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Versions of The Seafarer: Mg ic be me sylfum

I can make a true song sogied wrecan, sias secgan, hu ic geswincdagum earfohwile oft rowade, bitre breostceare gebiden hbbe, gecunnad in ceole cearselda fela, atol ya gewealc, r mec oft bigeat nearo nihtwaco t nacan stefnan, onne he be clifum cnossa. Calde gerungen wron mine fet, forste gebunden caldum clommum, r a ceare seofedun hat ymb heortan; hungor innan slat merewerges mod. t se mon ne wat e him on foldan fgrost limpe, hu ic earmcearig iscealdne s winter wunade wrccan lastum, winemgum bidroren, bihongen hrimgicelum; hgl scurum fleag. r ic ne gehyrde butan hlimman s, iscaldne wg. Hwilum ylfete song about me myself, tell my travels, how I often endured days of struggle, troublesome times, [how I] have suffered grim sorrow at heart, have known in the ship many worries [abodes of care], the terrible tossing of the waves, where the anxious night watch often took me at the ship's prow, when it tossed near the cliffs. Fettered by cold were my feet, bound by frost in cold clasps, where then cares seethed hot about my heart -a hunger tears from within the sea-weary soul. This the man does not know for whom on land it turns out most favourably, how I, wretched and sorrowful, on the ice-cold sea dwelt for a winter in the paths of exile, bereft of friendly kinsmen, hung about with icicles; hail flew in showers. There I heard nothing but the roaring sea, the ice-cold wave. At times the swan's song

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dyde ic me to gomene, ganotes hleoor ond huilpan sweg fore hleahtor wera, mw singende fore medodrince. Stormas r stanclifu beotan, r him stearn oncw, Isigfeera; ful oft t earn bigeal, urigfera; nnig hleomga feasceaftig fer frefran meahte. Foron him gelyfe lyt, se e ah lifes wyn gebiden in burgum, bealosia hwon, wlonc ond wingal, hu ic werig oft in brimlade bidan sceolde. Nap nihtscua, noran sniwde, hrim hrusan bond, hgl feol on eoran, corna caldast. Foron cnyssa nu heortan geohtas t ic hean streamas, sealtya gelac sylf cunnige -mona modes lust mla gehwylce fer to feran, t ic feor heonan eleodigra eard gesece -Foron nis s modwlonc mon ofer eoran, ne his gifena s god, ne in geogue to s hwt,

I took to myself as pleasure, the gannet's noise and the voice of the curlew instead of the laughter of men, the singing gull instead of the drinking of mead. Storms there beat the stony cliffs, where the tern spoke, icy-feathered; always the eagle cried at it, dewy-feathered; no cheerful kinsmen can comfort the poor soul. Indeed he credits it little, the one who has the joys of life, dwells in the city, far from terrible journey, proud and wanton with wine, how I, weary, often have had to endure in the sea-paths. The shadows of night darkened, it snowed from the north, frost bound the ground, hail fell on the earth, coldest of grains. Indeed, now they are troubled, the thoughts of my heart, that I myself should strive with the high streams, the tossing of salt waves -the wish of my heart urges all the time my spirit to go forth, that I, far from here, should seek the homeland of a foreign people -Indeed there is not so proud-spirited a man in the world, nor so generous of gifts, nor so bold in his youth,

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ne in his ddum to s deor, ne him his dryhten to s hold, t he a his sfore sorge nbbe, to hwon hine Dryhten gedon wille. Ne bi him to hearpan hyge ne to hringege ne to wife wyn ne to worulde hyht ne ymbe owiht elles nefne ymb ya gewealc; ac a hafa longunge se e on lagu funda. Bearwas blostmum nima, byrig fgria, wongas wlitiga, woruld onette: ealle a gemonia modes fusne sefan to sie am e swa ence on flodwegas feor gewitan. Swylce geac mona geomran reorde; singe sumeres weard, sorge beode bitter in breosthord. t se beorn ne wat, sefteadig secg, hwt a sume dreoga e a wrclastas widost lecga. Foron nu min hyge hweorfe ofer hreerlocan, min modsefa mid mereflode, ofer hwles eel hweorfe wide, eoran sceatas --

