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1 | 20a | the_phoenix.txt | (1-20a) | (1-20a) | I have learned that there is the best of lands far from here, in eastern places, according to the report of men. This corner of the world cannot be reached by folk-rulers, many across middle-earth, for it is withdrawn beyond them the sin-makers, by the might of the Measurer. Lovely is this whole land, blessed with joys and with the fairest odors of the earth. Unique is that well-watered realm, noble that wright, proud and abounding in might, he who established that ground. Often there is open the door of heaven’s empire and revealed to the blessed the bliss of singing. That is a joyful place, the groves green and roomy beneath the heavens. Neither the rain or the snow can spoil it a bit— not the frost’s blowing nor the fire’s throwing, not the hail’s tumbling nor the rime’s fumbling, not the heat of the sun nor the everlocking cold, not the warm weather nor winter’s shower— but that realm endures, prosperous and absolute. | Hæbbe ic gefrugnen þætte is feor heonan eastdælum on æþelast londa, firum gefræge. Nis se foldan sceat ofer middangeard mongum gefere folcagendra, ac he afyrred is þurh meotudes meaht manfremmendum. Wlitig is se wong eall, wynnum geblissad mid þam fægrestum foldan stencum. ænlic is þæt iglond, æþele se wyrhta, modig, meahtum spedig, se þa moldan gesette. ðær bið oft open eadgum togeanes onhliden hleoþra wyn, heofonrices duru. þæt is wynsum wong, wealdas grene, rume under roderum. Ne mæg þær ren ne snaw, ne forstes fnæst, ne fyres blæst, ne hægles hryre, ne hrimes dryre, ne sunnan hætu, ne sincaldu, ne wearm weder, ne winterscur wihte gewyrdan, ac se wong seomað eadig ond onsund. | 165 | 113 | 52 |
20b | 32 | the_phoenix.txt | (20b-32) | (20b-32) | The noble province is blown with blossoms. Neither peaks nor steep hills stand there, nor stony cliffs hang over the heights, as they do here among us, not caves nor clefts nor carvings in the hill-sides, rills neither ridges, nor any kind of rough scarps but that worthy plain ever burgeons under the skies, increases its pleasures. That bright land is higher than the surrounding earth by twelve fathoms— as is revealed to us by the report of the wise, the prophets through the wisdom of the Scriptures— than any of these bright mountains that here among us hang over the heights under the stars of heaven. | Is þæt æþele lond blostmum geblowen. Beorgas þær ne muntas steape ne stondað, ne stanclifu heah hlifiað, swa her mid us, ne dene ne dalu ne dunscrafu, hlæwas ne hlincas, ne þær hleonað oo unsmeþes wiht, ac se æþela feld wridað under wolcnum, wynnum geblowen. Is þæt torhte lond twelfum herra, folde fæðmrimes, swa us gefreogum gleawe witgan þurh wisdom on gewritum cyþað, þonne ænig þara beorga þe her beorhte mid us hea hlifiað under heofontunglum. | 107 | 76 | 31 |
33 | 49 | the_phoenix.txt | (33-49) | (33-49) | Prosperous is that victory-plain, shining the sunny groves, joyful the wooded forests. The flowers never fail, the bright blossoms, but the trees ever stand green, just as God commanded. The woods in winter and summer are alike, hanging with fruit. The leaves under the breeze are never corrupted, nor does the flame ever harm them— as it was before the change of the world occurred. When the majesty of the water, the sea-flood covered all of middle-earth of old, the circle of the world so that noble plain, altogether perfect, stood steadfast against the heaving way of the rough waves blessed, unspoiled, through the mercy of God. It endures blossoming until the coming of the blaze, of the judgment of the Lord, when the death-halls, the shadowy coffers of men, become unclosed. | Smylte is se sigewong; sunbearo lixeð, wuduholt wynlic. Wæstmas ne dreosað, beorhte blede, ac þa beamas a grene stondað, swa him god bibead. Wintres ond sumeres wudu bið gelice bledum gehongen; næfre brosniað leaf under lyfte, ne him lig sceþeð æfre to ealdre, ærþon edwenden worulde geweorðe. Swa iu wætres þrym ealne middangeard mereflod þeahte, eorþan ymbhwyrft, þa se æþela wong, æghwæs onsund, wið yðfare gehealden stod hreora wæga, eadig, unwemme, þurh est godes; bideð swa geblowen oð bæles cyme, dryhtnes domes, þonne deaðræced, hæleþa heolstorcofan, onhliden weorþað. | 132 | 88 | 44 |
50 | 59 | the_phoenix.txt | (50-59) | (50-59) | There are no hated foes there in that land, neither weeping nor pain, no grief-signs at all, old age nor misery nor the goading of death, neither the life’s losing nor the hateful coming, no sin nor strife nor sore-wrack’s knife, not the struggle of poverty nor the want of prosperity, not sorrow nor sleep nor the sad grave— neither storming snow nor change of weather, harsh under the heavens, nor the stern frosts, with icicles cold and chilly crashes down upon any. | Nis þær on þam londe laðgeniðla, ne wop ne wracu, weatacen nan, yldu ne yrmðu ne se enga deað, ne lifes lyre, ne laþes cyme, ne synn ne sacu ne sarwracu, ne wædle gewin, ne welan onsyn, ne sorg ne slæp ne swar leger, ne wintergeweorp, ne wedra gebregd, hreoh under heofonum, ne se hearda forst, caldum cylegicelum, cnyseð ænigne. | 83 | 60 | 23 |
60 | 70 | the_phoenix.txt | (60-70) | (60-70) | There neither hail nor frost falls to the earth, nor windy cloud; no waters tumble down there, troubled by the breeze, but there streams of water, wondrously intricate, springs forth in wells, in fair surgings of flood. The ground is slaked with winsome waters from the midst of the woods. Then every month from the turves of the earth they break forth sea-cold, cross every grove, gloriously at times. That is the order of the Lord: that twelve times a year that majestic land overflows with the delights of watery floods. | þær ne hægl ne hrim hreosað to foldan, ne windig wolcen, ne þær wæter fealleþ, lyfte gebysgad, ac þær lagustreamas, wundrum wrætlice, wyllan onspringað fægrum flodwylmum. Foldan leccaþ wæter wynsumu of þæs wuda midle; þa monþa gehwam of þære moldan tyrf brimcald brecað, bearo ealne geondfarað, þragum þrymlice. Is þæt þeodnes gebod, þætte twelf siþum þæt tirfæste lond geondlace lagufloda wynn. | 91 | 61 | 30 |
