THE WANDERER

To the solitary man Gods grace

Is often given, although he, sad at heart,
Must stir with his hands
The watery ways, the icy sea,
Must travel the paths of exile: fate is settled indeed!
Thus spoke the wanderer, remembering the hardships,
Cruel slaughters, death of kinsmen:
At the dawn of each day, lonely and wretched,
I must bewail my sorrow there is no man alive
To whom I dare reveal my heart,
Speak openly. I know for truth
That for a warrior there is a noble custom:
He should bind fast the thoughts of his heart,
Keep his heart-treasure locked, whatever he may think.
Neither could a weary mind resist fate
Nor could an angry thought be of avail.
Therefore men eager for honour bind fast their grief,
Hide it deep in their breast-treasure.
So had I also, lonely and wretched,
Fettered my sadness, homeless and friendless,
Since long ago earth covered my gold-friend
In darkness. And I went away,
Wretched, with frozen heart, over the waves bound in ice,
To seek gloomily the hall of a gold-giver,
Where far or near I might find
One who in mead-hall would take care of me,
Or would comfort me, left without friends,
Treat me with kindness.
He who bears it knows
How harsh and bitter is care for companion
To him who has no one to console him:
His is the path of exile, not the twisted gold,
A frozen body, not the riches of this earth:
He dreams of the hall-men and the dealing of treasure:
How in his youth his gold-friend
Was kind to him at the feast but gone is that joy!
He knows it well, he who must live without
His lords and his friends counsel
Longs for them forever.
Often sorrow and sleep together
Bind the lonely outcast. He dreams
That he clasps his lord again and kisses him,
And lays hands and head on his knee,
As he did before, in days now gone,

When he enjoyed the favours of the gift-stool.

He wakes again, the friendless man,
And sees before him nothing but dark waves,
Seabirds bathing, spreading their feathers;
Frost and snow falling, mingled with hail.
Then all the heavier are the wounds in his heart
Sore for his loved lord; sorrow is renewed.
Then the memory of kinsmen crosses his mind;
He greets them with songs, gazes at them eagerly.
The companions swim away again
The souls of sailors do not bring any
Familiar speech to him who must often
Send forth his weary heart across
The frozen waves. His sorrow is renewed.
Therefore I can think of no reason
Why my mind shall not become dark
When I think over all the life of earls,
How all of a sudden they gave up their hall,
The brave retainers. So this middle earth
Each day passes and falls.
Therefore no man grows wise before he has
His share of winters in this world.
A wise man must be patient:
Hes not too hot-hearted, nor too hasty in speech,
Nor too weak a warrior, nor too foolhardy,
Nor too timid, nor too servile, nor too avaricious,
Nor too eager to boast, before he knows all.
A man must bide his time, when he boasts in his speech,
Until he knows well in his pride
Where the thoughts of his mind will lead him.
A wise man must see how ghastly it will be
When all the riches of this world stand waste
Even as now, in many places, all over the earth
Walls stand, wind-beaten,
Hung with hoary frost, the dwellings in ruins.
The wine-halls crumble; their rulers lie
Bereft of joy, mighty warriors all fallen,
The proud ones, by the wall. Some were taken by war,
Carried away; some the raven bore away
Over the high sea; some the grey wolf
Gave over to death; one was hidden in an earth-cave
By a warrior with tear-stained cheeks.
Thus did the Creator of men lay waste this earth
Until, deprived of the revelry of their inhabitants,
The ancient works of giants stood useless.
Then he, who has thought wisely of the foundations of things,

And who deeply ponders over this dark life,

Wise in his heart, often thinks back
To the blood spilt here, and speaks these words:
Where is the horse now? Where is the rider?
Where is the giver of treasure?
Where is the house of feasting?
Where are the joys of the hall?
Alas, the bright cup! Alas, the armoured warrior!
Alas, the glory of the prince! How that time
Has passed, has grown dark under nights helm,
As if it had never been!
Instead of dear warriors now stands a wall
Wonderfully high, covered with serpent-shapes:
The earls were carried off by the ash-spears point,
The weapon greedy for slaughter. Their Fate is glorious!
And storms beat upon those rocky slopes,
The ground is bound by falling sleet.
Winters wrath when darkness comes,
Night shadows spread sends from the north
Fierce hailstorms to the terror of men.
Everything is full of hardship in the kingdom
Of earth. The decree of Fate changes
The world under the heavens.
Here wealth is transient, here friends are transient,
Here man is transient, here woman is transient,
And all this firm-set world rolls into emptiness.
Thus spoke the wise man; he set apart in thought.
Good is he who holds his faith: nor should a man ever
Show too quickly the sorrow of his breast
Before he knows its cure; a warrior fights on bravely.
Well it is for him who seeks mercy, comfort from the
Heavenly Father, in whom all our security stands.