nor so brave in his deeds, nor so dear to his lord, that he never in his seafaring has a worry, as to what his Lord will do to him. Not for him is the sound of the harp nor the giving of rings nor pleasure in woman nor worldly glory -nor anything at all unless the tossing of waves; but he always has a longing, he who strives on the waves. Groves take on blossoms, the cities grow fair, the fields are comely, the world seems new: all these things urge on the eager of spirit, the mind to travel, in one who so thinks to travel far on the paths of the sea. So the cuckoo warns with a sad voice; the guardian of summer sings, bodes a sorrow grievous in the soul. This the man does not know, the warrior lucky in worldly things what some endure then, those who tread most widely the paths of exile. And now my spirit twists out of my breast, my spirit out in the waterways, over the whale's path it soars widely through all the corners of the world --

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cyme eft to me gifre ond grdig; gielle anfloga, hwete on hwlweg hreer unwearnum ofer holma gelagu. Foron me hatran sind Dryhtnes dreamas onne is deade lif lne on londe. Ic gelyfe no t him eorwelan ece stonda. Simle reora sum inga gehwylce r his tiddege to tweon weore: adl oe yldo oe ecghete fgum fromweardum feorh oringe. Foron bi eorla gehwam ftercweendra lof lifgendra lastworda betst, t he gewyrce, r he on weg scyle, fremum on foldan wi feonda ni, deorum ddum deofle togeanes, t hine lda bearn fter hergen, ond his lof sian lifge mid englum awa to ealdre, ecan lifes bld, dream mid dugeum. Dagas sind gewitene, ealle onmedlan eoran rices; nearon nu cyningas

it comes back to me eager and unsated; the lone-flier screams, urges onto the whale-road the unresisting heart across the waves of the sea. Indeed hotter for me are the joys of the Lord than this dead life fleeting on the land. I do not believe that the riches of the world will stand forever. Always and invariably, one of three things will turn to uncertainty before his fated hour: disease, or old age, or the sword's hatred will tear out the life from those doomed to die. And so it is for each man the praise of the living, of those who speak afterwards, that is the best epitaph, that he should work before he must be gone bravery in the world against the enmity of devils, daring deeds against the fiend, so that the sons of men will praise him afterwards, and his fame afterwards will live with the angels for ever and ever, the glory of eternal life, joy with the Hosts. The days are gone of all the glory of the kingdoms of the earth; there are not now kings,

ne caseras ne goldgiefan swylce iu wron, 84a onne hi mst mid him mra gefremedon ond on dryhtlicestum dome lifdon. Gedroren is eos dugu eal, dreamas sind gewitene; wunia a wacran ond s woruld healda, bruca urh bisgo. Bld is gehnged, eoran indryhto ealda ond seara, swa nu monna gehwylc geond middangeard. Yldo him on fare, onsyn blaca, gomelfeax gnorna, wat his iuwine, elinga bearn eoran forgiefene. Ne mg him onne se flschoma onne him t feorg losa ne swete forswelgan ne sar gefelan ne hond onhreran ne mid hyge encan. eah e grf wille golde stregan broor his geborenum, byrgan be deadum mamum mislicum, t hine mid wille, ne mg re sawle e bi synna ful gold to geoce for Godes egsan, onne he hit r hyde enden he her leofa.

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nor Csars, nor givers of gold as once there were, when they, the greatest, among themselves performed valorous deeds, and with a most lordly majesty lived. All that old guard is gone and the revels are over -the weaker ones now dwell and hold the world, enjoy it through their sweat. The glory is fled, the nobility of the world ages and grows sere, as now does every man throughout the world. Age comes upon him, his face grows pale, the graybeard laments; he knows that his old friends, the sons of princes, have been given to the earth. His body fails then, as life leaves him -he cannot taste sweetness nor feel pain, nor move his hand nor think with his head. Though he would strew the grave with gold, a brother for his kinsman, bury with the dead a mass of treasure, it just won't work -nor can the soul which is full of sin preserve the gold before the fear of God, though he hid it before while he was yet alive.