71 | 84 | the_phoenix.txt | (71-84) | (71-84) | There are groves hanging with blossoms, fair fruits which never fade there — holy beneath the heavens, treasures of the forest. The flowers never fall fallow to the ground there from the lovely wood-beams, but there wondrously the boughs in the trees are always bearing fruit again— at every season the brightest bowers stand on the green grassy plain, joyously adorned with power of the Holy One. The form of the forest is never broken. There a sacred odor abides throughout that delightful land. It will never be changed ever forever, not before the Wise One who shaped it at its origin finishes his ancient work. | Sindon þa bearwas bledum gehongne, wlitigum wæstmum, þær no waniað o, halge under heofonum, holtes frætwe. Ne feallað þær on foldan fealwe blostman, wudubeama wlite, ac þær wrætlice on þam treowum symle telgan gehladene, ofett edniwe, in ealle tid on þam græswonge grene stondaþ, gehroden hyhtlice haliges meahtum, beorhtast bearwa. No gebrocen weorþeð holt on hiwe, þær se halga stenc wunaþ geond wynlond; þæt onwended ne bið æfre to ealdre, ærþon endige frod fyrngeweorc se hit on frymþe gescop. | 106 | 79 | 27 |
85 | 103 | the_phoenix.txt | (85-103) | (85-103) | That wood is watched over by a wondrously fair fowl, strong of feathers, which is called the Phoenix. There that lone-dweller observes that land, brave-minded of bearing. Death shall never harm him in that desired land, so long as the world remains. He must behold the course of the sun and come toward God’s candle, the gem of gladness, eagerly attending it, when up comes the most noble of stars over the waved sea, gleaming from the east, the Father’s olden work dazzling with jewels, the bright token of God. The stars are hidden, departed beneath the waves towards the west, obscured in the daybreak and the dark night descends dusky. Then the strong-winged bird proud in its wandering, in the mountain stream under the sky, eagerly makes witness over the water when the light of the heavens comes up from the east gliding over the broad expanse of the sea. | ðone wudu weardaþ wundrum fæger fugel feþrum strong, se is fenix haten. þær se anhaga eard bihealdeþ, deormod drohtað; næfre him deaþ sceþeð on þam willwonge, þenden woruld stondeþ. Se sceal þære sunnan sið behealdan ond ongean cuman godes condelle, glædum gimme, georne bewitigan, hwonne up cyme æþelast tungla ofer yðmere estan lixan, fæder fyrngeweorc frætwum blican, torht tacen godes. Tungol beoþ ahyded, gewiten under waþeman westdælas on, bideglad on dægred, ond seo deorce niht won gewiteð; þonne waþum strong fugel feþrum wlonc on firgenstream under lyft, ofer lagu locað georne, hwonne up cyme eastan glidan ofer sidne sæ swegles leoma. | 151 | 101 | 50 |
104 | 116a | the_phoenix.txt | (104-116a) | (104-16a) | So the noble and beauty-fast bird dwells by the welling streams at the fountain-head, where he, glory-blessed, bathes himself in that brook twelve times before the coming of that beacon the sky’s candle, and always as often from that delightful surging spring the sea-cold water preserves him with every bath. Afterwards the high-minded bird heaves himself onto a lofty tree after his swim-play, and from there he can most easily behold the journey on the east-ways, when the taper of the skies sparkles clearly over the churning waves, the light’s beam. | Swa se æþela fugel æt þam æspringe wlitigfæst wunað wyllestreamas, þær se tireadga twelf siþum hine bibaþað in þam burnan ær þæs beacnes cyme, sweglcondelle, ond symle swa oft of þam wilsuman wyllgespryngum brimcald beorgeð æt baða gehwylcum. Siþþan hine sylfne æfter sundplegan heahmod hefeð on heanne beam, þonan yþast mæg on eastwegum sið bihealdan, hwonne swegles tapur ofer holmþræce hædre blice, leohtes leoma. | 91 | 64 | 27 |
116b | 124 | the_phoenix.txt | (116b-124) | (116b-24) | These lands are adorned, the world beautified, after the gem of glory illumines the ground over the ocean’s course throughout middle-earth, the most famous of the stars. At once, as the high sun overtops the salty streams, so the pale grey bird turns from his tree, bright from the bowers, venturing by wing a swift flight on the breeze, keening and trilling towards the heavens. | Lond beoð gefrætwad, woruld gewlitegad, siþþan wuldres gim ofer geofones gong grund gescineþ geond middangeard, mærost tungla. Sona swa seo sunne sealte streamas hea oferhlifað, swa se haswa fugel beorht of þæs bearwes beame gewiteð, fareð feþrum snell flyhte on lyfte, swinsað ond singeð swegle togeanes. | 65 | 46 | 19 |
125 | 139 | the_phoenix.txt | (125-139) | (125-39) | Then the voice of the bird will be so fair, the breast-hold so inspired, exultant in many joys— wonderfully weaving his bright song with song-craft, when the Child of Man, heard under heaven, afterwards the High-King, the Craftsman of Glory, ever founded the world, the heaven and the earth. The sound of that music will be more sweet and more fair than all other powers of singing and more winsome than every other melody. Nor can trumpets or horns exceed its beauty— not the strain of harps nor the voice of men in any way on earth, not organs, not the strains of melody nor the feathers of the swan nor any joyful thing that the Lord made to cheer men in this miserable world. | ðonne bið swa fæger fugles gebæru, onbryrded breostsefa, blissum hremig; wrixleð woðcræfte wundorlicor beorhtan reorde, þonne æfre byre monnes hyrde under heofonum, siþþan heahcyning, wuldres wyrhta, woruld staþelode, heofon ond eorþan. Biþ þæs hleoðres sweg eallum songcræftum swetra ond wlitigra ond wynsumra wrenca gehwylcum. Ne magon þam breahtme byman ne hornas, ne hearpan hlyn, ne hæleþa stefn ænges on eorþan, ne organan, sweghleoþres geswin, ne swanes feðre, ne ænig þara dreama þe dryhten gescop gumum to gliwe in þas geomran woruld. | 125 | 81 | 44 |
331 | 349 | the_phoenix.txt | (331-349) | (331-49) | Then men marvel across the earth at its beauty and form, reveal it in writing, marking it by hand in marble stone, the day and the season when it was revealed to the multitude, swift-flighted in adornments. Then the kindred of birds thronged in crowds on every side, flying in from the far-ways, praising him in song, glorifying the proud one with mighty voices, and so that holy bird is surrounded by a ring, flying on the breeze. The Phoenix is in the middle, encircled by a throng. The people gaze upon him, looking at him in wonder, how that joyous band worthies the wild one, one throng after the other, proclaiming craftily and adoring him for their king, the most loved of chiefs, led among delights, the noble to his home, until that solitary bird flies away, swift of feathers, so that he cannot be followed by them, the exultant multitude, when the joy of the many seeks his homeland from the ground of this earth. | ðonne wundriað weras ofer eorþan wlite ond wæstma, ond gewritum cyþað, mundum mearciað on marmstane, hwonne se dæg ond seo tid dryhtum geeawe frætwe flyhthwates. ðonne fugla cynn on healfa gehwone heapum þringað, sigað sidwegum, songe lofiað, mærað modigne meaglum reordum, ond swa þone halgan hringe beteldað flyhte on lyfte; fenix biþ on middum, þreatum biþrungen. þeoda wlitað, wundrum wafiað, hu seo wilgedryht wildne weorþiað, worn æfter oþrum, cræftum cyþað ond for cyning mærað leofne leodfruman, lædað mid wynnum æþelne to earde, oþþæt se anhoga oðfleogeð, feþrum snel, þæt him gefylgan ne mæg drymendra gedryht, þonne duguða wyn of þisse eorþan tyrf eþel seceð. | 167 | 104 | 63 |
