The Wanderer

“Often 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 gemydig,
wraþra wælsleahta, winemæga hryre:
“Often ic sceolde ana uhtna gehwylce
mine career cwiþan. Nis nu cwicra nan

þe I him modsefan minne durre
sweetule asecgan. Ic to soþe wat
þæt biþ in eorle indryhten þeaw,
þæt he his ferðlocan fæste binding,
healde his hordcofan, hycge swa he will.

Ne mæg werig mod wyrde wiðstondan,
no se hreo hyge helpe gefremman.
Forðon domgeorne dreorigne often
in hyra breostcofan bindað fæste;
swa ic modsefan minne sceolde,

often earmcearig, eðle bidæled,
freemægum feor feterum sælan,
siþþan geara iu goldwine love
hrusan heolstre bivrah, ond ic hean þonan
wod wintercearig ofer waþema container,

sohte sele dreorig since bryttan,
hwær ic feor oþþe neah findan meahte
þone þe in meoduhealle min mine know,
oþþe mec freondleasne frefran wolde,
weman mid wynnum. What is this cunnað,

hu sliþen bið worry to geferan,
þam þe him lyt hafað leofra geholta.
Warað in wræclast, nales wounds gold,
ferðloca open, nalæs foldan blæd.
Gemon he selesecgas and sincþege,

hi on geoguðe his goldwine
turn to wiste. Wyn eal talked!
Forþon wat se þe sceal his winedryhtnes
leofes larcwidum longe fortholian,
ðonne sorg and slæp somod ætgædre

earmne anhogan often gebindað.
þinceð him on mode þæt he his mondryhten
clyppe and cysse, and on cneo lecge
Honda ond heafod, swa he hwilum ær
in geardagum giefstolas breac.

ðonne onwæcneð eft wineleas guma,
told him biforan fealwe wegas,
baþian brimfuglas, brædan feþra,
hreosan hrim ond snaw, hagle mixed.
þonne beoð þy yefigran heortan benne,

sare æfter swæsne. Worry bið geniwad,
þonne maga gemynd mod geondhweorfeð;
greteð gliwstafum, georne geondsceawað
secga geseldan. Swimmað eft on away!
Fleotendra ferð no þær fela bringeð

cuðra cwidegiedda. Cearo bið geniwad
þam þe sendan sceal swiþe geneahhe
ofer waþema container werigne sefan.
For this reason I can get a better result
for hwan modsefa min ne sweorce,

þonne ic eorla life eal geondþence,
hu hi farlice flet ofgeafon,
modge maguþegnas. Swaþes middangeard
ealra dogra gehwam threeoseð ond fealleþ,
forþon ne mæg weorþan wis who, ær he age

wintra dael in woruldrice. Wita sceal geþyldig,
ne sceal no to hattheort ne to hrædwyrde,
no to wac wiga no to wanhydig,
ne to forht ne to fægen, ne to feohgifre
ne næfre gielpes to georn, ær he geare cunne.

Beorn sceal bidan, þonne he beot spriceð,
oþþæt collenferð cunne gearwe
hwider hreþra gehygd hweorfan will.
Ongietan sceal gleaw hæle hu gæstlic bið,
þonne ealre þisse worulde wela west stondeð,

swa nu missenlice geond þisne middangeard
winch biwaune weallas stondaþ,
hrime bihrorene, hryðge þa ederas.
Woriað þa winsalo, forested licgað
dreame bidrorene, duguþ eal gecrong,

wlonc bi welle. Sume wig fornom,
Fered 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 scypping
oþþæt burgwara breahtma lease
eald enta geweorc idlu stodon.
Se þonne þisne wealsteal wise geþohge
and þis deorce lif deope geondþenceð,

frod in ferðe, feor often gemon
wælsleahta worn, and þas word acwið:
“Hwaer cwom mearg? Hwaer cwom mago? Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa?
Hwær cwom symbla gesetu? Hwaer sindon seledreamas?
Eala orders bune! Eala byrnwiga!

Eala Theodnes Thrym! Hu seo þrag wat,
Genap under nihthelm, swa heo no wære.
Stoned nu on laste leofre duguþe
weal wondrous 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 smoked 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, sæt him sundor æt rune.
Til biþ se þe his treowe healdeþ, ne sceal næfre his torn to rycene
beorn of his breostum acyþan, nemþe he ær þa bote cunne,
eorl with elne gefremman. Wel bið þam þe him are seceð,

frofre to fæder on heofonum, þær us eal seo fæstnung stondeð.

