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Mæg ic be me sylfum | I can make a true song | |
soðgied wrecan, | about me myself, | |
siþas secgan, | tell my travels, | |
hu ic geswincdagum | how I often endured | |
earfoðhwile | days of struggle, | |
oft þrowade, | troublesome times, | |
bitre breostceare | [how I] have suffered | |
gebiden hæbbe, | grim sorrow at heart, | |
5a | gecunnad in ceole | have known in the ship |
cearselda fela, | many worries [abodes of care], | |
atol yþa gewealc, | the terrible tossing of the waves, | |
þær mec oft bigeat | where the anxious night watch | |
nearo nihtwaco | often took me | |
æt nacan stefnan, | at the ship's prow, | |
þonne he be clifum cnossað. | when it tossed near the cliffs. | |
Calde geþrungen | Fettered by cold | |
wæron mine fet, | were my feet, | |
forste gebunden | bound by frost | |
10a | caldum clommum, | in cold clasps, |
þær þa ceare seofedun | where then cares seethed | |
hat ymb heortan; | hot about my heart -- | |
hungor innan slat | a hunger tears from within | |
merewerges mod. | the sea-weary soul. | |
Þæt se mon ne wat | This the man does not know | |
þe him on foldan | for whom on land | |
fægrost limpeð, | it turns out most favourably, | |
hu ic earmcearig | how I, wretched and sorrowful, | |
iscealdne sæ | on the ice-cold sea | |
15a | winter wunade | dwelt for a winter |
wræccan lastum, | in the paths of exile, | |
winemægum bidroren, | bereft of friendly kinsmen, | |
bihongen hrimgicelum; | hung about with icicles; | |
hægl scurum fleag. | hail flew in showers. | |
þær ic ne gehyrde | There I heard nothing | |
butan hlimman sæ, | but the roaring sea, | |
iscaldne wæg. | the ice-cold wave. | |
Hwilum ylfete song | At times the swan's song | |
20a | dyde ic me to gomene, | I took to myself as pleasure, |
ganotes hleoþor | the gannet's noise | |
ond huilpan sweg | and the voice of the curlew | |
fore hleahtor wera, | instead of the laughter of men, | |
mæw singende | the singing gull | |
fore medodrince. | instead of the drinking of mead. | |
Stormas þær stanclifu beotan, | Storms there beat the stony cliffs, | |
þær him stearn oncwæð, | where the tern spoke, | |
isigfeþera; | icy-feathered; | |
ful oft þæt earn bigeal, | always the eagle cried at it, | |
25a | urigfeþra; | dewy-feathered; |
nænig hleomæga | no cheerful kinsmen | |
feasceaftig ferð | can comfort | |
frefran meahte. | the poor soul. | |
Forþon him gelyfeð lyt, | Indeed he credits it little, | |
se þe ah lifes wyn | the one who has the joys of life, | |
gebiden in burgum, | dwells in the city, | |
bealosiþa hwon, | far from terrible journey, | |
wlonc ond wingal, | proud and wanton with wine, | |
hu ic werig oft | how I, weary, often | |
30a | in brimlade | have had to endure |
bidan sceolde. | in the sea-paths. | |
Nap nihtscua, | The shadows of night darkened, | |
norþan sniwde, | it snowed from the north, | |
hrim hrusan bond, | frost bound the ground, | |
hægl feol on eorþan, | hail fell on the earth, | |
corna caldast. | coldest of grains. | |
Forþon cnyssað nu | Indeed, now they are troubled, | |
heortan geþohtas | the thoughts of my heart, | |
þæt ic hean streamas, | that I myself should strive with | |
35a | sealtyþa gelac | the high streams, |
sylf cunnige -- | the tossing of salt waves -- | |
monað modes lust | the wish of my heart urges | |
mæla gehwylce | all the time | |
ferð to feran, | my spirit to go forth, | |
þæt ic feor heonan | that I, far from here, | |
elþeodigra | should seek the homeland | |
eard gesece -- | of a foreign people -- | |
Forþon nis þæs modwlonc | Indeed there is not so proud-spirited | |
mon ofer eorþan, | a man in the world, | |
40a | ne his gifena þæs god, | nor so generous of gifts, |
ne in geoguþe to þæs hwæt, | nor so bold in his youth, | |
ne in his dædum to þæs deor, | nor so brave in his deeds, | |
ne him his dryhten to þæs hold, | nor so dear to his lord, | |
þæt he a his sæfore | that he never in his seafaring | |
