THE WANDERER / EARDSTAPA

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!

Often the lone man waits for mercy,

his Maker's pity, though he, Heart-weary
over the ocean streams must for a long time
stir with his hand the frostcold sea,
roam paths of exile; Wyrd is strong-set!
So speaks the wanderer, mindful of troubles,
of cruel slaying and kinsmen's fall:
Oft all alone in the dawn of each day
I must moan my woe. Now is no man living
to whom clearly I may speak my thought.
I know in truth 'tis a noble thing
for an earl to make firm the lock of his spirit,
hold his soul-coffers, think what he may.
The weary mind wins not against Wyrd,
nor may the gloomy thought ever find help.
Those eager for glory closely bind
in their own breasts their dreary mood.
So I, far from home, far from kindred,
fasten with fetters my heart's desire.
Long ago now my friendly gold-giver
I wrapped in dark earth: and I since then
wander winter-weary on frozen waters.
I have sought the hall of a giver of treasure,
if far or near I might ever find
one who in mead-hall would welcome me
or when I was friendless would comfort me,
cheer me with joys. He knows, who has suffered,
how bitter a comrade is sorrow of heart
for him who has now few kind friends left.
There waits him in exile nor twisted gold
nor glory of earth, only his freezing breath.
He remembers hall-mates, his treasure-prince,
how in his youth his friendly lord
cheered him with feasts. All joy is gone.
Then sleep and sorrow together come,
the poor lonely one they often bind.
He seems in his spirit to see his lord,
clasps him and kisses, lays on his knee
his hand and head as he did long ago
in the years of old, drawing near to the gift-throne.
Then he awakes, the friendless man;
he sees before him the fallow waves,
seabirds bathing, spreading their feathers,
frost and snow falling mingled with hail.
Then are the wounds of the heart the heavier,
aching for the dear one; grief is renewed
when the heart long dwells on remembered kinsmen.
It greets them with happy voice, eagerly scans them,
but the hall-companions then drift away;
passing they speak not in well-known words.
Care comes again to him who shall send
his weary spirit over the waste waters.
I cannot think of the wide world
but what my heart-thoughts gather gloom,
pondering thus the life of all,
how they suddenly ceased to tread the floor,
the proud thanes. So does this middle earth
day by day perish and fail.
No man is wise until he live
years in the world. A wise man shall be patient,
not too hot-hearted nor speech-hasty,
too weak a warrior nor yet too rash,
nor fearful nor bold, nor money-greedy,
not too eager in boasting before he knows.
A man shall wait ere he speaks proudly,
till lifted in soul he well knows
whither the thoughts of his heart will turn.
A hero knows how dread it will be
when all the wealth of the world lies waste,
when, blown by Wind, the walls stand
ruined with rime, storm-beaten dwellings.
The wine-hall crumbles, the rulers lie
despoiled of joy; the proud warriors
lie low by the wall; war took them away
on a far journey; one an eagle bore
over the high seas, one a hoary wolf
tore in death, one in an earth cave
was hidden away by a sad-faced earl.
He laid waste this dwelling, the Maker of men,
till, without revellers, empty of joy,
the old work of giants stood desolate.
A man stood wondering by these walls
deeply pondering this dark life.
Wise in heart he remembered far-off things,
unhappy deeds, and spake these words:

“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.”
“Where is the horse and where his rider, where is the Giver of treasure.
Where are the guests at the banquet, where are the joys of hall?
Alas, the bright cup, alas the armoured man,
alas the hero's glory. How time has gone by,
dark under night's cloak, as though it were not.
There stands in the place of the loved warriors
a wall wondrous high, with serpent shapes
The strength of the oak-spear has carried men away,
war-greedy weapon. Wyrd is mighty.
And storms beat on the stony slopes,
the falling tempest binds the earth
with noise of winter; when the wan light comes
night shades grow dark, from the north the storm
with fearful hail sends terror to men.
All is hardship in the kingdom of earth;
decrees of Wyrd change the world under heaven.
Here man is passing, here maid is passing;
here life is passing, here the lover is passing.
All the face of the earth stands empty.”
So said the wise man in his heart, he sat apart in his thought.
Well for him who stands true; no man should too quickly
speak the woe of his heart, till he knows the cure
to strongly bring help. Well for him who seeks mercy,
comfort from the Father in heaven, in whom all fastness stands.

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.

From Word-Hoard, Passages from Old English Literature from the Sixth to Eleventh Century,
translated by Margaret Williams, London 1946: 36-40.