In which there is translated poetry.
I don't know what the hell I was thinking--I have plenty of actual work to do in languages I'm working on now. But I thought, 'huh, you know, I haven't done any Old English in ages,' and sat down to look over some, and practise a little, and ended up with a translation of the first 55 or so lines of The Wanderer. If you don't know it, it's beautiful and sad. And what the line on this icon actually comes from.
The lonely man waits for mercy,
for the favour of the Creator, though his heart is troubled
Journeying the sea-roads, long must he stir
with his hands the frost-cold sea,
travelling the paths of exile. Fate is determined.
So goes the wanderer, of hardships mindful,
of fierce slaughter, of beloved kinsmen.
Often must I, at dawn,
my sorrows lament--no one lives
that to him I might dare my spirit
openly express. I know the truth:
that the noble custom exists in a warrior
that he binds his breast fast,
holds his heart, considers as he will.
The weary heart cannot withstand fate,
nor the troubled mind give aid.
And so those eager for glory are often full of sorrow,
in their heart-home, bound fast.
So must I--my soul wretched with sorrow, deprived of home,
far from noble kinsmen--bind my heart,
after olden days when I covered my lord
with the darkness of the earth, and I, desolate then,
travelled as sad as winter over the bound waves,
sad at the loss of the hall, of the treasure-giver,
where far and near I might find one who would know me,
or would ease my friendlessness,
console me with joys. What he discovers then:
how cruel a companion is sorrow
to him who has but few beloved friends.
The path of exile claims him, his soul's home frozen,
not wound with gold or the earth's glory.
He remembers retainers, and receiving treasure,
and how in youth his gold-lord
used to feast him. All joy has perished!
And so he knows he must long go without
the counsels of his beloved, his wine-lord.
Often sorrow and sleep, as one together,
bind the wretched one who dreams alone.
He thinks in his heart that he his lord
embraces and kisses, and on his knee
lays hand on head, as he used to
in times before, in the past days of the throne.
Then the lordless man awakens,
sees before him the tawny waves,
the bathing seabirds spreading their feathers,
the falling frost and snow and mingled hail.
Then are his heart's wounds more heavy
with grief for his beloved. Sorrow is renewed.
When the memory of his kinsmen passes through his mind
he greets them joyfully, eagerly looks over
his companions. But they swim away.
Souls of the seafarers do not bring much
familiar speech. Sorrow is renewed.
Then he must go strongly, often
over the bound waves with his exhausted heart.
The lonely man waits for mercy,
for the favour of the Creator, though his heart is troubled
Journeying the sea-roads, long must he stir
with his hands the frost-cold sea,
travelling the paths of exile. Fate is determined.
So goes the wanderer, of hardships mindful,
of fierce slaughter, of beloved kinsmen.
Often must I, at dawn,
my sorrows lament--no one lives
that to him I might dare my spirit
openly express. I know the truth:
that the noble custom exists in a warrior
that he binds his breast fast,
holds his heart, considers as he will.
The weary heart cannot withstand fate,
nor the troubled mind give aid.
And so those eager for glory are often full of sorrow,
in their heart-home, bound fast.
So must I--my soul wretched with sorrow, deprived of home,
far from noble kinsmen--bind my heart,
after olden days when I covered my lord
with the darkness of the earth, and I, desolate then,
travelled as sad as winter over the bound waves,
sad at the loss of the hall, of the treasure-giver,
where far and near I might find one who would know me,
or would ease my friendlessness,
console me with joys. What he discovers then:
how cruel a companion is sorrow
to him who has but few beloved friends.
The path of exile claims him, his soul's home frozen,
not wound with gold or the earth's glory.
He remembers retainers, and receiving treasure,
and how in youth his gold-lord
used to feast him. All joy has perished!
And so he knows he must long go without
the counsels of his beloved, his wine-lord.
Often sorrow and sleep, as one together,
bind the wretched one who dreams alone.
He thinks in his heart that he his lord
embraces and kisses, and on his knee
lays hand on head, as he used to
in times before, in the past days of the throne.
Then the lordless man awakens,
sees before him the tawny waves,
the bathing seabirds spreading their feathers,
the falling frost and snow and mingled hail.
Then are his heart's wounds more heavy
with grief for his beloved. Sorrow is renewed.
When the memory of his kinsmen passes through his mind
he greets them joyfully, eagerly looks over
his companions. But they swim away.
Souls of the seafarers do not bring much
familiar speech. Sorrow is renewed.
Then he must go strongly, often
over the bound waves with his exhausted heart.