140 | 152 | the_phoenix.txt | (140-152) | (140-52) | So he sings and entunes, blissful and joyous until the sun is rested in the southern sky. Then he falls quiet and pays heed, lifting his brave head, wise of thoughts, shaking his flight-swift feathers thrice—the bird is silent. Always he measures the hours twelve times by day and night. So they are ordained by this denizen of the grove, so that he might brook them there, the field at his favor, and enjoy their wealth, their life and their bliss, the ornaments of the land until he, warden of the wooded copse knows one thousand winters of this life. | Singeð swa ond swinsað sælum geblissad, oþþæt seo sunne on suðrodor sæged weorþeð. þonne swiað he ond hlyst gefeð, heafde onbrygdeð, þrist, þonces gleaw, ond þriwa ascæceð feþre flyhthwate; fugol bið geswiged. Symle he twelf siþum tida gemearcað dæges ond nihtes. Swa gedemed is bearwes bigengan, þæt he þær brucan mot wonges mid willum, ond welan neotan, lifes ond lissa, londes frætwa, oþþæt he þusende þisses lifes, wudubearwes weard, wintra gebideþ. | 100 | 71 | 29 |
167b | 181 | the_phoenix.txt | (167b-181) | (167b-81) | There the pure bird hurries away from them abruptly, so that he may take hold of a secret refuge in a woody bower, a deserted place, hidden and concealed from many men. There he dwells and inhabits a tall tree in the forest, fixed by the roots under the roof of heaven. Men call that one the Phoenix on the earth, from the name of those birds. He has granted that tree, the Glory-Mighty King, the Measurer of Mankind, as I have heard, which is alone of all lofty trees on the earth-way, blossoming with the brightest. Nor can anything bitter injure it with evils, but it is shielded always, dwelling unscathed, so long as the world stands. | Him se clæna þær oðscufeð scearplice, þæt he in scade weardað, on wudubearwe, weste stowe, biholene ond bihydde hæleþa monegum. ðær he heanne beam on holtwuda wunað ond weardað, wyrtum fæstne under heofunhrofe, þone hatað men Fenix on foldan, of þæs fugles noman. Hafað þam treowe forgiefen tirmeahtig cyning, meotud moncynnes, mine gefræge, þæt se ana is ealra beama on eorðwege uplædendra beorhtast geblowen; ne mæg him bitres wiht scyldum sceððan, ac gescylded a wunað ungewyrded, þenden woruld stondeð. | 118 | 79 | 39 |
182 | 199a | the_phoenix.txt | (182-199a) | (182-99a) | When the wind lies still, the weather will be fair and the holy gem of the heavens will shine so clear, the clouds shall disperse, the raging waters will stand still, every storm will be calmed under the skies, the warm weather-candle sparkles from the south, giving light to the hosts of men on earth, then that bird begins to build in the boughs, to prepare a nest. There will be a great need that he be allowed to turn hastily then towards life, to assume a younger spirit through the surge of mind. Then the sweetest herbs are gathered from far and near, winsome and wooded fruits too, all brought to that bird’s abode, every one with a noble scent, the most delightful herbs, which the Glory-King, the Father of Every Beginning, created across the earth as a blessing for the kindred of men, sweet under the skies. | ðonne wind ligeð, weder bið fæger, hluttor heofones gim halig scineð, beoð wolcen towegen, wætra þryþe stille stondað, biþ storma gehwylc aswefed under swegle, suþan bliceð wedercondel wearm, weorodum lyhteð, ðonne on þam telgum timbran onginneð, nest gearwian. Bið him neod micel þæt he þa yldu ofestum mote þurh gewittes wylm wendan to life, feorg geong onfon. þonne feor ond neah þa swetestan somnað ond gædrað wyrta wynsume ond wudubleda to þam eardstede, æþelstenca gehwone, wyrta wynsumra, þe wuldorcyning, fæder frymða gehwæs, ofer foldan gescop to indryhtum ælda cynne, swetes under swegle. | 149 | 92 | 57 |
199b | 215 | the_phoenix.txt | (199b-215) | (199b-215) | There that bird bears bright ornaments within the tree. There the wild fowl builds his house in the wilderness over that high tree, lovely and fair, and dwells there himself in that sun-filled room, and surrounds himself without, body and feather in that leafy shade, on every side with blessed scents and the earth’s most noble blossoms. He sits there eager for a journey. When the gem of the skies in a summer season, hottest with the sun, shines across the shadows and performs its destiny, surveying the world, then the bird’s house becomes heated by the glowing sky. The herbs are warmed, the house of desire steams with sweet fragrance, then in flames that bird burns through the grip of the fire amid its nest. | þær he sylf biereð in þæt treow innan torhte frætwe; þær se wilda fugel in þam westenne ofer heanne beam hus getimbreð, wlitig ond wynsum, ond gewicað þær sylf in þam solere, ond ymbseteð utan in þam leafsceade lic ond feþre on healfa gehware halgum stencum ond þam æþelestum eorþan bledum. Siteð siþes fus. þonne swegles gim on sumeres tid, sunne hatost, ofer sceadu scineð ond gesceapu dreogeð, woruld geondwliteð, þonne weorðeð his hus onhæted þurh hador swegl. Wyrta wearmiað, willsele stymeð swetum swæccum, þonne on swole byrneð þurh fyres feng fugel mid neste. | 126 | 94 | 32 |
216 | 222a | the_phoenix.txt | (216-222a) | (216-222a) | The pyre will be kindled. Then the torch engulfs the life-dreary house, the fierce one hurries, the fallow flame feeds upon it and the Phoenix burns, wise with passing years. Then the fire consumes the loaned life-house—it shall go traveling, the fated soul-hoard, when flesh and bone are lighted by the corpse-fire. | Bæl bið onæled. þonne brond þeceð heorodreorges hus, hreoh onetteð, fealo lig feormað ond fenix byrneð, fyrngearum frod. þonne fyr þigeð lænne lichoman; lif bið on siðe, fæges feorhhord, þonne flæsc ond ban adleg æleð. | 52 | 35 | 17 |
