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THE WANDERER
From a Tenth Century Anglo-Saxon Text
(translated by Ezequiel Viñao)
Oft the lone one yearns for grace--
the Maker's mercy-- though long his oars
must first stir the frost-cold sea,
with anxious heart, o'er ocean way
(5) to fare the paths of exile. Fate is fixed!
So said a wanderer, remembering woe,
cruel carnage, dear kinsmen's death:
Oft I must lament my misery alone,
before dawn's light. None now lives
(10) to whom I dare openly express
my inmost thoughts. In truth I know
it well befits a noble warrior
to guard close his heart's key,
restrain his thought-horde, resolve what he will.
(15) A desperate mind cannot withstand destiny,
nor tempestuous soul oppose fate.
Hence ambitious men must keep
somber moods remote within their hearts.
And so I, oft miserable,
(20) home bereft, far from kinsmen,
must also fasten my feelings with fetters,
for long it is since earth's darkness
enfolded my lord and I fared forth, poor,
winter-wearied, onward bound o'er the waves.
(25) Sorrowful, I sought a ring-giver's hall,
far or near, where I'd find a mighty one,
who in mead-hall might mark my worth,
or offer solace to a friendless outcast,
luring me with pleasures. A forlorn man
(30) knows how keen hardships become
to one who has few faithful companions.
His is the path of exile, not patterned gold;
an ice-cold body, not earthly splendor.
He recalls treasure bestowed, the troop's hall
(35) and how at banquet, his bountiful lord
honored him in days of yore. Joy is all gone!
He learns he long must live without
the valued counsel of his king and friend.
Oft distress and slumber twine together
(40) to bind the solitary wretch like chains.
Then he imagines he is blessed once more
by his lord's embrace. He dreams he lays
his head and hands upon his master's knee
and, as of old, is favored by the throne.
(45) At last he wakens, this lordless warrior,
and finds before him a darkened path.
Sea birds spread their wings to bathe,
snow falls, frost mingles with hail.
Now all the heavier, his wounded heart
 (50) longs for loved ones. Loss is rekindled.
The memory of kinsmen clouds his ken;
with pleasure he imagines companions of yore
and gladly greets them. Again they drift away!
The fleeting phantoms fail to bring
(55) soothing song. Sorrow is rekindled
in one who must oft set forth,
with weary soul, outbound o'er the waves.
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