.

swá ic módsefan mínne sceolde,

Thus I have had to bind my heart with fetters,

oft earmcearig, éðle bidǽled,

often wretched and sad, deprived of my homeland,

fréomǽgum feor feterum sǽlan,

far from noble kinsmen,

siþþan geára iú goldwine mínne

since years ago my generous lord

hrusan heolstre biwráh, ond ic héan þonan

I covered in the earth’s hiding-place, and wretched I

wód wintercearig ofer waþema gebind,

went from there winter-sorrowing over the binding waves,

sóhte seledréorig sinces bryttan,

sad at the loss of the hall, sought a giver of treasure,

hwǽr ic feor oþþe néah findan meahte

where I might find near or far

þone þe in meoduhealle míne wisse,

he who might show me affection in the meadhall,

oþþe mec fréondléasne fréfran wolde,

or would comfort me, friendless,

wenian mid wynnum. Wát se þe cunnað

entertain me with joys. He knows, who is able to know,

hú slíþen bið sorg tó geféran

how cruel sorrow is as a companion

þám þe him lyt hafað léofra geholena:

to him who has few beloved confidants;

warað hine wræclást, nales wunden gold,

the paths of an exile occupy his mind, not wound gold at all,

ferðloca fréorig, nalæs foldan blǽd.

a frozen heart, not the riches of the hall at all.

Gemon hé selesecgas ond sincþege,

He remembers retainers and receiving of treasure,

hú hine on geoguðe his goldwine

how in his youth his gold-giving lord

wenede tó wiste. Wyn eal gedréas!

accustomed him to the feasting. Joy has entirely gone.

Forþon wát se þe sceal his winedryhtnes

Therefore he knows, who must long forgo

léofes lárcwidum longe forþolian,

his beloved lord’s counsel,

ðonne sorg ond slǽp somod ætgædre

when sorrow and sleep both together

earmne ánhogan oft gebindað,

often bind the wretched solitary man,

þinceð him on móde þæt he his mondryhten

it seems to him in his mind that he embraces and kisses

clyppe ond cysse, ond on cnéo lecge

his lord, and on his knee might lay

honda ond héafod, swá hé hwílum ǽr

hands and head, as before he sometimes

in geárdagum giefstólas bréac.

enjoyed the gift-stool in days of old.

Ðonne onwæcneð eft wineléas guma,

Then he awakes again, the friendless man,

gesihð him biforan fealwe wegas,

sees before him fallow waves,

baþian brimfuglas, brǽdan feþra,

bathing seabirds, with spread feathers;

hréosan hrím ond snáw hagle gemenged.

falling frost and snow are mixed with hail.

Þonne béoð þý hefigran heortan benne,

Then the wounds of the heart re the more heavy,

sáre æfter swǽsne. Sorg bið geniwad

sorrowful for the beloved. Sorrow is renewed

þonne mága gemynd mód geondhweorfeð;

when the memory of kinsmen pervades the mind;

gréteð gliwstafum, georne geondscéawað

he greets them joyfully; eagerly surveys

secga geseldan; swimmað oft on weg

the companions of men; they often swim away again.

fléotendra ferð no þǽr fela bringeð

The spirit of seabirds do not bring many

cúðra cwidegiedda. Cearo bið geniwad

familiar utterances here. Sorrow is renewed

þám þe sendan sceal swíþe geneahhe

to those who must send a weary heart

ofer waþema gebind wérigne sefan.

frequently over the binding waves.

Forþon ic geþencan ne mæg geond þás woruld

Therefore I cannot think throughout this world

for hwán módsefa mín ne gesweorce

why my mind would not grow dark

þonne ic eorla líf eal geondþence,

when I meditate on the lives of earls,

hú hí fǽrlice flet ofgéafon,

how they quickly left the floor of the hall,

módge maguþegnas. Swá þes middangeard

brave young warriors. So this middle-earth

ealra dógra gehwám dréoseð ond fealleð.

each and every day declines and falls.

Forþon ne mæg weorþan wís wer, ǽr hé áge

Therefore no man may become wise, before he has had

wintra dǽl in woruldríce. Wita sceal geþyldig,

his share of winters in the worldly kingdom. A wise man shall be patient:

ne sceal nó tó hátheort ne tó hrædwyrde,

he shall not be too hot-hearted, not too hasty of speech,

ne tó wác wiga ne tó wanhýdig,

nor too weak a warrior, not too reckless,

ne tó forht ne tó fægen, ne tó feohgífre

not too timorous nor too eager, nor too greedy for riches

ne nǽfre gielpes tó georn, ǽr hé géare cunne.

nor ever too desirous of boasting, before he clearly may have knowledge.