222b | 240a | the_phoenix.txt | (222b-240a) | (222b-240a) | Nevertheless the spirit soon comes for him, renewed after the appointed time, after those ashes begin to lock together after the flame’s wrack, contracting into a ball. Then the brightest nest will be purified, the brave house burned out by the pyre—the body will grow cool, the bone-vessel broken, and the flames die down. Then in the fire something like an apple soon is found in the ashes, and from that grows a worm, wonderfully fair, as if led forth out of an egg, glorious from the shell. Then it grows in the shadows, so that it first appears like an eagle’s chick, a fair bird in the making. Then further still, it flourishes in delight so that it bears something like the form of an old eagle, and after that, adorned with feathers such as he was at the start, blossoming brightly. | Hwæþre him eft cymeð æfter fyrstmearce feorh edniwe, siþþan þa yslan eft onginnað æfter ligþræce lucan togædre, geclungne to cleowenne. þonne clæne bið beorhtast nesta, bæle forgrunden heaþorofes hof; hra bið acolad, banfæt gebrocen, ond se bryne sweþrað. þonne of þam ade æples gelicnes on þære ascan bið eft gemeted, of þam weaxeð wyrm, wundrum fæger, swylce he of ægerum ut alæde, scir of scylle. þonne on sceade weaxeð, þæt he ærest bið swylce earnes brid, fæger fugeltimber; ðonne furþor gin wridað on wynnum, þæt he bið wæstmum gelic ealdum earne, and æfter þon feþrum gefrætwad, swylc he æt frymðe wæs, beorht geblowen. | 143 | 103 | 40 |
240b | 257a | the_phoenix.txt | (240b-257a) | (240b-57a) | Then his flesh becomes whole, soon made afresh, sundered from his sins—somewhat similarly, just as a man brings home the fruits of the earth at harvest-time for his sustenance, a joyful meal, before the winter comes, in the ripe season, lest the rain’s shower spoil them under the sky. There they find a support, the joy of food-taking when the frost and snow covers the earth with its overwhelming power and winter-weeds. From those fruits shall the fortunate weal of men soon be led forth through the nature of grain, whose pure seeds were sown before. Then the sun’s gleam in the springtime, the sign of life, awakens the world’s treasures, so that those fruits are again born by their own nature, the adornments of the earth. | þonne bræd weorþeð eal edniwe eft acenned, synnum asundrad, sumes onlice swa mon to ondleofne eorðan wæstmas on hærfeste ham gelædeð, wiste wynsume, ær wintres cyme, on rypes timan, þy læs hi renes scur awyrde under wolcnum; þær hi wraðe metað, fodorþege gefean, þonne forst ond snaw mid ofermægne eorþan þeccað wintergewædum. Of þam wæstmum sceal eorla eadwela eft alædan þurh cornes gecynd, þe ær clæne bið sæd onsawen. þonne sunnan glæm on lenctenne, lifes tacen, weceð woruldgestreon, þæt þa wæstmas beoð þurh agne gecynd eft acende, foldan frætwe. | 127 | 89 | 38 |
257b | 264 | the_phoenix.txt | (257b-264) | (257b-64) | So the fowl, aged after its years, renewed in youth, becomes clothed in flesh. He eats no food at all, meat on this earth, except the bit of nectar he tastes, which often falls in the midst of the night. By this means the proud bird feeds his flesh, until he soon seek his own lands, his ancient home. | Swa se fugel weorþeð, gomel æfter gearum, geong edniwe, flæsce bifongen. No he foddor þigeð, mete on moldan, nemne meledeawes dæl gebyrge, se dreoseð oft æt middre nihte; bi þon se modga his feorh afedeð, oþþæt fyrngesetu, agenne eard, eft geseceð. | 59 | 41 | 18 |
265 | 282a | the_phoenix.txt | (265-282a) | (265-82a) | Then the bird, proud in feathers, will grow amidst the herbs. His spirit will be new and young, full of grace, when he gathers his limb-crafty body from the earth, that which the flame had destroyed before, the remains of the fire, cunningly collected the moldering bones after the pyre’s cruel grasp and then he soon brings together bone and cinder, the remains of the pyre, and then that dead corpse is adorned with herbs, fairly ornamented. Then he soon becomes eager to seek his own home. Then he grasps the fire’s leavings with his feet, seizing them with his talons, and soon his homeland, his sun-bright abode, he seeks delightfully, that blessed native country. All is renewed, the soul and the feather-home, just as he was at the start, when first God made him in that noble plain, triumph-fast. | þonne bið aweaxen wyrtum in gemonge fugel feþrum deal; feorh bið niwe, geong, geofona ful, þonne he of greote his lic leoþucræftig, þæt ær lig fornom, somnað, swoles lafe, searwum gegædrað ban gebrosnad, æfter bælþræce, ond þonne gebringeð ban ond yslan, ades lafe, eft ætsomne, ond þonne þæt wælreaf wyrtum biteldeð, fægre gefrætwed. ðonne afysed bið agenne eard eft to secan. þonne fotum ymbfehð fyres lafe, clam biclyppeð, ond his cyþþu eft, sunbeorht gesetu, seceð on wynnum, eadig eþellond. Eall bið geniwad feorh ond feþerhoma, swa he æt frymþe wæs, þa hine ærest god on þone æþelan wong sigorfæst sette. | 140 | 100 | 40 |
282b | 289 | the_phoenix.txt | (282b-289) | (282b-90) | The Phoenix brings his own bones to that place, those that the torch’s surging enwrapped before by the pyre in that sheltering stead, and the ashes besides. Then battle-brave he buries all together, bone and cinder, on that island. He is renewed by the sign of the sun, when the light of the skies, the gladdest of gems, joy of noble stars, up over the spear-waves, gleams from the east. | He his sylfes þær ban gebringeð, þa ær brondes wylm on beorhstede bæle forþylmde, ascan to eacan. þonne eal geador bebyrgeð beaducræftig ban ond yslan on þam ealonde. Bið him edniwe þære sunnan segn, þonne swegles leoht, gimma gladost, ofer garsecg up, | 70 | 42 | 28 |
305 | 319 | the_phoenix.txt | (305-319) | (305-19) | About its neck, just like a ring of sunlight, is set the brightest bracelet of feathers. Wonderful is the belly beneath, wondrously fair, bright and brilliant. His crest overhead is fitted with ornaments over the bird’s back. His legs are covered with scales, the fallow feet. The fowl is absolutely unique in its hue, much like the peacock, grown up in joys, as the book tells us. He is not slothful nor wanton, heavy nor sluggish like some birds, which slowly flap their wings through the breeze, but he is nimble and quick and so light, lovely and delightful, marked out with glory. Eternal is that noble who gives his that blessing! | Is ymb þone sweoran, swylce sunnan hring, beaga beorhtast brogden feðrum. Wrætlic is seo womb neoþan, wundrum fæger, scir ond scyne. Is se scyld ufan frætwum gefeged ofer þæs fugles bæc. Sindon þa scancan scyllum biweaxen, fealwe fotas. Se fugel is on hiwe æghwæs ænlic, onlicost pean, wynnum geweaxen, þæs gewritu secgað. Nis he hinderweard, ne hygegælsa, swar ne swongor, swa sume fuglas, þa þe late þurh lyft lacað fiþrum, ac he is snel ond swift ond swiþe leoht, wlitig ond wynsum, wuldre gemearcad. Ece is se æþeling se þe him þæt ead gefeð! | 112 | 94 | 18 |
