Oft him anhaga are gebideð, Often the solitary one finds grace for himself metudes miltse, þeah þe he modcearig the mercy of the Lord, Although he, sorry-hearted, geond lagulade longe sceolde must for a long time move by hand [in context = row] hreran mid hondum hrimcealde sæ along the waterways, (along) the ice-cold sea, wadan wræclastas. Wyrd bið ful aræd! tread the paths of exile. Events always go as they must! Swa cwæð eardstapa, earfeþa gemyndig, So spoke the wanderer, mindful of hardships, wraþra wælsleahta, winemæga hryre: of fierce slaughters and the downfall of kinsmen: Oft ic sceolde ana uhtna gehwylce Often (or always) I had alone to speak of my trouble mine ceare cwiþan. Nis nu cwicra nan each morning before dawn. There is none now living þe ic him modsefan minne durre to whom I dare clearly speak sweotule asecgan. Ic to soþe wat of my innermost thoughts. I know it truly, þæt biþ in eorle indryhten þeaw, that it is in men a noble custom, þæt he his ferðlocan fæste binde, that one should keep secure his spirit-chest (mind), healde his hordcofan, hycge swa he wille. guard his treasure-chamber (thoughts), think as he wishes. Ne mæg werig mod wyrde wiðstondan, The weary spirit cannot withstand fate (the turn of events), ne se hreo hyge helpe gefremman. nor does a rough or sorrowful mind do any good (perform anything helpful). Forðon domgeorne dreorigne oft Thus those eager for glory often keep secure in hyra breostcofan bindað fæste; dreary thoughts in their breast; swa ic modsefan minne sceolde, So I, often wretched and sorrowful, oft earmcearig, eðle bidæled, bereft of my homeland, far from noble kinsmen freomægum feor feterum sælan, have had to bind in fetters my inmost thoughts, siþþan geara iu goldwine minne Since long years ago I hid my lord hrusan heolstre biwrah, ond ic hean þonan in the darkness of the earth, and I, wretched, from there wod wintercearig ofer waþema gebind, travelled most sorrowfully over the frozen waves, sohte seledreorig sinces bryttan, sought, sad at the lack of a hall, a giver of treasure, hwær ic feor oþþe neah findan meahte where I, far or near, might find þone þe in meoduhealle mine wisse, one in the meadhall who knew my people, oþþe mec freondleasne frefran wolde, or wished to console the friendless one, me, wenian mid wynnum. Wat se þe cunnað entertain (me) with delights. He who has tried it knows hu sliþen bið sorg to geferan how cruel is sorrow as a companion þam þe him lyt hafað leofra geholena: to the one who has few beloved friends: warað hine wræclast, nales wunden gold, the path of exile holds him, not at all twisted gold, ferðloca freorig, nalæs foldan blæd. a frozen spirit, not the bounty of the earth. Gemon he selesecgas ond sincþege, He remembers hall-warriors and the giving of treasure hu hine on geoguðe his goldwine How in youth his lord (gold-friend) accustomed him wenede to wiste Wyn eal gedreas! to the feasting. All the joy has died! Forþon wat se þe sceal his winedryhtnes And so he knows it, he who must forgo for a long time leofes larcwidum longe forþolian: the counsels of his beloved lord: ðonne sorg ond slæð somod ætgædre Then sorrow and sleep both together earmne anhogan oft gebindað. often tie up the wretched solitary one. þinceð him on mode þæt he his mondryhten He thinks in his mind that he embraces and kisses clyppe ond cysse, ond on cneo lecge his lord, and on his (the lord's) knees lays honda ond heafod, swa he hwilum ær his hands and his head, just as, at times, before, in geardagum giefstolas breac. in days gone by, he enjoyed the gift-seat (throne) Ðonne onwæcneð eft wineleas guma, Then the friendless man wakes up again, gesihð him biforan fealwe wegas, He sees before him fallow waves baþian brimfuglas, brædan feþra, Sea birds bathe, preening their feathers, hreosan hrim ond snaw hagle gemenged. Frost and snow fall, mixed with hail. Þonne beoð þy hefigran heortan benne, Then are the heavier the wounds of the heart, sare æfter swæsne. Sorg bið geniwad grievous with longing for the lord. Sorrow is renewed þonne maga gemynd mod geondhweorfeð; when the mind (mod) surveys the memory of kinsmen; greteð gliwstafum, georne geondsceawað He greets them joyfully, eagerly scans secga geseldan; swimmað oft on weg the companions of men; they always swim away. fleotendra ferð no þær fela bringeð The spirits of seafarers never bring back there much cuðra cwidegiedda. Cearo bið geniwad in the way of known speech. Care is renewed þam þe sendan sceal swiþe geneahhe for the one who must send very often ofer waþema gebind werigne sefan. over the binding of the waves a weary heart. Forþon ic geþencan ne mæg geond þas woruld Indeed I cannot think why my spirit for hwan modsefa min ne gesweorce does not darken when I ponder on the whole þonne ic eorla lif eal geondþence, life of men throughout the world, hu hi færlice flet ofgeafon, How