Fidelity to the Word
Our Lord and His Holy Apostles at the Last Supper


A blog dedicated to Christ Jesus our Lord and His True Presence in the Holy Mystery of the Eucharist


Stir up our hearts, O Lord, to prepare the way of Thine only-begotten Son: that through His coming we may attain to serve Thee with purified minds. Who liveth and reigneth, with God the Father, in the unity of the Holy Ghost, God, through all the ages of ages.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

The Wanderer

[Found here after a mention here]
Oft him anhagaOften the solitary one
are gebideð,finds grace for himself
metudes miltse,the mercy of the Lord,
þeah þe he modcearigAlthough he, sorry-hearted,
geond lagulademust for a long time
longe sceoldemove by hand [in context = row]
hreran mid hondumalong the waterways,
hrimcealde sæ(along) the ice-cold sea,
wadan wræclastas.tread the paths of exile.
Wyrd bið ful aræd!Events always go as they must!


Swa cwæð eardstapa,So spoke the wanderer,
earfeþa gemyndig,mindful of hardships,
wraþra wælsleahta,of fierce slaughters
winemæga hryre:and the downfall of kinsmen:


Oft ic sceolde anaOften (or always) I had alone
uhtna gehwylceto speak of my trouble
mine ceare cwiþan.each morning before dawn.
Nis nu cwicra nanThere is none now living
þe ic him modsefanto whom I dare
minne durreclearly speak
sweotule asecgan.of my innermost thoughts.
Ic to soþe watI know it truly,
þæt biþ in eorlethat it is in men
indryhten þeaw,a noble custom,
þæt he his ferðlocanthat one should keep secure
fæste binde,his spirit-chest (mind),
healde his hordcofan,guard his treasure-chamber (thoughts),
hycge swa he wille.think as he wishes.
Ne mæg werig modThe weary spirit cannot
wyrde wiðstondan,withstand fate (the turn of events),
ne se hreo hygenor does a rough or sorrowful mind
helpe gefremman.do any good (perform anything helpful).
Forðon domgeorneThus those eager for glory
dreorigne oftoften keep secure
in hyra breostcofandreary thoughts
bindað fæste;in their breast;
swa ic modsefanSo I,
minne sceolde,often wretched and sorrowful,
oft earmcearig,bereft of my homeland,
eðle bidæled,far from noble kinsmen,
freomægum feorhave had to bind in fetters
feterum sælan,my inmost thoughts,
siþþan geara iuSince long years ago
goldwine minneI hid my lord
hrusan heolstre biwrah,in the darkness of the earth,
ond ic hean þonanand I, wretched, from there
wod wintercearigtravelled most sorrowfully
ofer waþema gebind,over the frozen waves,
sohte seledreorigsought, sad at the lack of a hall,
sinces bryttan,a giver of treasure,
hwær ic feor oþþe neahwhere I, far or near,
findan meahtemight find
þone þe in meoduhealleone in the meadhall who
mine wisse,knew my people,
oþþe mec freondleasneor wished to console
frefran wolde,the friendless one, me,
wenian mid wynnum.entertain (me) with delights.
Wat se þe cunnaðHe who has tried it knows
hu sliþen biðhow cruel is
sorg to geferansorrow as a companion
þam þe him lyt hafaðto the one who has few
leofra geholena:beloved friends:
warað hine wræclast,the path of exile (wræclast) holds him,
nales wunden gold,not at all twisted gold,
ferðloca freorig,a frozen spirit,
nalæs foldan blæd.not the bounty of the earth.
Gemon he selesecgasHe remembers hall-warriors
ond sincþege,and the giving of treasure
hu hine on geoguðeHow in youth his lord (gold-friend)
his goldwineaccustomed him
wenede to wiste.to the feasting.
Wyn eal gedreas!All the joy has died!