153 | 167a | the_phoenix.txt | (153-167a) | (153-67a) | Then the old bird, grey of feathers will be burdened, aged with years, departing the green earth, the joy of fowl, the flowering land, and then it seeks out a broad realm of middle-earth, where no humans dwell, no yard or homeland. There he assumes the rulership foremighty over the kindred of the birds, exalted among their kind, and for a space abides with them in the wastelands. Then, strong in flight, he seeks the west, weighed down by winters, to fly there swiftly by wings. The birds throng about around their lord. Each one wishes to be the thane and servant of their famous lord, until they must visit the Syrians’ land in the greatest band. | ðonne bið gehefgad haswigfeðra, gomol, gearum frod, grene eorðan aflyhð, fugla wyn, foldan geblowene, ond þonne geseceð side rice middangeardes, þær no men bugað eard ond eþel. þær he ealdordom onfehð foremihtig ofer fugla cynn, geþungen on þeode, ond þrage mid him westen weardað. þonne waþum strong west gewiteð wintrum gebysgad fleogan feþrum snel. Fuglas þringað utan ymbe æþelne; æghwylc wille wesan þegn ond þeow þeodne mærum, oþþæt hy gesecað Syrwara lond corðra mæste. | 117 | 74 | 43 |
122b | 125 | the_seafarer.txt | (122b-125) | (122b-125) | The takeaway — Give grace to that holy, so he graces us back, the owner of glory, long-going lord, for all time. Amen | þæs sy þam halgan þonc, þæt he usic geweorþade, wuldres ealdor, ece dryhten, in ealle tid. Amen. | 23 | 17 | 6 |
12b | 17 | the_seafarer.txt | (12b-17) | (12b-17) | What could the chads know, to whom the finest fruits fall— how I, yearning & yawping, worrying across whole winters and the icebox of oceans, trackless tracks of the traceless, am drained of kindred & kindness — hung about with harrowing icicles? Flurrying hail showers me. | þæt se mon ne wat þe him on foldan fægrost limpeð, hu ic earmcearig iscealdne sæ winter wunade wræccan lastum, winemægum bidroren, bihongen hrimgicelum; hægl scurum fleag. | 46 | 27 | 19 |
111 | 116 | the_seafarer.txt | (111-116) | (111-116) | Whatever person should ought to clamber close in calm constraint, to whoever they cherish or condemn to the core — they may want them charred crisp, be flushed with flames, some frenemy, if you like — yet see how it falls out, that always wins, see? And that measurer? Mightier still, mightier than whatever grudge you harbor in heart. | scyle monna gehwylc mid gemete healdan wiþ leofne ond wið laþne bealo, þeah þe he hine wille fyres fulne oþþe on bæle forbærnedne his geworhtne wine. Wyrd biþ swiþre, meotud meahtigra þonne ænges monnes gehygd. | 59 | 35 | 24 |
58 | 61a | the_seafarer.txt | (58-61a) | (58-61a) | Of course my selfness would want to outventure now — beyond the enclosure of chest, my very core coursing with tides, surpassing the broadness, where whales tend their gardens, at every corner of the globe. | Forþon nu min hyge hweorfeð ofer hreþerlocan, min modsefa mid mereflode ofer hwæles eþel hweorfeð wide, eorþan sceatas, | 35 | 18 | 17 |
53 | 57 | the_seafarer.txt | (53-57) | (53-57) | The cuckoos say it too, in longing tones, summer’s ward sings, strumming your pain, bitterness in breast-box. What would the mighty man know of it— a guy fortunate always & again— what those select few meet with, ones who set themselves to tracks of broadest desolation. | Swylce geac monað geomran reorde, singeð sumeres weard, sorge beodeð bitter in breosthord. þæt se beorn ne wat, esteadig secg, hwæt þa sume dreogað þe þa wræclastas widost lecgað. | 46 | 29 | 17 |
48 | 52 | the_seafarer.txt | (48-52) | (48-52) | Flowers flood from forest, flocking down fortifications, flickering across fields — so this world flits faster. All of it reminds the hurrying heart, urging soul to sail along, for that one fixing to ferry out far-wards on flood-ways. | Bearwas blostmum nimað, byrig fægriað, wongas wlitigað, woruld onetteð; ealle þa gemoniað modes fusne sefan to siþe, þam þe swa þenceð on flodwegas feor gewitan. | 38 | 25 | 13 |
44 | 47 | the_seafarer.txt | (44-47) | (44-47) | What are harp-thoughts to these? Or ring-rooking? Or woman-playing? Or any hopeful resort to this world? Or anything else for that matter — nothing — except the ebb & flow: yet it always aches inside one who tempts the tides. | Ne biþ him to hearpan hyge ne to hringþege, ne to wife wyn ne to worulde hyht, ne ymbe owiht elles, nefne ymb yða gewealc, ac a hafað longunge se þe on lagu fundað. | 40 | 34 | 6 |
39 | 43 | the_seafarer.txt | (39-43) | (39-43) | Therefore there is no one across the whole earth so mind-weening, so assured in assets, or yare of youth, or fierce of feats, or loyal to lords — that they should not know the sorrow of the salty passage ever & always — that yet another lord may subject them to whenever he likes. | Forþon nis þæs modwlonc mon ofer eorþan, ne his gifena þæs god, ne in geoguþe to þæs hwæt, ne in his dædum to þæs deor, ne him his dryhten to þæs hold, þæt he a his sæfore sorge næbbe, to hwon hine dryhten gedon wille. | 54 | 45 | 9 |
36 | 38 | the_seafarer.txt | (36-38) | (36-38) | Yearnings of heart remind at every mindful moment the spirit is a sailor — and so I must seek homes of estrangement far from this place. | monað modes lust mæla gehwylce ferð to feran, þæt ic feor heonan elþeodigra eard gesece. | 26 | 15 | 11 |
27 | 35 | the_seafarer.txt | (27-35) | (27-35) | So few trust in their own, keeping clutch on joys of life, habituated to homes, strangers to perilous paths, prideful and wine-plush — how weary I must withstand so often upon the surf-roads. Dusky shadows darken, north-winds snowing, banding the earth in frost. Hail tumbles to the ground — how can such cold seeds sprout? — like the wonderings of my heart come crashing down these days — Should I test out the tidal deeps, the dancing of salt waves? | Forþon him gelyfeð lyt, se þe ah lifes wyn gebiden in burgum, bealosiþa hwon, wlonc ond wingal, hu ic werig oft in brimlade bidan sceolde. Nap nihtscua, norþan sniwde, hrim hrusan bond, hægl feol on eorþan, corna caldast. Forþon cnyssað nu heortan geþohtas, þæt ic hean streamas, sealtyþa gelac sylf cunnige; | 80 | 51 | 29 |
72 | 80a | the_seafarer.txt | (72-80a) | (72-80a) | Whatcha got left then? — Best we have will only be the regards of those rambling after, high repute as we row away, and so one ought to take pains before one must away, to unfold on this enfolding earth one’s fierceness, one’s feats — despite foes’ despite, ever-opposed to devils. Maybe then human sprouts would laud them lofty and the plaudits last ever among the angels, always & forever — the pop & the profit of extra-long existence, joys among the majesties. | Forþon þæt bið eorla gehwam æftercweþendra lof lifgendra lastworda betst, þæt he gewyrce, ær he on weg scyle, fremum on foldan wið feonda niþ, deorum dædum deofle togeanes, þæt hine ælda bearn æfter hergen, ond his lof siþþan lifge mid englum awa to ealdre, ecan lifes blæd, dream mid dugeþum. | 83 | 50 | 33 |
