Mæg ic be me sylfum
soðgied wrecan,
siþas secgan,
hu ic geswincdagum
earfoðhwile
oft þrowade,
bitre breostceare
gebiden hæbbe,
gecunnad in ceole
cearselda fela,
atol yþa gewealc,
þær mec oft bigeat
nearo nihtwaco
æt nacan stefnan,
þonne he be clifum cnossað.
Calde geþrungen
wæron mine fet,
forste gebunden
caldum clommum,
þær þa ceare seofedun
hat' ymb heortan;
hungor innan slat
merewerges mod.
Þæt se mon ne wat
þe him on foldan
fægrost limpeð,
hu ic earmcearig
iscealdne sæ
winter wunade
wræccan lastum,
winemægum bidroren,
bihongen hrimgicelum;
hægl scurum fleag.
þær ic ne gehyrde
butan hlimman sæ,
iscaldne wæg.
Hwilum ylfete song
dyde ic me to gomene,
ganotes hleoþor
ond huilpan sweg
fore hleahtor wera,
mæw singende
fore medodrince.
Stormas þær stanclifu beotan,
þær him stearn oncwæð,
isigfeþera;
ful oft þæt earn bigeal,
urigfeþra;
nænig hleomæga
feasceaftig ferð
frefran meahte.
Forþon him gelyfeð lyt,
se þe ah lifes wyn
gebiden in burgum,
bealosiþa hwon,
wlonc ond wingal,
hu ic werig oft
in brimlade
bidan sceolde.
Nap nihtscua,
norþan sniwde,
hrim hrusan bond,
hægl feol on eorþan,
corna caldast.
Forþon cnyssað nu
heortan geþohtas
þæt ic hean streamas,
sealtyþa gelac
sylf cunnige -
monað modes lust
mæla gehwylce
ferð to feran,
þæt ic feor heonan
elþeodigra
eard gesece -
Forþon nis þæs modwlonc
mon ofer eorþan,
ne his gifena þæs god,
ne in geoguþe to þæs hwæt,
ne in his dædum to þæs deor,
ne him his dryhten to þæs hold,
þæt he a his sæfore
sorge næbbe,
to hwon hine Dryhten
gedon wille.
Ne biþ him to hearpan hyge
ne to hringþege
ne to wife wyn
ne to worulde hyht
ne ymbe owiht elles
nefne ymb yða gewealc;
ac a hafað longunge
se þe on lagu fundað.
Bearwas blostmum nimað,
byrig fægriað,
wongas wlitigað,
woruld onetteð:
ealle þa gemoniað
modes fusne
sefan to siþe
þam þe swa þenceð
on flodwegas
feor gewitan.
Swylce geac monað
geomran reorde;
singeð sumeres weard,
sorge beodeð
bitter in breosthord.
Þæt se beorn ne wat,
sefteadig secg,
hwæt þa sume dreogað
þe þa wræclastas
widost lecgað.
Forþon nu mine hyge hweorfeð
ofer hreþerlocan,
min modsefa
mid mereflode,
ofer hwæles eþel
hweorfeð wide,
eorþan sceatas,
cymeð eft to me
gifre ond grædig;
gielleð anfloga,
hweteð on hwælweg
hreþer unwearnum
ofer holma gelagu,
Forþon me hatran sind
Dryhtnes dreamas
þonne þis deade lif
læne on londe.
Ic gelyfe no
þæt him eorðwelan
ece stondað.
Simle þreora sum
þinga gehwylce
ær his tiddege
to tweon weorþeð:
adl oþþe yldo
oþþe ecghete
fægum fromweardum
feorh oðþringeð.
Forþon biþ eorla gehwam
æftercweþendra
lof lifgendra
lastworda betst,
þæt he gewyrce,
ær he on weg scyle,
fremum on foldan
wið feonda niþ,
deorum dædum
deofle togeanes,
þæt hine ælda bearn
æfter hergen,
ond his lof siþþan
lifge mid englum
awa to ealdre,
ecan lifes blæd,
dream mid dugeþum.