sorge næbbe, | has a worry, | |
to hwon hine Dryhten | as to what his Lord | |
gedon wille. | will do to him. | |
Ne biþ him to hearpan hyge | Not for him is the sound of the harp | |
ne to hringþege | nor the giving of rings | |
45a | ne to wife wyn | nor pleasure in woman |
ne to worulde hyht | nor worldly glory -- | |
ne ymbe owiht elles | nor anything at all | |
nefne ymb yða gewealc; | unless the tossing of waves; | |
ac a hafað longunge | but he always has a longing, | |
se þe on lagu fundað. | he who strives on the waves. | |
Bearwas blostmum nimað, | Groves take on blossoms, | |
byrig fægriað, | the cities grow fair, | |
wongas wlitigað, | the fields are comely, | |
woruld onetteð: | the world seems new: | |
50a | ealle þa gemoniað | all these things urge on |
modes fusne | the eager of spirit, | |
sefan to siþe | the mind to travel, | |
þam þe swa þenceð | in one who so thinks | |
on flodwegas | to travel far | |
feor gewitan. | on the paths of the sea. | |
Swylce geac monað | So the cuckoo warns | |
geomran reorde; | with a sad voice; | |
singeð sumeres weard, | the guardian of summer sings, | |
sorge beodeð | bodes a sorrow | |
55a | bitter in breosthord. | grievous in the soul. |
Þæt se beorn ne wat, | This the man does not know, | |
sefteadig secg, | the warrior lucky in worldly things | |
hwæt þa sume dreogað | what some endure then, | |
þe þa wræclastas | those who tread most widely | |
widost lecgað. | the paths of exile. | |
Forþon nu min hyge hweorfeð | And now my spirit twists | |
ofer hreþerlocan, | out of my breast, | |
min modsefa | my spirit | |
mid mereflode, | out in the waterways, | |
60a | ofer hwæles eþel | over the whale's path |
hweorfeð wide, | it soars widely | |
eorþan sceatas -- | through all the corners of the world -- | |
cymeð eft to me | it comes back to me | |
gifre ond grædig; | eager and unsated; | |
gielleð anfloga, | the lone-flier screams, | |
hweteð on hwælweg | urges onto the whale-road | |
hreþer unwearnum | the unresisting heart | |
ofer holma gelagu. | across the waves of the sea. | |
Forþon me hatran sind | Indeed hotter for me are | |
65a | Dryhtnes dreamas | the joys of the Lord |
þonne þis deade lif | than this dead life | |
læne on londe. | fleeting on the land. | |
Ic gelyfe no | I do not believe | |
þæt him eorðwelan | that the riches of the world | |
ece stondað. | will stand forever. | |
Simle þreora sum | Always and invariably, | |
þinga gehwylce | one of three things | |
ær his tiddege | will turn to uncertainty | |
to tweon weorþeð: | before his fated hour: | |
70a | adl oþþe yldo | disease, or old age, |
oþþe ecghete | or the sword's hatred | |
fægum fromweardum | will tear out the life | |
feorh oðþringeð. | from those doomed to die. | |
Forþon biþ eorla gehwam | And so it is for each man | |
æftercweþendra | the praise of the living, | |
lof lifgendra | of those who speak afterwards, | |
lastworda betst, | that is the best epitaph, | |
þæt he gewyrce, | that he should work | |
ær he on weg scyle, | before he must be gone | |
75a | fremum on foldan | bravery in the world |
wið feonda niþ, | against the enmity of devils, | |
deorum dædum | daring deeds | |
deofle togeanes, | against the fiend, | |
þæt hine ælda bearn | so that the sons of men | |
æfter hergen, | will praise him afterwards, | |
ond his lof siþþan | and his fame afterwards | |
lifge mid englum | will live with the angels | |
awa to ealdre, | for ever and ever, | |
ecan lifes blæd, | the glory of eternal life, | |
80a | dream mid dugeþum. | joy with the Hosts. |
Dagas sind gewitene, | The days are gone | |
ealle onmedlan | of all the glory | |
eorþan rices; | of the kingdoms of the earth; | |
nearon nu cyningas | there are not now kings, | |
ne caseras | nor Cæsars, | |
ne goldgiefan | nor givers of gold | |
swylce iu wæron, | as once there were, | |
þonne hi mæst mid him | when they, the greatest, among themselves | |
mærþa gefremedon | performed valorous deeds, | |