Forþon wat se þe scealAnd so he knows it, he who must
his winedryhtnesforgo for a long time
leofes larcwidumthe counsels
longe forþolian:of his beloved lord:
ðonne sorg ond slæðThen sorrow and sleep
somod ætgædreboth together
earmne anhoganoften tie up
oft gebindað.the wretched solitary one.
þinceð him on modeHe thinks in his mind
þæt he his mondryhtenthat he embraces and kisses
clyppe ond cysse,his lord,
ond on cneo lecgeand on his (the lord's) knees lays
honda ond heafod,his hands and his head,
swa he hwilum ærJust as, at times (hwilum), before,
in geardagumin days gone by,
giefstolas breac.he enjoyed the gift-seat (throne).
Ðonne onwæcneð eftThen the friendless man
wineleas guma,wakes up again,
gesihð him biforanHe sees before him
fealwe wegas,fallow waves
baþian brimfuglas,Sea birds bathe,
brædan feþra,preening their feathers,
hreosan hrim ond snawFrost and snow fall,
hagle gemenged.mixed with hail.


Þonne beoð þy hefigranThen are the heavier
heortan benne,the wounds of the heart,
sare æfter swæsne.grievous (sare) with longing for (æfter) the lord.
Sorg bið geniwadSorrow is renewed
þonne maga gemyndwhen the mind (mod) surveys
mod geondhweorfeð;the memory of kinsmen;
greteð gliwstafum,He greets them joyfully,
georne geondsceawaðeagerly scans
secga geseldan;the companions of men;
swimmað oft on wegthey always swim away.
fleotendra ferðThe spirits of seafarers
no þær fela bringeðnever bring back there much
cuðra cwidegiedda.in the way of known speech.
Cearo bið geniwadCare is renewed
þam þe sendan scealfor the one who must send
swiþe geneahhevery often
ofer waþema gebindover the binding of the waves
werigne sefan.a weary heart.


Forþon ic geþencan ne mægIndeed I cannot think
geond þas woruldwhy my spirit
for hwan modsefadoes not darken
min ne gesweorcewhen I ponder on the whole
þonne ic eorla liflife of men
eal geondþence,throughout the world,
hu hi færliceHow they suddenly
flet ofgeafon,left the floor (hall),
modge maguþegnas.the proud thanes.
Swa þes middangeardSo this middle-earth,
ealra dogra gehwama bit each day,
dreoseð ond fealleð;droops and decays -
forþon ne mæg weorþan wisTherefore man (wer)
wer, ær he agecannot call himself wise, before he has
wintra dæl in woruldrice.a share of years in the world.
Wita sceal geþyldig,A wise man must be patient,
ne sceal no to hatheortHe must never be too impulsive
ne to hrædwyrde,nor too hasty of speech,
ne to wac wiganor too weak a warrior
ne to wanhydig,nor too reckless,
ne to forht ne to fægen,nor too fearful, nor too cheerful,
ne to feohgifrenor too greedy for goods,
ne næfre gielpes to georn,nor ever too eager for boasts,
ær he geare cunne.before he sees clearly.
Beorn sceal gebidan,A man must wait
þonne he beot spriceð,when he speaks oaths,
oþþæt collenferðuntil the proud-hearted one
cunne gearwesees clearly
hwider hreþra gehygdwhither the intent of his heart
hweorfan wille.will turn.
Ongietan sceal gleaw hæleA wise hero must realize
hu gæstlic bið,how terrible it will be,
þonne ealre þisse worulde welawhen all the wealth of this world
weste stondeð,lies waste,
swa nu missenliceas now in various places
geond þisne middangeardthroughout this middle-earth
winde biwaunewalls stand,
weallas stondaþ,blown by the wind,
hrime bihrorene,covered with frost,
hryðge þa ederas.storm-swept the buildings.
Woriað þa winsalo,The halls decay,
waldend licgaðtheir lords lie
dreame bidrorene,deprived of joy,
duguþ eal gecrong,the whole troop has fallen,
wlonc bi wealle.the proud ones, by the wall.
Sume wig fornom,War took off some,
ferede in forðwege,carried them on their way,
sumne fugel oþbærone, the bird took off
ofer heanne holm,across the deep sea,
sumne se hara wulfone, the gray wolf
deaðe gedælde,shared one with death,
sumne dreorighleorone, the dreary-faced
in eorðscræfeman buried
eorl gehydde.in a grave.
Yþde swa þisne eardgeardAnd so He destroyed this city,
ælda scyppendHe, the Creator of Men,
oþþæt burgwarauntil deprived of the noise
breahtma leaseof the citizens,
eald enta geweorcthe ancient work of giants
idlu stodon.stood empty.