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Micel bi se Meotudes egsa, foron hi seo molde oncyrre; se gestaelade stie grundas, eoran sceatas ond uprodor. Dol bi se e him his Dryhten ne ondrde: cyme him se dea uninged. Eadig bi se e eamod leofa; cyme him seo ar of heofonum.

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Meotod him t mod gestaela, foron he in his meahte gelyfe. Stieran mon sceal strongum mode, ond t on staelum healdan, ond gewis werum, wisum clne. Scyle monna gehwylc mid gemete healdan wi leofne ond wi lane * * * bealo. eah e he hine wille fyres fulne oe on ble forbrnedne his geworhtne wine, Wyrd bi swire, Meotud meahtigra, onne nges monnes gehygd. Uton we hycgan hwr we ham agen, ond onne geencan hu we ider cumen; ond we onne eac tilien t we to moten in a ecan eadignesse r is lif gelong in lufan Dryhtnes, hyht in heofonum. s sy am Halgan onc

Great is the fear of the Lord, before which the world stands still; He established the firm foundations, the corners of the world and the high heavens. A fool is the one who does not fear his Lord -- death comes to him unprepared. Blessed is he who lives humbly -- to him comes forgiveness from heaven. God set that spirit within him, because he believed in His might. Man must control his passions and keep everything in balance, keep faith with men, and be pure in wisdom. Each of men must be even-handed with their friends and their foes. ? ? though he does not wish him ? in the foulness of flames ? or on a pyre ? to be burned ? his contrived friend, Fate is greater and God is mightier than any man's thought. Let us ponder where we have our homes and then think how we should get thither -and then we should all strive that we might go there to the eternal blessedness that is a belonging life in the love of the Lord, joy in the heavens. Let there be thanks to God

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t he usic geweorade, wuldres Ealdor ece Dryhten, in ealle tid. Amen.

that he adored us, the Father of Glory, the Eternal Lord, for all time. Amen.

A song I sing of my sea-adventure, The strain of peril, the stress of toil, Which oft I endured in anguish of spirit Through weary hours of aching woe. My bark was swept by the breaking seas; Bitter the watch from the bow by night As my ship drove on within sound of the rocks. My feet were numb with the nipping cold, Hunger sapped a sea-weary spirit, And care weighed heavy upon my heart. Little the landlubber, safe on shore, Knows what I've suffered in icy seas Wretched and worn by the winter storms, Hung with icicles, stung by hail, Lonely and friendless and far from home. In my ears no sound but the roar of the sea, The icy combers, the cry of the swan; In place of the mead-hall and laughter of men My only singing the sea-mew's call, The scream of the gannet, the shriek of the gull; Through the wail of the wild gale beating the bluffs The piercing cry of the ice-coated petrel, The storm-drenched eagle's echoing scream. In all my wretchedness, weary and lone, I had no comfort of comrade or kin. Little indeed can he credit, whose town-life Pleasantly passes in feasting and joy, Sheltered from peril, what weary pain Often I've suffered in foreign seas. [page break] Night shades darkened with driving snow

From the freezing north, and the bonds of frost Firm-locked the land, while falling hail, Coldest of kernels, encrusted earth. Yet still, even now, my spirit within me Drives me seaward to sail the deep, To ride the long swell of the salt sea-wave. Never a day but my heart's desire Would launch me forth on the long sea-path, Fain of far harbors and foreign shores. Yet lives no man so lordly of mood, So eager in giving, so ardent in youth, So bold in his deeds, or so dear to his lord, Who is free from dread in his far sea-travel, Or fear of God's purpose and plan for his fate. The beat of the harp, and bestowal of treasure, The love of woman, and worldly hope, Nor other interest can hold his heart Save only the sweep of the surging billows; His heart is haunted by love of the sea. Trees are budding and towns are fair, Meadows kindle and all life quickens, All things hasten the eager-hearted, Who joy therein, to journey afar, Turning seaward to distant shores. The cuckoo stirs him with plaintive call, The herald of summer, with mournful song, Foretelling the sorrow that stabs the heart. Who liveth in luxury, little he knows What woe men endure in exile's doom. Yet still, even now, my desire outreaches, My spirit soars over tracts of sea, O'er the home of the whale, and the world's expanse. Eager, desirous, the lone sprite returneth; It cries in my ears and it urges my heart To the path of the whale and the plunging sea. (Charles W. Kennedy) The Seafarer From the Anglo-Saxon May I for my own self song's truth reckon, Journey's jargon, how I in harsh days Hardship endured oft. Bitter breast-cares have I abided,

