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'So solitary ones feel solace of a grace, Maker's mercy, though heartbroken they must (laboring faithfully, following fjords) paddle puddles on a piteous-cold sea, the miles of exile - wry destiny's set.'
Spoke that long-shanks, suffering flashbacks of bitter killings, collapse of his clan.
'Each morning before dawn I crawl through troubles, always alone. Is there anyone out there I dare describe my inmost dreams?
I know it is noble in nature to suffer, secure your shit, say nothing, keep your cards close to your chest; of private problems, ponder as you will. Wearying futility to fight fate, absorbing sorrow, raw and fruitless; best that restless yearning address, lock in your mind any lust for revenge.
So, sick-at-heart, I steer by such; though sorrow-sagged, severed from home loosed from Lord, shoulder this load.
Years yawn in the maw of yore since I hid my King, interred in dark earth, keeled seas of ice in grief, hall-less, sought a treasure-source, far and further, where I might find, anyone at all, remembered anything of me, my kin, or with kindness console this friendless one, dally delightfully. Deeply he knows the cruel companionship of keen sorrow, how lack of loved ones lock him rigid, (not ligatures of linked gold luster) where ice-shards shine, not sunned-apples. Treasure entrusted to tried warriors, all a Lord's glory in the feasting hall - habitual apparel, torn from mind.
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This is my rendering of approximately the first third of the Anglo-Saxon poem 'The Wanderer'. It is a work in progress. I will post the next part when I get round to it - not tomorrow. The original (this first part of it) I copy below :
Oft him anhaga are gebideð, metudes miltse, þeah þe he modcearig geond lagulade longe sceolde hreran mid hondum hrimcealde sæ wadan wræclastas. Wyrd bið ful aræd!
Oft ic sceolde ana uhtna gehwylce mine ceare cwiþan. Nis nu cwicra nan þe ic him modsefan minne durre sweotule asecgan. Ic to soþe wat þæt biþ in eorle indryhten þeaw, þæt he his ferðlocan fæste binde, healde his hordcofan, hycge swa he wille. Ne mæg werig mod wyrde wiðstondan, ne se hreo hyge helpe gefremman. Forðon domgeorne dreorigne oft in hyra breostcofan bindað fæste; swa ic modsefan minne sceolde, oft earmcearig, eðle bidæled, freomægum feor feterum sælan, siþþan geara iu goldwine minne hrusan heolstre biwrah, ond ic hean þonan wod wintercearig ofer waþema gebind, sohte seledreorig sinces bryttan, hwær ic feor oþþe neah findan meahte þone þe in meoduhealle mine wisse, oþþe mec freondleasne frefran wolde, wenian mid wynnum. Wat se þe cunnað hu sliþen bið sorg to geferan þam þe him lyt hafað leofra geholena: warað hine wræclast, nales wunden gold, ferðloca freorig, nalæs foldan blæd. Gemon he selesecgas ond sincþege, hu hine on geoguðe his goldwine wenede to wiste. Wyn eal gedreas!
