THE WANDERER
Oft to the Wanderer, weary of exile,
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Cometh God's pity, compassionate love,
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Though woefully toiling on wintry seas
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With churning oar in the icy wave,
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Homeless and helpless he fled from Fate.
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Thus saith the Wanderer mindful of misery,
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Grievous disasters, and death of kin:
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"Oft when the day broke, oft at the dawning,
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Lonely and wretched I wailed my woe.
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No man living, no comrade left,
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To whom I dare fully unlock my heart.
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I have learned truly the mark of a man
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Is keeping his counsel and locking his lips,
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Let him think what he will! For, woe of heart
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Withstandeth not Fate; a failing spirit
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Earneth no help. Men eager for honor
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Bury their sorrow deep in the breast.
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So have I also, often, in wretchedness
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Fettered my feelings, far from my kin,
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Homeless and hapless, since days of old,
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When the dark earth covered my dear lord's face,
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And I sailed away with sorrowful heart,
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Over wintry seas, seeking a gold-lord,
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If far or near lived one to befriend me
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With gift in the mead-hall and comfort for grief.
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Who bears it, knows what a bitter companion,
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Shoulder to shoulder, sorrow can be,
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When friends are no more. His fortune is exile,
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Not gifts of fine gold; a heart that is frozen,
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Earth's winsomeness dead. And he dreams of the hallmen,
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The dealing of treasure, the days of his youth,
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When his lord bade welcome to wassail and feast.
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But gone is that gladness, and never again
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Shall come the loved counsel of comrade and king.
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Even in slumber his sorrow assaileth,
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And, dreaming, he claspeth his dear lord again,
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Head on knee, hand on knee, loyally laying,
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Pledging his liege as in days long past.
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Then from his slumber he starts lonely-hearted,
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Beholding gray stretches of tossing sea,
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Sea-birds bathing, with wings outspread,
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While hail-storms darken, and driving snow.
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Bitterer then is the bane of his wretchedness,
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The longing for loved one: his grief is renewed.
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The forms of his kinsmen take shape in the silence;
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In rapture he greets them; in gladness he scans
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Old comrades remembered. But they melt into air
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With no word of greeting to gladden his heart.
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Then again surges his sorrow upon him;
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And grimly he spurs on his weary soul
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Once more to the toil of the tossing sea.
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No wonder therefore, in all the world,
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If a shadow darkens upon my spirit
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When I reflect on the fates of men—
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How one by one proud warriors vanish
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From the halls that knew them, and day by day
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All this earth ages and droops unto death.
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No man may know wisdom till many a winter
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Has been his portion. A wise man is patient,
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Not swift to anger, nor hasty of speech,
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Neither too weak, nor too reckless, in war,
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Neither fearful nor fain, nor too wishful of wealth,
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Nor too eager in vow—ere he know the event.
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A brave man must bide when he speaketh his boast
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Until he know surely the goal of his spirit.
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A wise man will ponder how dread is that doom
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When all this world's wealth shall be scattered and waste—
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As now, over all, through the regions of earth,
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Walls stand rime-covered and swept by the winds.
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The battlements crumble, the wine-halls decay;
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Joyless and silent the heroes are sleeping
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Where the proud host fell by the wall they defended.
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Some battle launched on their long, last journey;
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One a bird bore o'er the billowing sea;
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One the gray wolf slew; one a grieving earl
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Sadly gave to the grave's embrace.
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The Warden of men hath wasted this world
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Till the sound of music and revel is stilled,
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And these giant-built structures stand empty of life.
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He who shall muse on these mouldering ruins,
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And deeply ponder this darkling life,
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Must brood on old legends of battle and bloodshed,
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And heavy the mood on old legends of battle and bloodshed,
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And heavy the mood that troubles his heart:
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'Where now is the warrior? Where is the war-horse?
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Bestowal of treasure, and sharing of feast?
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Alas! the bright ale-cup, the byrny-clad warrior,
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The prince in his splendor—those days are long sped
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In the night of the past, as if they never had been!
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And now remains only, for warriors' memorial,
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A wall wondrous high with serpent shapes carved
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Storms of ash-spears have smitten the earls,
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Carnage of weapon, and conquering Fate.
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Storms now batter these ramparts of stone;
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Blowing snow and the blast of winter
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Enfold the earth; night-shadows fall
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Darkly lowering, from the north driving
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Raging hail in wrath upon men.
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Wretchedness fills the realm of earth,
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And Fate's decrees transform the world.
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Here wealth is fleeting, friends are fleeting,
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Man is fleeting, maid is fleeting;
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All the foundation of earth shall fail!"
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Thus spake the sage in solitude pondering.
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Good man is he who guardeth his faith.
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He must never too quickly unburden his breast
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Of its sorrow, but eagerly strive for redress;
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And happy the man who seeketh for mercy
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From his heavenly Father, our Fortress and Strength.
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Charles W. Kennedy, Trans. Old English Elegies. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1936.