Known on my keel many a care's hold, And dire sea-surge, and there I oft spent Narrow nightwatch nigh the ship's head While she tossed close to cliffs. Coldly afflicted, My feet were by frost benumbed. Chill its chains are; chafing sighs Hew my heart round and hunger begot Mere-weary mood. Lest man know not That he on dry land loveliest liveth, List how I, care-wretched, on ice-cold sea, Weathered the winter, wretched outcast Deprived of my kinsmen; Hung with hard ice-flakes, where hail-scur flew, There I heard naught save the harsh sea And ice-cold wave, at whiles the swan cries, Did for my games the gannet's clamour, Sea-fowls, loudness was for me laughter, The mews' singing all my mead-drink. Storms, on the stone-cliffs beaten, fell on the stern In icy feathers; full oft the eagle screamed With spray on his pinion. Not any protector May make merry man faring needy. This he little believes, who aye in winsome life Abides 'mid burghers some heavy business, Wealthy and wine-flushed, how I weary oft Must bide above brine. Neareth nightshade, snoweth from north, Frost froze the land, hail fell on earth then Corn of the coldest. Nathless there knocketh now The heart's thought that I on high streams The salt-wavy tumult traverse alone. Moaneth alway [note that this reminds reader of the etymology of the word and the transformation of a figure of space (all ways) into time (always)] my mind's lust That I fare forth, that I afar hence Seek out a foreign fastness. For this there's no mood-lofty man over earth's midst, Not though he be given his good, but will have in his youth greed; Nor his deed to the daring, nor his king to the faithful But shall have his sorrow for sea-fare Whatever his lord will. He hath not heart for harping, nor in ring-having Nor winsomeness to wife, nor world's delight Nor any whit else save the wave's slash, Yet longing comes upon him to fare forth on the water. Bosque taketh blossom, cometh beauty of berries,

Fields to fairness, land fares brisker, All this admonisheth man eager of mood, The heart turns to travel so that he then thinks On flood-ways to be far departing. Cuckoo calleth with gloomy crying, He singeth summerward, bodeth sorrow, The bitter heart's blood. Burgher knows not He the prosperous manwhat some perform Where wandering them widest draweth. So that but now my heart burst from my breast-lock, My mood 'mid the mere-flood, Over the whale's acre, would wander wide. On earth's shelter cometh oft to me, Eager and ready, the crying lone-flyer, Whets for the whale-path the heart irresistibly, O'er tracks of ocean; seeing that anyhow My lord deems to me this dead life On loan and on land, I believe not That any earth-weal eternal standeth Save there be somewhat calamitous That, ere a man's tide go, turn it to twain. Disease or oldness or sword-hate Beats out the breath from doom-gripped body. And for this, every earl whatever, for those speaking after Laud of the living, boasteth some last word, That he will work ere he pass onward, Frame on the fair earth 'gainst foes his malice, Daring ado... So that all men shall honour him after And his laud beyond them remain 'mid the English, Aye, for ever, a lasting life's-blast, Delight mid the doughty. Days little durable, And all arrogance of earthen riches, There come now no kings nor Caesars Nor gold-giving lords like those gone. Howe'er in mirth most magnified, Whoe'er lived in life most lordliest, Drear all this excellence, delights undurable! Waneth the watch, but the world holdeth. Tomb hideth trouble. The blade is layed low. Earthly glory ageth and seareth. No man at all going the earth's gait, But age fares against him, his face paleth, Grey-haired he groaneth, knows gone companions, Lordly men are to earth o'ergiven,

Nor may he then the flesh-cover, whose life ceaseth, Nor eat the sweet nor feel the sorry, Nor stir hand nor think in mid heart, And though he strew the grave with gold, His born brothers, their buried bodies Be an unlikely treasure hoard. (Pound)