The Wanderer

Often the lone-dweller awaits grace, the Measurer's mercy, though he, heart-weary, across the water-way long must stir with his hands the rime-cold sea, tread paths of exile. Wyrd is wholly steadfast!

So spoke the earth-stepper, mindful of hardships, of grim slaughters, the fall of dear kinsmen: "Often I must alone, at each dawn, lament my sorrows. There is none now living to whom I dare my heart's secrets openly speak. I know it for a truth: it is in a noble a lordly custom, that he his spirit-lock should bind fast, guard his heart's coffer, think as he will. A weary mind cannot withstand Wyrd, nor a troubled heart offer any help. Therefore the glory-eager often their grief in their breast-chamber bind fast; so I my own spirit had to, often wretched with sorrow, stripped of my homeland, far from free kinsmen, fasten in fetters, since long ago my gold-friend the earth's darkness covered, and I, wretched, from there went winter-sorrowing over the ice-bound waves, sought, hall-sad, a giver of treasure, where I, far or near, might find one who in the mead-hall my love would know, or would comfort me, the friendless one, entertain me with joys. He knows who has tried it, how cruel a companion sorrow is to one who has few beloved protectors. The path of exile holds him, not twisted gold, a frozen spirit-lock, not the earth's splendor. He remembers hall-warriors and the taking of treasure, how in his youth his gold-friend welcomed him to the feast. All that joy has perished! And so he knows, who must his beloved lord's wise counsel long forgo, when sorrow and sleep both together the wretched lone-dweller often bind. It seems to him in spirit that he his liege-lord is clasping and kissing, and on his knee laying hands and head, as he sometimes before in days of old enjoyed the gift-throne. Then the friendless man awakens again, sees before him the fallow waves, sea-birds bathing, spreading their feathers, frost and snow falling, mingled with hail. Then are the heavier the heart's wounds, sore for the beloved. Sorrow is renewed when the memory of kinsmen sweeps through his mind; he greets them with joyful words, eagerly scans the host of warriors. They swim away again! The spirits of the fleeting bring few familiar songs. Care is renewed for him who must send, again and again, over the ice-bound waves a weary heart. Therefore I cannot think, throughout this world, why my spirit should not grow dark, when I ponder all the life of earls, how they suddenly left the hall-floor, the proud young thanes. So this middle-earth each and every day droops and decays, and so a man cannot become wise, before he has his share of winters in this world-kingdom. A wise man must be patient, not too hot-hearted nor too hasty of speech, not too weak a warrior nor too reckless, not too fearful nor too fawning, nor too greedy for fee, nor ever too eager to boast, before he sees clearly. A warrior must wait, when he makes a vow, until the bold-hearted one knows surely where the thought of his heart will turn. A prudent man must perceive how ghostly it will be when all this world's wealth stands waste, as now in various places throughout this middle-earth wind-blown walls stand, covered with frost, storm-battered dwellings. The wine-halls crumble, their lords lie deprived of joy, the veteran band all fell, proud by the wall. Some war took, carried them on the forth-way; one a bird bore off over the high sea; one the grey wolf shared with death; one a sad-faced earl hid in an earth-cave. Thus the Shaper of men laid this world waste until the clamor of citizens ceased, and the old work of giants stood empty. He who then this wall-foundation wisely considers and this dark life deeply ponders, wise in spirit, remembers from afar a host of slaughters, and speaks these words: 'Where has the horse gone? Where has the warrior gone? Where the treasure-giver? Where have the feast-benches gone? Where are the hall-joys? Alas, the bright cup! Alas, the mailed warrior! Alas, the prince's pride! How that time has passed, grown dark under night's helm, as if it never were!' Stands now in the track of the beloved host a wall wondrously high, with serpent-shapes stained. The might of ash-spears took the earls, weapons greedy for slaughter, and Wyrd, the renowned. And these stone slopes the storms beat, the falling blizzard binds the earth, winter's terror, when the darkness comes, the night-shadow deepens, sends from the north a savage hailstorm in hatred of men. All is hardship in this earthly kingdom, the decree of the Fates changes the world under the heavens. Here wealth is loaned, here a friend is loaned, here man is loaned, here a kinsman is loaned, all this earth's foundation becomes empty!"

So spoke the wise in spirit, sat himself apart in secret counsel. Good is he who keeps his faith, nor shall a warrior ever his grief too quickly from his breast reveal, unless he first knows the remedy, how an earl with courage can act. Well is it for him who seeks grace, comfort from the Father in heaven, where for us all stability stands.