Beorn sceal gebídan, þonne hé béot spriceð,

A warrior shall wait when he speaks a boast,

oþþæt collenferð cunne gearwe

until, stout-hearted, he knows clearly

hwider hreþra gehygd hweorfan wille.

where the thoughts of his heart may tend.

Ongietan sceal gléaw hæle hú gǽstlíc bið,

The wise warrior is able to perceive how terrifying it will be

þonne ealre þisse worulde wela wéste stondeð,

when all this world’s wealth stands waste,

swá nú missenlíce geond þisne middangeard

just as now in various places throughout this middle-earth

winde biwáune weallas stondaþ,

walls stands blown by the wind,

hríme bihrorene, hryðge þá ederas.

covered with frost, the building snow-swept.

Wóriað þá wínsalo, waldend licgað

The wine-halls topple. The rulers lie

dréame bidrorene, duguþ eal gecrong,

deprived of joys; mature men all perished

wlonc bí wealle. Sume wíg fornóm,

proud by the wall. Battle destroyed some,

ferede in forðwege, sumne fugel oþbær

carried them off on the way; a bird carried one away

ofer héanne holm, sumne se hára wulf

over the high sea; a hoary wolf

déaðe gedǽlde, sumne dréorighléor

share one in death; one a sad-faced warrior

in eorðscræfe eorl gehýdde.

concealed in an earth-cave.

Ýþde swá þisne eardgeard ælda scyppend

The Creator of men thus laid waste this earth

oþþæt burgwara breahtma léase

until deprived of the joy of its inhabitants,

eald enta geweorc ídlu stódon.

the ancient work of giants stood empty.

Se þonne þisne wealsteal wíse geþóhte

Then he who wisely reflects upon this foundation

ond þis deorce líf déope geondþenceð,

and deeply meditates on this dark life,

fród in ferðe, feor oft gemon

wise in mind, far off remembers

wælsleahta worn, ond þás word ácwið:

a large number of slaughters, and utters these words:

Hwǽr cwóm mearg?

Where has the horse gone?

Hwǽr cwóm mago?

Where has the man gone?

Hwǽr cwóm máþþumgyfa?

Where have the treasure-givers gone?

Hwǽr cwóm symbla gesetu?

Where has the place of banquets gone?

Hwǽr sindon seledréamas?

Where are the joys of the hall?

Éalá beorht bune! Éalá byrnwiga!

Alas the gleaming cup! Alas the armoured warrior!

Éalá þéodnes þrym! Hú séo þrág gewát,

Alas the prince’s glory! How the time has passed away,

genáp under nihthelm, swá héo nó wǽre.

grown dark under the helm of night, as if it never were.

Stondeð nú on láste léofre duguþe

There stands now in the track of the dear retainer

weal wundrum héah, wyrmlícum fáh.

a wall, wondrously high, adorned with serpent-patterns.

Eorlas fornóman asca þrýþe,

The might of ash-spears snatched away noble men,

wǽpen wælgífru, wyrd séo mǽre,

weapons greedy for carnage, notorious fate,

ond þás stánhleoþu stormas cnyssað,

and storms beat the stone-heaps, hailstorms falling

hríð hréosende hrusan bindeð,

binds the earth, winter’s chaos,

wintres wóma, þonne won cymeð,

then the darkness comes, night-shadows

nípeð nihtscúa, norþan onsendeð

spread gloom, sending from the north

hréo hæglfare hæleþum on andan.

fierce hailstorms to the terror of men.

Eall is earfoðlíc eorþan ríce,

All is hardship in the earthly kingdom;

onwendeð wyrda gesceaft weoruld under heofonum.

the operation of fate changes the world under the heavens.

Hér bið feoh lǽne, hér bið fréond lǽne,

Here, wealth is transitory; here a friend is transitory;

hér bið mon lǽne, hér bið mæg lǽne,

here a man is transitory; here a kinsman is transitory.

eal þis eorþan gesteal ídel weorþeð!

All this earth’s foundation will become empty.

Swá cwæð snottor on móde,

So spoke the wise man in his mind,

gesæt him sundor æt rúne.

he sat apart in secret meditation.

Til biþ se þe his tréowe gehealdeþ,

It is good for him who retains his faith:

ne sceal nǽfre his torn tó rycene

never shall a man express too quickly

beorn of his bréostum ácýþan,

the grief of his heart, unless beforehand

nemþe hé ǽr þá bóte cunne,

he might know how to bring about

eorl mid elne gefremman.

the cure, an earl with courage.

Wel bið þám þe him áre séceð,

It will be well for him who seeks mercy,

frófre tó Fæder on heofonum,

consolation from the Father in heaven,

þǽr ús eal séo fæstnung stondeð.

where all our security stands.