80b | 85 | the_seafarer.txt | (80b-85) | (80b-85) | Those days go dusking: pomposities of every earthly prince — no more the kinglets or kaisers, no more the gold-givers, like there used to be. My my — then those dudes would grant out the greatest glories and home them in highest honor. | Dagas sind gewitene, ealle onmedlan eorþan rices; næron nu cyningas ne caseras ne goldgiefan swylce iu wæron, þonne hi mæst mid him mærþa gefremedon ond on dryhtlicestum dome lifdon. | 43 | 29 | 14 |
86 | 93 | the_seafarer.txt | (86-93) | (86-93) | Crapped flat these majesties, their pleasures feathered on by. The weaker hold the field and flourish somehow — flaunting it in fluttering. The flowers have flopped out. Earthly good elders, wizens, just like all humanity across this homely habitat. The eldering erodes them, grizzled-haired grieving, perceiving his play-friend, peer in peerage, plopped right down into the cold cold ground. | Gedroren is þeos duguð eal, dreamas sind gewitene, wuniað þa wacran ond þas woruld healdaþ, brucað þurh bisgo. Blæd is gehnæged, eorþan indryhto ealdað ond searað, swa nu monna gehwylc geond middangeard. Yldo him on fareð, onsyn blacað, gomelfeax gnornað, wat his iuwine, æþelinga bearn, eorþan forgiefene. | 59 | 47 | 12 |
94 | 96 | the_seafarer.txt | (94-96) | (94-96) | But neither will this meat-shirt of yours, when the spirit meanders off, mouth upon the merriments, nor tang with trouble, nor lash about in limbs, not even ponder in pith. | Ne mæg him þonne se flæschoma, þonne him þæt feorg losað, ne swete forswelgan ne sar gefelan, ne hond onhreran ne mid hyge þencan. | 30 | 24 | 6 |
97 | 102 | the_seafarer.txt | (97-102) | (97-102) | Even though a brother would bury his other with treasures aplenty, grave bestrewn with gold — what he wants him to have — yet how could that gold succor a soul brimmed of sin from the terror of god, what he hoarded while hale. | þeah þe græf wille golde stregan broþor his geborenum, byrgan be deadum, maþmum mislicum þæt hine mid wille, ne mæg þære sawle þe biþ synna ful gold to geoce for godes egsan, þonne he hit ær hydeð þenden he her leofað. | 44 | 41 | 3 |
64b | 71 | the_seafarer.txt | (64b-71) | (64b-71) | And so the joys of the lord kindle me hotter than a life of just the same, deadening, all just a loan. You can’t possibly believe your power, your wealth, your world will stand up tall — forever? Every fucking time, always & again, one of three outcomes falls out to fuck things up before you were supposed to die: Fever or the fading, or else some bladed malice drags out the breath from those fated on forwards. | Forþon me hatran sind dryhtnes dreamas þonne þis deade lif, læne on londe. Ic gelyfe no þæt him eorðwelan ece stondað. Simle þreora sum þinga gehwylce, ær his tid aga, to tweon weorþeð; adl oþþe yldo oþþe ecghete fægum fromweardum feorh oðþringeð. | 78 | 42 | 36 |
103 | 105 | the_seafarer.txt | (103-105) | (103-105) | Fear of the one measuring is plenty big — therefore this realm will be tendered, who tendered the ground untender, far corners of the globe, and the overarching stars. | Micel biþ se meotudes egsa, forþon hi seo molde oncyrreð; se gestaþelade stiþe grundas, eorþan sceatas ond uprodor. | 29 | 18 | 11 |
18 | 26 | the_seafarer.txt | (18-26) | (18-26) | What to hear out there? Nothing — if not the thrumming sea, rhythm of ice-blade waves. Then & again singing of swans cranks up their cheer — taking gannet cry & curlew keen for laughter among company — seagulls regaling a hearty round of mead. Buffets beat riff on cliffs of stone, where ice-pinioned terns keep time and eagles exult wet-winging above. Without the shelter of kindred, and having all this nothing, why wouldn’t I send my spirit sailing? | þær ic ne gehyrde butan hlimman sæ, iscaldne wæg. Hwilum ylfete song dyde ic me to gomene, ganetes hleoþor ond huilpan sweg fore hleahtor wera, mæw singende fore medodrince. Stormas þær stanclifu beotan, þær him stearn oncwæð isigfeþera; ful oft þæt earn bigeal, urigfeþra; ne ænig hleomæga feasceaftig ferð frefran meahte. | 79 | 51 | 28 |
8b | 12a | the_seafarer.txt | (8b-12a) | (8b-12a) | My feet were clapped in chills, enwrapped in withering, wound in frozen fetters, where my sorrows sigh — boiling in breast. Heart-hunger sunders souls of the sea-rutted | Calde geþrungen wæron mine fet, forste gebunden, caldum clommum, þær þa ceare seofedun hat ymb heortan; hungor innan slat merewerges mod. | 27 | 21 | 6 |
1 | 8a | the_seafarer.txt | (1-8a) | (1-8a) | I can talk treks, truth-tales twisting — every word my wracking — how I buckle underneath these hours of fuckeries, long dredging days — grudged to the gall, the stew of my guts — tracking down plenty: seats of sorrow-bound ships — the roiling awful of waves, where clutching night-watches poured over me, catching at dromund prow, dashed smashed upon stone. | Mæg ic be me sylfum soðgied wrecan, siþas secgan, hu ic geswincdagum earfoðhwile oft þrowade, bitre breostceare gebiden hæbbe, gecunnad in ceole cearselda fela, atol yþa gewealc, þær mec oft bigeat nearo nihtwaco æt nacan stefnan, þonne he be clifum cnossað. | 61 | 41 | 20 |
117 | 122a | the_seafarer.txt | (117-122a) | (117-122a) | Sit down & think about it — wherever that home draws us, and imagine how we return there and then actually do the work, so that we are given the pass into everlong entitlement, where the days don’t quit in the lord’s loving blaze, jubilance in heaven’s dance. | Uton we hycgan hwær we ham agen, ond þonne geþencan hu we þider cumen, ond we þonne eac tilien, þæt we to moten in þa ecan eadignesse, þær is lif gelong in lufan dryhtnes, hyht in heofonum. | 48 | 37 | 11 |
106 | 110 | the_seafarer.txt | (106-110) | (106-110) | What fella doesn’t fear his lord—little or big— will always be a jack-fool, and demise will chop him down, outta nowhere. Those who live in meek respect, what wouldn’t they reap in the beyonds? The measurer plants the heart in them, because they credit its capacities. A mensch stands their surpassing spirit, beanpoles it to its root, stays certainworthy to those around, keeps it respectable. | Dol biþ se þe him his dryhten ne ondrædeþ; cymeð him se deað unþinged. Eadig bið se þe eaþmod leofaþ; cymeð him seo ar of heofonum, meotod him þæt mod gestaþelað, forþon he in his meahte gelyfeð. Stieran mon sceal strongum mode, ond þæt on staþelum healdan, ond gewis werum, wisum clæne, | 65 | 52 | 13 |