85a | ond on dryhtlicestum | and with a most lordly |
dome lifdon. | majesty lived. | |
Gedroren is þeos duguð eal, | All that old guard is gone | |
dreamas sind gewitene; | and the revels are over -- | |
wuniað þa wacran | the weaker ones now dwell | |
ond þæs woruld healdaþ, | and hold the world, | |
brucað þurh bisgo. | enjoy it through their sweat. | |
Blæd is gehnæged, | The glory is fled, | |
eorþan indryhto | the nobility of the world | |
ealdað ond searað, | ages and grows sere, | |
90a | swa nu monna gehwylc | as now does every man |
geond middangeard. | throughout the world. | |
Yldo him on fareþ, | Age comes upon him, | |
onsyn blacað, | his face grows pale, | |
gomelfeax gnornað, | the graybeard laments; | |
wat his iuwine, | he knows that his old friends, | |
æþelinga bearn | the sons of princes, | |
eorþan forgiefene. | have been given to the earth. | |
Ne mæg him þonne se flæschoma | His body fails then, | |
þonne him þæt feorg losað | as life leaves him -- | |
95a | ne swete forswelgan | he cannot taste sweetness |
ne sar gefelan | nor feel pain, | |
ne hond onhreran | nor move his hand | |
ne mid hyge þencan. | nor think with his head. | |
Þeah þe græf wille | Though he would strew | |
golde stregan | the grave with gold, | |
broþor his geborenum, | a brother for his kinsman, | |
byrgan be deadum | bury with the dead | |
maþmum mislicum, | a mass of treasure, | |
þæt hine mid wille, | it just won't work -- | |
100a | ne mæg þære sawle | nor can the soul |
þe biþ synna ful | which is full of sin | |
gold to geoce | preserve the gold | |
for Godes egsan, | before the fear of God, | |
þonne he hit ær hydeð | though he hid it before | |
þenden he her leofað. | while he was yet alive. | |
Micel biþ se Meotudes egsa, | Great is the fear of the Lord, | |
forþon hi seo molde oncyrreð; | before which the world stands still; | |
se gestaþelade | He established | |
stiþe grundas, | the firm foundations, | |
105a | eorþan sceatas | the corners of the world |
ond uprodor. | and the high heavens. | |
Dol biþ se þe him his Dryhten ne ondrædeþ: | A fool is the one who does not fear his Lord | |
cymeð him se deað unþinged. | -- death comes to him unprepared. | |
Eadig bið se þe eaþmod leofaþ; | Blessed is he who lives humbly | |
cymeð him seo ar of heofonum. | -- to him comes forgiveness from heaven. | |
Meotod him þæt mod gestaþelað, | God set that spirit within him, | |
forþon he in his meahte gelyfeð. | because he believed in His might. | |
Stieran mon sceal strongum mode, | Man must control his passions | |
ond þæt on staþelum healdan, | and keep everything in balance, | |
110a | ond gewis werum, | keep faith with men, |
wisum clæne. | and be pure in wisdom. | |
Scyle monna gehwylc | Each of men must | |
mid gemete healdan | be even-handed | |
wiþ leofne ond wið laþne | with their friends and their foes. | |
* * * bealo. | ? | |
þeah þe he hine wille | ? though he does not wish him | |
fyres fulne | ? in the foulness of flames | |
oþþe on bæle | ? or on a pyre | |
forbærnedne | ? to be burned | |
115a | his geworhtne wine, | ? his contrived friend, |
Wyrd biþ swiþre, | Fate is greater | |
Meotud meahtigra, | and God is mightier | |
þonne ænges monnes gehygd. | than any man's thought. | |
Uton we hycgan | Let us ponder | |
hwær we ham agen, | where we have our homes | |
ond þonne geþencan | and then think | |
hu we þider cumen; | how we should get thither -- | |
ond we þonne eac tilien | and then we should all strive | |
þæt we to moten | that we might go there | |
120a | in þa ecan | to the eternal |
eadignesse | blessedness | |
þær is lif gelong | that is a belonging life | |
in lufan Dryhtnes, | in the love of the Lord, | |
hyht in heofonum. | joy in the heavens. | |
Þæs sy þam Halgan þonc | Let there be thanks to God | |
þæt he usic geweorþade, | that he adored us, | |
wuldres Ealdor | the Father of Glory, | |
ece Dryhten, | the Eternal Lord, | |
in ealle tid. Amen. | for all time. Amen. |