"Often the solitary one experiences mercy for himself,
the mercy of the Measurer, although he, troubled in spirit,
over the ocean must be long
stir with his hands the rime-cold sea,

travel the paths of exile - Fate is inexorable. "
So said the wanderer, mindful of hardships,
of cruel deadly combats, the fall of dear kinsmen -
“Often alone every morning I must
keep my sorrow; there is now none living

to whom I dare tell clearly my innermost thoughts.
I know indeed
that it is a noble custom in a man
to bind fast his thoughts with restraint,
hold his treasure chest, think what he will.

The man weary in spirit cannot withstand fate,
nor may the troubled mind offer help.
Therefore those eager for praise often bind a sad mind
in their breast-case with restraint.
So I, miserably sad, separated from homeland,
far from my noble kin, had to bind my thoughts with fetters,

since that long ago the darkness of the earth
covered my gold friend, and I, abject,
proceeded thence, winter sad, over the binding of the waves.

Sad, I sought the hall of a giver of treasure,
Where I might find, far or near,
one who in the meadhall might know about my people,
or might wish to comfort me, friendless,
entertain with delights. He knows who experiences it

how cruel care is as a companion,
to him who hath few beloved protectors.
The path of exile awaits him, not twisted gold,
frozen feelings, not earth's glory.
he remembers retainers and the receiving of treasure,

how in youth his gold friend
him used to the feast. But all pleasure has failed.
Indeed he knows who must do without for a long time
the counsel of his beloved lord
when sorrow and sleep together

often bind the wretched solitary man–
he thinks in his heart that he
embraces and kisses his lord, and lays
hands and head on his knee, just as he once did at times
in former days, enjoyed the gift-giving.

Then the friendless man awakens again,
sees before him the dusky waves,
the seabirds bathing, spreading their wings,
frost and snowfall, mingled with hail.
Then are his heart's wounds the heavier because of that,

sore with longing for a loved one. Sorry is renewed
when the memory of kinsmen passes through his mind;
he greets with signs of joy, eagerly surveys
his companions, warriors. They swim away again.
The spirit of the floating ones never brings there many

familiar utterances. Care is renewed
for the one who must send very often
his weary spirit over the binding of the waves,
Therefore I cannot think why throughout the world
my mind should not grow dark

when I contemplate all the lives of men,
how they suddenly left the hall floor,
brave young retainers. So this middle earth
fails and falls each day;
Therefore a man may not become wise before he owns

a share of winters in the kingdom of this world. A wise man must be patient,
nor must he ever be too hot tempered, nor too hasty of speech
nor too weak in battles, nor too heedless,
nor too fearful, nor too cheerful, nor too greedy for wealth
nor ever too eager for boasting before he knows for certain.

A man must wait when he speaks a boast,
until, stout-hearted, he knows for certain
while the thought of the heart may wish to turn.
The prudent man must realize how ghastly it will be
when all the wealth of this world stands waste,

as now variously throughout this middle-earth
walls stood beaten by the wind,
covered with rime, snow-covered the dwellings.
The wine halls go to ruin, the rulers lie
deprived of joy, the host hath all perished

proud by the wall. Some war took
carried on the way forth; one a bird carried off
over the high seas; one the gray wolf shared
with death; one a sad-faced nobleman
buried in an earth pit.

So the Creator of men laid waste this region,
until the ancient world of giants, lacking the noises
of the citizens, stood idle.
He who deeply contemplates this wall-stead,
and this dark life with wise thought,

old in spirit, often remembers long ago,
a multitude of battles, and speaks these words:
“Where is the horse? Where is the young warrior? Where is the giver of treasure?
Where are the seats of the banquets? Where are the joys in the hall?
Alas the bright cup! Alas the mailed warrior!

Alas the glory of the prince! How the time has gone
vanished under night's helmet, as if it never were!
Now in place of a beloved host stands
a wall wondrously high, decorated with the likes of serpents.
The powers of spears took the noblemen,
weapons greedy for slaughter; fate the renowned
and storms beat against these rocky slopes,
falling snowstorm binds the earth,
the noise of winter, then the dark comes.
The shadow of night grows dark, sends from the north
a rough shower of hail in enmity to the warriors.
All the kingdom of earth is full of trouble,
the operation of the fates changes the world under the heavens.
Here wealth is transitory, here friend is transitory,
here man is transitory, here woman is transitory,

this whole foundation of the earth becomes empty.
Thus spoke the wise in spirit, sat by himself in private meditation.
He who is good keeps his pledge, nor shall the man ever manifest
the anger of his breast too quickly, unless he, the man,
should know beforehand how to accomplish the remedy with courage.
It will be well for him who seeks grace,

comfort from the Father in the heavens, where a fastness
stands for us all.