61b | 64a | the_seafarer.txt | (61b-64a) | (61b-64a) | Here it comes again, one who flies alone, gulling greed & gluttony— goading unexpectedly my solitude upon slaughtering waves, across surging surf. | cymeð eft to me gifre ond grædig, gielleð anfloga, hweteð on hwælweg hreþer unwearnum ofer holma gelagu. | 22 | 17 | 5 |
1 | 7 | the_wanderer.txt | (1-7) | (1-5) | “How often the lone-dweller anticipates some sign, this Measurer’s mercy — must always must— mind-caring, along the ocean’s windings, stirring rime-chill seas, hands as oars many long whiles, treading the tracks of exile— the way of the world an open book always.” | 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 ared! Swa cwæð eardstapa, earfeþa gemyndig, wraþra wælsleahta, winemæga hryre: | 42 | 35 | 7 |
8 | 14 | the_wanderer.txt | (8-14) | (8-14) | So spoke the earth-stepper, a memorial of miseries slaughter of the wrathful, crumbling of kinsmen: “Often, every daybreak, alone I must bewail my cares. There’s now no one living to whom I dare mumble my mind’s understanding. I know as truth that it’s seen suitable for anyone to bind fast their spirit’s closet, hold onto the hoards, think whatever — | "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. | 60 | 44 | 16 |
15 | 29a | the_wanderer.txt | (15-29a) | (15-29a) | “Can a weary mind weather the shitstorm? I think not. Can a roiling heart set itself free? I don’t think so. So often those hustling for the win must clamp down grim mindings in their coffer, just as I ought fetter my inborn conceit, often wounded, wanting where I know, kindred pulled away, how many winters now? I shrouded my giver in dark earth and wended away worrisome, weather-watching the wrapful waves, hall-wretched, seeking a center, far or near, where they might be found, in some mead-hall, who knows of my kind, willing to adopt a friendless me, though they be joyful enough. | 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 sele dreorig sinces bryttan, hwær ic feor oþþe neah findan meahte þone þe in meoduhealle min mine wisse, oþþe mec freondleasne frefran wolde, weman mid wynnum. | 103 | 78 | 25 |
29b | 36 | the_wanderer.txt | (29b-36) | (29b-36) | “The well-travelled know how slicing sorrow can be by one’s side, short a struggle-friend, however dear. The ways of wandering wind him round not even a wire of wound gold— a frigid fastness, hardly any fruits of the fold. This one lists the hall-lads swilling rings, giver-drenched in youngsome days, in both furnishing and feasting. Joys all flown, vanished all away! | 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! | 61 | 45 | 16 |
37 | 48 | the_wanderer.txt | (37-48) | (37-48) | “Therefore one knows who long forgoes the friendly words of their first, when sleep and sorrow stand together clutching at the crestfallen alone. Somehow seems that somewhere inside this one enwraps his lord and kisses his lord, and laps both hands and head on his knee, when, once upon a year blurry in time now, one thrived by the throne — too soon rousing, a friendless singular seeing all around a fallowness of waves, sea-birds bathing, fanning their feathers, ice and snow hurtling, heaved up with hail. | Forþon wat se þe sceal his winedryhtnes leofes larcwidum longe forþolian, ðonne sorg ond slæp somod ætgædre earmne anhogan oft gebindað. þinceð him on mode þæt he his mondryhten clyppe ond cysse, ond on cneo lecge honda ond heafod, swa he hwilum ær in geardagum giefstolas breac. ðonne onwæcneð eft wineleas guma, gesihð him biforan fealwe wegas, baþian brimfuglas, brædan feþra, hreosan hrim ond snaw, hagle gemenged. | 87 | 67 | 20 |
49 | 57 | the_wanderer.txt | (49-57) | (49-57) | “So heavy and heavier the hurt in heart harrowing for the lost. Sorrow made new whenever recalling pervades the mind, greeting kindred joyfully, drinking in the look of them fellowable and fathoming— they always swim away. Gulls ghost-call — I don’t know their tongue too well, much of their comfort weird. Worrying made new to that one who must send more and more, every day, a bleary soul back across the binding of waves. | þonne beoð þy hefigran heortan benne, sare æfter swæsne. Sorg bið geniwad, þonne maga gemynd mod geondhweorfeð; greteð gliwstafum, georne geondsceawað secga geseldan. Swimmað eft on weg! Fleotendra ferð no þær fela bringeð cuðra cwidegiedda. Cearo bið geniwad þam þe sendan sceal swiþe geneahhe ofer waþema gebind werigne sefan. | 74 | 49 | 25 |
58 | 63 | the_wanderer.txt | (58-63) | (58-63) | “Therefore I cannot wonder across this world why my mind does not muster in the murk when I ponder pervading all the lives of humans, how suddenly they abandon their halls, proud princes and young. Right here in the middle it fumbles and falls every day — | Forþon ic geþencan ne mæg geond þas woruld for hwan modsefa min ne gesweorce, þonne ic eorla lif eal geondþence, hu hi færlice flet ofgeafon, modge maguþegnas. Swa þes middangeard ealra dogra gehwam dreoseð ond fealleþ, | 47 | 36 | 11 |
64 | 69 | the_wanderer.txt | (64-69) | (64-69) | “No one can be wise before earning their lot of winters in this world. The wise one, they stay patient: not too heart-heated, not so hasty to harp, not too weak-armed, nor too wan-headed, nor too fearful nor too fey nor too fee-felching, and never tripping the tongue too much, before it trips them. | forþon ne mæg weorþan wis wer, ær he age wintra dæl in woruldrice. Wita sceal geþyldig, ne sceal no to hatheort ne to hrædwyrde, ne to wac wiga ne to wanhydig, ne to forht ne to fægen, ne to feohgifre ne næfre gielpes to georn, ær he geare cunne. | 54 | 49 | 5 |
92 | 96 | the_wanderer.txt | (92-96) | (92-6) | “Where has the horse gone? Where are my kindred? Where is the giver of treasure? Where are the benches to bear us? Joys of the hall to bring us together? No more, the bright goblet! All gone, the mailed warrior! Lost for good, the pride of princes! “How the space of years has spread — growing gloomy beneath the night-helm, as if it never was! | "Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago? Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa? Hwær cwom symbla gesetu? Hwær sindon seledreamas? Eala beorht bune! Eala byrnwiga! Eala þeodnes þrym! Hu seo þrag gewat, genap under nihthelm, swa heo no wære. | 65 | 35 | 30 |