Se þonne þisne wealstealHe who thought wisely
wise geþohteon this foundation,
ond þis deorce lifand pondered deeply
deope geondþenceð,on this dark life,
frod in ferðe,wise in spirit,
feor oft gemonremembered often from afar
wælsleahta worn,many conflicts,
ond þas word acwið:and spoke these words:


Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago?1Where is the horse gone? Where the rider?
Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa?Where the giver of treasure?
Hwær cwom symbla gesetu?Where are the seats at the feast?
Hwær sindon seledreamas?Where are the revels in the hall?
Eala beorht bune!Alas for the bright cup!
Eala byrnwiga!Alas for the mailed warrior!
Eala þeodnes þrym!Alas for the splendour of the prince!
Hu seo þrag gewat,How that time has passed away,
genap under nihthelm,dark under the cover of night,
swa heo no wære.as if it had never been!
Stondeð nu on lasteNow there stands in the trace
leofre duguþeof the beloved troop
weal wundrum heah,a wall, wondrously high,
wyrmlicum fah.wound round with serpents.
Eorlas fornomanThe warriors taken off
asca þryþe,by the glory of spears,
wæpen wælgifru,the weapons greedy for slaughter,
wyrd seo mære,the famous fate (turn of events),
ond þas stanhleoþuand storms beat
stormas cnyssað,these rocky cliffs,
hrið hreosendefalling frost
hrusan bindeð,fetters the earth,
wintres woma,the harbinger of winter;
þonne won cymeð,Then dark comes,
nipeð nihtscua,nightshadows deepen,
norþan onsendeðfrom the north there comes
hreo hæglfarea rough hailstorm
hæleþum on andan.in malice against men.
Eall is earfoðlicAll is troublesome
eorþan rice,in this earthly kingdom,
onwendeð wyrda gesceaftthe turn of events changes
weoruld under heofonum.the world under the heavens.
Her bið feoh læne,Here money is fleeting,
her bið freond læne,here friend is fleeting,
her bið mon læne,here man is fleeting,
her bið mæg læne,here kinsman is fleeting,
eal þis eorþan gestealall the foundation of this world
idel weorþeð!turns to waste!


Swa cwæð snottor on mode,So spake the wise man in his mind,
gesæt him sundor æt rune.where he sat apart in counsel.
Til biþ se þe his treowe gehealdeþ,Good is he who keeps his faith,
ne sceal næfre his torn to ryceneAnd a warrior must never speak
beorn of his breostum acyþan,his grief of his breast too quickly,
nemþe he ær þa bote cunne,unless he already knows the remedy -
eorl mid elne gefremman.a hero must act with courage.
Wel bið þam þe him are seceð,It is better for the one that seeks mercy,
frofre to Fæder on heofonum,consolation from the father in the heavens,
þær us eal seo fæstnung stondeð.where, for us, all permanence rests.

1 In J. R. R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, in chapter six of The Two Towers, Aragorn sings a song of Rohan (itself a version of Anglo-Saxon England), beginning "Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?". The song clearly comes from this section of The Wanderer. (A more strictly literal translation of "mago" would be "youth", hence "Where is the horse gone? Where the young man?" -- but since the horse and the youth appear in the same half-line, Tolkien's rendering "rider" is very hard to resist.)

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