The Wanderer
The Wanderer
A haven awaits
the homeless soul
serene waters
though wretchedly
on the ocean's lanes
long must
he work the oars
in a wintry sea
fare as a fugitive.
Fate is decreed.
So said the exile
anguish recalling
ruthless killings
how his kinsmen fell.
All alone
early each morning
I mourned my loss.
There's not a man alive
that I dare tell
my tale to him
the whole truth.
I have to admit
that it is in a man
an admirable thing
that he keep his soul's
coffer shut
hold onto his hoard
have in heart what he will.
A weary mind can't
ward off Fate
nor a will in distress
weather a storm.
And so men of merit
make fast
a dismal thing
deep in the chest.
And so should I
—severed from home
impoverished
my people far—
tie my tale up
tightly as well.
Since years ago
the earth enshrouded
my lord in its darkness
and I left there grieving
crossed the water
in winter-sorrow
in search of a hall
a sharer of treasure
to find one —wherever—
far or near
who in his mead-hall
knew maybe of mine
or was willing to further
a friendless man
lead him to gladness,
I learned how it is
how very keen
are the cares when a man
numbering kin
counts but few—
exile's circuits
not circlets of gold
frostbitten limbs
not the farmland's plenty.
He recalls the guests
and getting treasures
how his gold-lord had
led him
yet a lad to the feast.
That life was gone.
And so I learned how it is
to live without
the beloved teachings
of one's lord and friend.
When misery and sleep
mixed together
ally to afflict
the unfortunate exile
it seems to him
that he hold and kiss
his lord and master
and lay upon knee
hands and head
as he had done
in times past
at the taking of gifts.
The wretched man
is then roused again
sees before him
fallow waves
seabirds diving
spreading feathers
lashing sleet and snow
allied with hail.
Then all the heavier
are the heart's wounds
the longing for a loved one.
Loss is renewed
when memory sends
the mind out
and it hails with its song
hoping always
to see one's friends.
The seafaring soul
swims back again
bound to return
with hardly a chorus of voices.
Care is renewed
for one who sends
his weary mind
again and again
across the water.
And so I cannot think
about this world
but memory darken
my mind when I do.
When I think about
a thane's life
how they so quickly
quit the hall
angry young men
then this middle-earth
each and every day
disintegrates.
And so to grow wise
one must spend
a few winters in this world.
A wise man is patient
not too hot-hearted
nor too hasty with words.
A man bides his time
no boasts no oaths
until in his rage
he recognize where
an intemperate will
can take things.
The sage gets
how ghastly it will be
when all the world's estate
is standing in ruin
as now in divers places
on this dark earth
wind-blasted
walls are standing—
homes overlaid
with layers of ice
halls falling apart
the powerful lying
their bliss all broken
brave ones fallen
proud by the wall.
War claimed some
and bore them away.
The water-bird took one
over high seas.
The hoary wolf
dealt one his death.
Deep in a grave
a man buried one
blood on his face.
This region was cleansed
by a ruler of men
until —lacking all sound
of its citizens—
the old stonework of giants
stood empty.
Whoever then thinks wisely
on the wealth of this place
and considers deeply
this dark life
with seasoned mind
will seem to recall
countless slayings and
declaim these words—
Where now the horse? Where now the
rider?
Where now the ring-giver?
Where now the high seats?
Where the hall-joys?
O bright chalice!
O chain-mailed warrior!
O the dignity of the people!
How those days went
to naught under night's helm
as though they had never been.
There stands now
where they stood together
a wall wondrous high
worked with serpent-shapes.
The strength of the spear
destroyed those men.
Bloodthirsty weapon!
A wicked fate!
And storms assault
the stone cliffs.
A driving blizzard
binds the earth
winter's blast
then blackness comes
night-shadow deepens
sends down from the north
rough hail
heroes assailing.
All is suffering
in this earthly realm.
Things wend to the worse
in this world under the heavens.
Here fortune is not given.
Here friend is not given.
Here man is not given.
Here maid is not given.
All this earthly abode
ends in emptiness.
So claimed the sage
cloaked in thought.
Worthy he who is true to his word.
A warrior must never reveal his rage
avow on his heart
unless victory be certain
a man decide on defiance.
He does well who seeks protection
the backing of the father above
where for us all a bastion stands.
© 1998 Tim Romano
The Wanderer is an Old English poem from the 10th century, preserved in the Exeter Book. The date of
composition is unknown but most certainly predates 1070 AD, as it was probably part of an earlier, oral literary
culture.
It is a profoundly mournful poem, to the extent that it is an elegy, in which the speaker, possibly an aged man,
speaks of an attack upon his people that happened in his youth. In this attack, his close friends and kin were all
killed, and memories of the slaughter have remained with him all his life. He questions the wisdom of the
impetuous decision to engage a possibly superior fighting force: the wise man engages in warfare to preserve
civil society, and must not rush into battle but seek out allies when the odds may be against him. This speaker
finds little glory in bravery for bravery's sake.
The Wanderer vividly describes his loneliness and yearning for the bright days past, and concludes with an
admonition to put faith in God, "in whom all stability dwells". It has been argued that this admonition is a later
addition, as it lies at the end of a poem that is otherwise solely secular in its concerns.