Tag: #prosepoetry

It has been a dream of mine since my younger years, when I first fell upon the epic and tragic tale of Beowulf, to learn the language in which it was written. Old English (or Anglo-Saxon) was a language that through the years (and with many outside influences) became the English language that we speak today. But this was “Ænglisc” in its purest form – untainted by the influences of French and the Norman invaders. As such, it is both familiar and alien – beautiful and homely.

All that said, I am finally making that dream come true. As an exercise in learning the grammar and syntax of Old English, I decided to work on my own translation of another renowned “elegy” of the Anglo-Saxons: The Wanderer.

Many more qualified people than myself have provided translations of this text in the past, so I have tried to do what many of them haven’t: I’ve attempted to preserve the alliterative nature of the the original, while also presenting the text in easy to read modern English.

Without further rambling, here is my translation of The Wanderer. I hope you enjoy it!

---

Translation:

Often, the solitary man finds mercy;
The Lord’s favor. Though, with a fearful heart
And with his own two hands
Long must he roam the rime-cold sea
Along the paths of exiles. What will be will be!

So spoke the wanderer, recalling his woes.
The fierce frays. The fallen friends.

Often, alone before the break of day
I speak with myself of my sorrows.
For now there is no one
I dare tell my deepest thoughts.

I know that men of honor are mindful
Of holding their hearts secure,
Guarding their thoughts, and thinking freely.
A weary soul can not withstand fate.
A barren mind cannot be of help.
Therefore, those who thirst for virtue
Keep their sorrows to themselves.

So I, often with despair and dismay,
Without a home, bereft of brethren,
Have stifled the stirrings of my soul.

In years long past I laid my prince
Under the veil of the world, and wandered thence
Wretched and weary, missing the mead hall.
Over the surface of the sea, both near and far
I looked for a lord who gifted his gold.
For someone in the hall who heard my name
And would befriend me, bringing me joy.

Only those who have sailed with sorrow
Know that it is a cruel companion
To the man with few faithful friends.
The exile’s way hinders him – not as twisted gold.
His body trembles – not as the earth’s blossoms.

He remembers the guards, the receiving of gifts,
And how in his youth his prince provided.
Now all pleasures have departed!

Therefore he knows he must go on living
Without the wisdom of his mentor.

When grief and exhaustion are gathered
They often snare the sad and solitary man.

He is with his ruler in his heart,
Laying his hand and head on his knee;
Embracing his lord as he did long ago,
When he enjoyed his generosity.

When the friendless man awakens again,
The sight before him is of dusky seas;
Of bathing sea-birds, their feathers baring;
Of frost and snow falling, mingled with hail.
Then the heart grows heavier with sorrow anew.

When the spirit roams, remembering kinsmen,
The senses of men often swim away.
The mind does not bring there many
Clear meanings of the floating fantasies.

Care is rekindled for the one compelled
To frequently and earnestly send forth
His weary heart over the waters.

Therefore, I cannot think why, beyond all things,
My inner mind does not darken,
When I consider all of the lord’s life:
How he suddenly left his hall and lofty thanes.

Each and every day, this existence on earth
Continues to wither and to wane.
Therefore, no man can wish to be wise
Before he owns his share of winters.

A wise man must be patient;
Neither ruled by urges, nor hasty to utter words.
Neither too rigid, nor too reckless.
Nor too private, nor too public, nor too covetous.
Never quick to boast before he is certain.

One must stand firm when he makes oaths
Until that courageous man clearly sees
Where his heart’s meditations may wander.

A wise man must heed how horrible it will be
When all the wealth of the world is laid waste.
As now, scattered across this earth
Stand walls, blown by wind;
Fallen houses, covered by frost.
The mead-halls disarrayed, the masters departed.
Deprived of mirth, for all men fell by the wall.
One was borne away in the battle.
One a crow carried over the sea.
One was savaged by the silver-haired wolf.
One, with grief, was hidden in the grave.

The wise man thought there, on the city’s foundation,
Prudently pondering the darkness of life.
Often, he recalled the countless slaughters of old.
He spoke these sayings:

Where now is the horse?
Where is the young rider?
Where is the giver of gifts?
Where is the seat at the celebration?
Where are the happy sounds in the hall?

Alas, the bright cup!
Alas, the warrior and his hauberk!
Alas, the majesty of the king!

How that hour has departed,
Dark under the shadow of night,
As if it had never been!

Now, in the place of that honorable host,
Stands a wall, wondrously high, decorated with dragons.
The throngs of spears, thirsty for men –
Fate made known those murderous weapons.

Storms assail these stony cliffs;
Falling snow ensnares the earth;
Winter weeps and the gloom gathers.
The shadows deepen and the north delivers,
With hatred, a storm of hail upon the heroes.

Everything in this world is wearisome.
Fate does what it will with all things under heaven.

Here, pleasures are passing.
Here, friendships are fleeting.
Here, life is on loan.
Here, family is fading.
All these foundations will be brought to futility!

So spoke the wise in spirit, sitting alone with his thoughts.
Until that which he holds true is accomplished,
A man must never show the heaviness of his heart
Unless he knows how to quickly and mightily mend it.

Blessed is the man who seeks solace
From the Father in the Heavens,
Where our only certainty stands fast.

---

Original:

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.