An Old English Poem
“Often the solitary one experiences mercy for himself, the mercy of the Measurer, although he, troubled in spirit,
over the ocean must 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 each morning I must
Bewail my sorrow; there is now none living to whom I dare tell clearly my inmost 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-coffer 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 has 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 accustomed him to the feast. But all pleasure has failed.
Indeed he knows who must for a long time do without
the counsels 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 at times in former days, enjoyed the gift-giving.
Then the friendless man awakes again,
sees before him the dusky waves,
the seabirds bathing, spreading their wings,
frost and snow fall, mingled with hail.
Then are his heart’s wounds the heavier because of that, sore with longing for a loved one. Sorrow 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 very often send 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 life 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
whither 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 stand 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 has all perished proud by the wall. Some war took, carried on the way forth; one a bird carried off over the high sea; 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 helm, as if it never were!
Now in place of a beloved host stands
a wall wondrously high, decorated with the likenesses 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.
So 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.