they suddenly left the floor (hall), modge maguþegnas. Swa þes middangeard the proud thanes. So this middle-earth, ealra dogra gehwam dreoseð ond fealleð; a bit each day, droops and decays - forþon ne mæg weorþan wis wer, ær he age Therefore man cannot call himself wise, before he has wintra dæl in woruldrice. Wita sceal geþyldig, a share of years in the world. A wise man must be patient, ne sceal no to hatheort ne to hrædwyrde, He must never be too impulsive nor too hasty of speech, ne to wac wiga ne to wanhydig, nor too weak a warrior nor too reckless, ne to forht ne to fægen, ne to feohgifre nor too fearful, nor too cheerful, nor too greedy for goods, ne næfre gielpes to georn, ær he geare cunne. nor ever too eager for boasts, before he sees clearly. Beorn sceal gebidan, þonne he beot spriceð, A man must wait when he speaks oaths, oþþæt collenferð cunne gearwe until the proud-hearted one sees clearly hwider hreþra gehygd hweorfan wille. whither the intent of his heart will turn. Ongietan sceal gleaw hæle hu gæstlic bið, A wise hero must realize how terrible it will be, þonne ealre þisse worulde wela weste stondeð, when all the wealth of this world lies waste, swa nu missenlice geond þisne middangeard as now in various places throughout this middle-earth winde biwaune weallas stondaþ, walls stand, blown by the wind, hrime bihrorene, hryðge þa ederas. covered with frost, storm-swept the buildings. Woriað þa winsalo, waldend licgað The halls decay, their lords lie dreame bidrorene, duguþ eal gecrong, deprived of joy, the whole troop has fallen, wlonc bi wealle. Sume wig fornom, the proud ones, by the wall. War took off some, ferede in forðwege, sumne fugel oþbær carried them on their way, the bird took off ofer heanne holm, sumne se hara wulf across the deep sea, one, the gray wolf deaðe gedælde, sumne dreorighleor shared one with death, shared one with death, in eorðscræfe eorl gehydde. man buried in a grave. Yþde swa þisne eardgeard ælda scyppend And so He destroyed this city, He, the Creator of Men, oþþæt burgwara breahtma lease until deprived of the noise of the citizens, eald enta geweorc idlu stodon. the ancient work of giants stood empty. Se þonne þisne wealsteal wise geþohte He who thought wisely on this foundation, ond þis deorce lif deope geondþenceð, and pondered deeply on this dark life, frod in ferðe, feor oft gemon wise in spirit, remembered often from afar wælsleahta worn, ond þas word acwið: many conflicts, and spoke these words: Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago? Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa? Where is the horse gone? Where the rider? Where the giver of the treasure? Hwær cwom symbla gesetu? Hwær sindon seledreamas? Where are the seats at the feast? Where are the revels in the hall? Eala beorht bune! Eala byrnwiga! Alas for the bright cup! Alas for the mailed warrior! Eala þeodnes þrym! Hu seo þrag gewat, Alas for the splendour of the prince! How that time has passed away, genap under nihthelm, swa heo no wære. dark under the cover of night, as if it had never been! Stondeð nu on laste leofre duguþe Now there stands in the trace of the beloved troop weal wundrum heah, wyrmlicum fah. a wall, wondrously high, wound round with serpents. Eorlas fornoman asca þryþe, The warriors taken off by the glory of spears, wæpen wælgifru, wyrd seo mære, the weapons greedy for slaughter, the famous fate (turn of events), ond þas stanhleoþu stormas cnyssað, and storms beat these rocky cliffs, hrið hreosende hrusan bindeð, falling frost fetters the earth, wintres woma, þonne won cymeð, the harbinger of winter; Then dark comes, nipeð nihtscua, norþan onsendeð night shadows deepen, from the north there comes hreo hæglfare hæleþum on andan. a rough hailstorm in malice against men. Eall is earfoðlic eorþan rice, All is troublesome in this earthly kingdom, onwendeð wyrda gesceaft weoruld under heofonum. the turn of events changes the world under the heavens. Her bið feoh læne, her bið freond læne, Here money is fleeting, here friend is fleeting, her bið mon læne, her bið mæg læne, here man is fleeting, here kinsman is fleeting, eal þis eorþan gesteal idel weorþeð! all the foundation of this world turns to waste! Swa cwæð snottor on mode, gesæt him sundor æt rune. So spake the wise man in his mind, where he sat apart in counsel. Til biþ se þe his treowe gehealdeþ, ne sceal næfre his torn to recent Good is he who keeps his faith, And a warrior must never speak beorn of his breostum acyþan, nemþe he ær þa bote cunne, his grief of his breast too quickly, unless he already knows the remedy - eorl mid elne gefremman. Wel bið þam þe him are seceð, a hero must act with courage. It is better for the one that seeks mercy, frofre to Fæder on heofonum, þær us eal seo fæstnung stondeð. consolation from the father in the heavens, where, for us, all permanence rests.