Dagas sind gewitene,
ealle onmedlan
eorþan rices;
nearon nu cyningas
ne caseras
ne goldgiefan
swylce iu wæron,
þonne hi mæst mid him
mærþa gefremedon
ond on dryhtlicestum
dome lifdon.
Gedroren is þeos duguð eal,
dreamas sind gewitene;
wuniað þa wacran
ond þæs woruld healdaþ,
brucað þurh bisgo.
Blæd is gehnæged,
eorþan indryhto
ealdað ond searað,
swa nu monna gehwylc
geond middangeard.
Yldo him on fareþ,
onsyn blacað,
gomelfeax gnornað,
wat his iuwine,
æþelinga bearn
eorþan forgiefene.
Ne mæg him þonne se flæschoma
þonne him þæt feorg losað
ne swete forswelgan
ne sar gefelan
ne hond onhreran
ne mid hyge þencan.
Þeah þe græf wille
golde stregan
broþor his geborenum,
byrgan be deadum
maþmum mislicum,
þæt hine mid wille,
ne mæg þære sawle
þe biþ synna ful
gold to geoce
for Godes egsan,
þonne he hit ær hydeð
þenden he her leofað.
Micel biþ se Meotudes egsa,
forþon hi seo molde oncyrreð;
se gestaþelade
stiþe grundas,
eorþan sceatas
ond uprodor.
Dol biþ se þe him his Dryhten ne ondrædeþ:
cymeð him se deað unþinged.
Eadig bið se þe eaþmod leofaþ;
cymeð him seo ar of heofonum.
Meotod him þæt mod gestaþelað,
forþon he in his meahte gelyfeð.
Stieran mon sceal strongum mode,
ond þæt on staþelum healdan,
ond gewis werum,
wisum clæne.
Scyle monna gehwylc
mid gemete healdan
wiþ leofne ond wið laþne
* * * bealo.
þeah þe he hine wille
fyres fulne
oþþe on bæle
forbærnedne
his geworhtne wine,
Wyrd biþ swiþre,
Meotud meahtigra,
þonne ænges monnes gehygd.
Uton we hycgan
hwær we ham agen,
ond þonne geþencan
hu we þider cumen;
ond we þonne eac tilien
þæt we to moten
in þa ecan
eadignesse
þær is lif gelong
in lufan Dryhtnes,
hyht in heofonum.
Þæs sy þam Halgan þonc
þæt he usic geweorþade,
wuldres Ealdor
ece Dryhten,
in ealle tid. |
I can about me myself
Make a true song,
Tell my travels,
How I (days of struggle,
troublesome times)
often endured,
grim sorrow at heart
have suffered,
have known in the ship
many worries [abodes of care]
the terrible tossing of the waves,
where often took me
the anxious night-watch
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
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 it,
dewy-feathered;
no cheerful kinsmen
the poor soul
can comfort.
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
in the sea-paths
have had to endure.
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 (the high streams,
the tossing of salt waves)
should myself strive with -
the wish of my heart urges
all the time
my spirit to go forth,
that I, far from here,
of a foreign people,
the homeland should seek -
indeed there is not so proud-spirited
a man in the world,
nor so generous of gifts,
nor so bold in his youth,
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 city grows fair,
the fields are comely,
the world seems new:
all these things urge
the eager soul in spirit
to travel,
that the one who so thinks
on the flood-paths
to travel far.
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 (the paths of exile)
tread most widely.
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 -
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, one of three
(everything)
before his fated hour
will turn to doubt:
disease, or old age,
or the sword's hatred
from the doomed to die
will tear out the life.
And so it is for each man
(of those who speak afterwards)
the praise of the living,
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,
nor Cæsars,
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 (the grave)
strew 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.
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
that 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
that he adored us,
the Father of Glory,
the Eternal Lord,
for all time.
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