The Wanderer

The Loner’s Lament in Alliterative Verse

Anonymous (translated from Old English)

Often the loner wins honor for himself,
the mercy of the Maker, though with mournful heart,
for a lifetime he drifts alone on the waterways,
oar in hand on the ice-cold sea—
5 the footpath of exile. Fate is written.

So said the wanderer, sorrows on his mind—
deadly slaughters, the downfall of kinsmen:

“Often, alone in the early morning,
I announce my woes. There’s no one alive
10 to whom I would dare show my heart anymore,
my troubles laid bare. Truly, I know,
in a noble man it’s a noble practice
to keep his spirit secure in his chest,
hold onto his hoard, whatever he’s thinking.
15 The weary heart can’t weather its fate,
and the hassled mind is helpful for nothing.
Thus, eager for judgment, often a man
will keep his sorrows secure in his breast.
So have I sealed my soul in chains,
20 a depressing wretch, deprived of my homeland,
far from my kinsmen, I’ve fettered my heart;
for I hid my lord in a hole in the ground
a long time ago. And later, wretched,
I went through the winters over waves on the sea,
25 seeking gloom in the home of some giver of treasure,
somewhere far or near where I’d find another,
a man in the meadhall who might have known me,
or a friend of the friendless who’d foster and comfort me,
honor me with pleasures. Anyone who knows
30 has felt how cruel a friend is sorrow,
when beloved protectors are little and few:
warded by exile, not woven gold;
a spirit of ice, not the splendor of the earth.
He remembers the heroes, the making of wealth,
35 how early in life he was honored by feasts
from his generous lord. Joy has perished!

“So he knows how it is, whose noble lord’s
beloved counsel is long foregone:
then sorrow and sleep at the same time
40 will rope and bind the wretched loner.
In his heart, he imagines that he holds and kisses
his noble patron—on his knees, he lays
his hands and head, as he had before
in bygone days at the bountiful throne.
45 Then the warrior, friendless, awakens again,
the fallow waves before his sight,
gulls bathing, grooming their feathers,
falling snow with frost and hail.

“Heavier then are the heart’s wounds,
50 sore for his own. Sorrow is renewed
when the mind returns to the memory of kinsmen:
he greets them gleefully, regards them eagerly,
the warrior’s comrades; but away they swim.
Those ghosts adrift don’t give very much
55 in the way of wisdom. Woe is renewed
for the man who must send, so much and so often
over waves on the sea, his weary soul.

“Thus, in this world, I can’t think of a reason
my soul doesn’t grow more somber and dark
60 when I think on the lives of the thanes that have died,
how they fell away suddenly from the floor of the hall,
those men without fear. So this middle earth,
a little each day, collapses and falls.
Thus no man is wise till he’s known many winters
65 in the world’s kingdom. The wise man is patient,
not too hot in his heart, nor too hasty with words,
not too weak as a warrior, nor too willing to fight,
not too keen, nor too timid, nor too covetous of goods,
nor too ready to boast till he really knows.
70 The warrior waits for the words of an oath
till his heroic spirit really knows
where the sense of his heart will settle at last.
The good hero grasps how ghostly it is,
when the wealth of the world stands wasted in ruins,
75 as in many parts now of this middle earth,
windblown and weatherbeaten, the walls are standing,
the stormswept structures stolen in snow.
The collapsed winehalls, the lords lying dead,
the mirth perished, the men all fallen
80 by the wall with their pride. War took some of them,
bore them away; a bird carried one
over the great ocean; the graywolf got one
and broke him with death; with bloodstained face,
a hero buried one in a hole in the earth.
85 So this earth was destroyed by the old Creator
till the sounds of the dwellers deserted the castles,
and the old work of the giants stood windswept and empty.”

He wisely pondered these walls in ruins,
and he deeply ponders this dark life.
90 Older in spirit, he often remembers
the sometime slaughters, and says these words:

“Where is the horse? Where is the rider? Where is the hand giving gold?
Where are the seats at the feast? Where are the songs in the halls?
Alas the bright chalice! Alas the mailed warrior!
95 Alas the king’s grandeur! What a long ago time…
the night has obscured it, as if it never were.
A wall now stands wondrously high,
adorned with dragons, in the dear men’s footsteps.
The warriors taken by weapons of ash,
100 spears greedy for carnage, the glorious fate,
and the storms batter these stony hills,
the fallen snow fetters the earth,
the shriek of winter, then the shadows come,
the night darkens, from the north arrives
105 a fierce hailstorm furious with man.
All is anguish in the earthen kingdom,
the wend of fate shapes the world under heaven.
Here fortunes are borrowed, here friends are borrowed,
here mankind is borrowed, here kinsmen are borrowed,
110 all this earthen realm becomes empty and worthless!”

So the sage said in his heart, sitting secretly apart.
He is righteous who is true, never ready to expose
the grief in his breast till he’s gotten the cure for it—
the warrior acts with courage. It is well for the honor seeker,
115 the help of the Father in heaven where all security is.