70 | 84 | the_wanderer.txt | (70-84) | (70-84) | “That one bides their moment to make brag, until the inner fire seizes its moment clearly, to where their secret self veers them. Who’s wise must fore-ken how ghostly it has been when the world and its things stand wasted — like you find, here and there, in this middle space now — there walls totter, wailed around by winds, gnashed by frost, the buildings snow-lapt. The winehalls molder, their wielder lies washed clean of joys, his peerage all perished, proud by the wall. War ravaged a bunch ferried along the forth-way, others a raptor ravished over lofty seas, this one the hoary wolf broke in its banes, the last a brother graveled in the ground, tears as war-mask. | Beorn sceal gebidan, þonne he beot spriceð, oþþæt collenferð cunne gearwe hwider hreþra gehygd hweorfan wille. Ongietan sceal gleaw hæle hu gæstlic bið, þonne ealre þisse worulde wela weste stondeð, swa nu missenlice geond þisne middangeard winde biwaune weallas stondaþ, hrime bihrorene, hryðge þa ederas. Woriað þa winsalo, waldend licgað dreame bidrorene, duguþ eal gecrong, wlonc bi wealle. Sume wig fornom, ferede in forðwege, sumne fugel oþbær ofer heanne holm, sumne se hara wulf deaðe gedælde, sumne dreorighleor in eorðscræfe eorl gehydde. | 119 | 82 | 37 |
88 | 91 | the_wanderer.txt | (88-91) | (88-91) | Then one wisely regards this wall-stead, deliberates a darkened existence, aged in spirit, often remembering from afar many war-slaughterings, and speaks these words: | Se þonne þisne wealsteal wise geþohte ond þis deorce lif deope geondþenceð, frod in ferðe, feor oft gemon wælsleahta worn, ond þas word acwið: | 23 | 24 | -1 |
114b | 115 | the_wanderer.txt | (114b-115) | (114b-115) | It will be well for those who seek the favor, the comfort from our father in heaven, where a battlement bulwarks us all. | Wel bið þam þe him are seceð, frofre to fæder on heofonum, þær us eal seo fæstnung stondeð. | 23 | 18 | 5 |
85 | 87 | the_wanderer.txt | (85-87) | (85-87) | “That’s the way it goes— the Shaper mills middle-earth to waste until they stand empty, the giants’ work and ancient, drained of the dreams and joys of its dwellers.” | Yþde swa þisne eardgeard ælda scyppend oþþæt burgwara breahtma lease eald enta geweorc idlu stodon. | 29 | 15 | 14 |
106 | 110 | the_wanderer.txt | (106-110) | (106-110) | All shot through in misery in earthly realms, fortune’s turn turns the world under sky. Here the cash was a loan. Your friends were a loan. Anyone at all, a loan. Your family only ever a loan— And this whole foundation of the earth wastes away!” | Eall is earfoðlic eorþan rice, onwendeð wyrda gesceaft weoruld under heofonum. Her bið feoh læne, her bið freond læne, her bið mon læne, her bið mæg læne, eal þis eorþan gesteal idel weorþeð!" | 46 | 33 | 13 |
97 | 105 | the_wanderer.txt | (97-105) | (97-105) | “Tracks of the beloved multitude, all that remains walls wondrous tall, serpents seething— thanes stolen, pillaged by ashen foes gear glutting for slaughter — we know this world’s way, and the storms still batter these stony cliffs. The tumbling snows stumble up the earth, the clash of winter, when darkness descends. Night-shadows benighten, sent down from the north, raw showers of ice, who doesn’t hate humanity? | Stondeð nu on laste leofre duguþe weal wundrum heah, wyrmlicum fah. Eorlas fornoman asca þryþe, wæpen wælgifru, wyrd seo mære, ond þas stanhleoþu stormas cnyssað, hrið hreosende hrusan bindeð, wintres woma, þonne won cymeð, nipeð nihtscua, norþan onsendeð hreo hæglfare hæleþum on andan. | 66 | 43 | 23 |
111 | 114a | the_wanderer.txt | (111-114a) | (111-114a) | So says the wise one, you don’t hear him at all, sitting apart reading their own runes. It’s better to clutch at your counsel, you ought never manifest your miseries not too quickly where they well, unless the balm is clear beforehand, keep whittling at your courage. | Swa cwæð snottor on mode, gesæt him sundor æt rune. Til biþ se þe his treowe gehealdeþ, ne sceal næfre his torn to rycene beorn of his breostum acyþan, nemþe he ær þa bote cunne, eorl mid elne gefremman. | 47 | 39 | 8 |
67b | 70 | the_whale.txt | (67b-70) | (67b-70) | Then the accursed unfurl hell for them after their hurrying-hence, for those who in all foolhardiment played at the false pleasures of flesh, in despite of all guidance for ghosts. | Him se awyrgda ongean æfter hinsiþe helle ontyneð, þam þe leaslice lices wynne ofer ferhtgereaht fremedon on unræd. | 30 | 18 | 12 |
62b | 67a | the_whale.txt | (62b-67a) | (62b-67a) | It’s much like this for all humanity: the one who usually surveys this loaned existence, not thinking too hard about it, allows their own enticing by that fragrant perfume, those deceptive desires, until they glister with guilts against the glory-king. | Swa biþ gumena gehwam, se þe oftost his unwærlice on þas lænan tid lif bisceawað, læteð hine beswican þurh swetne stenc, leasne willan, þæt he biþ leahtrum fah wið wuldorcyning. | 40 | 30 | 10 |
58b | 62a | the_whale.txt | (58b-62a) | (58b-62a) | They venture therein, a host unwary, until that gaping grin is brimmed over — at that moment, all at once that gruesome gulf clashes closed — claps round about that plundering host, itself plunder now. | Hi þær in farað unware weorude, oþþæt se wida ceafl gefylled bið; þonne færinga ymbe þa herehuþe hlemmeð togædre grimme goman. | 35 | 21 | 14 |
49b | 58a | the_whale.txt | (49b-58a) | (49b-58a) | This one has a second aspect, this watery wraith, cocky yet curious. When peckishness preoccupies the peevish in the profundities and all it longs for is a bite, that deep-keeper gawps jaws, its broad snarl — and there emerges a pleasant odor from his own deeps, so that other sorts of sea-fish become beguiled through it, come swimming so quickly where that sweet scent pours forth. | He hafað oþre gecynd, wæterþisa wlonc, wrætlicran gien. þonne hine on holme hungor bysgað ond þone aglæcan ætes lysteþ, ðonne se mereweard muð ontyneð, wide weleras; cymeð wynsum stenc of his innoþe, þætte oþre þurh þone, sæfisca cynn, beswicen weorðaþ, swimmað sundhwate þær se sweta stenc ut gewiteð. | 66 | 48 | 18 |
39 | 49a | the_whale.txt | (39-49a) | (39-49a) | When that one perceives pent in perduring perishing, that fiend, barbed in deceit and pissy depravity, measures that every mark, the entire family of humanity, ever be rooked to his ring — he segues to slay their souls with a slew of slick trickeries, smacking flat the lustful & the lowsome, those who wickedly work his intentions here, after he rockets, rocking that cozening caul, headlong hellwards, gaping for goodness, upbreak grasping for ground, beneath enshrouding reek — just like the mighty whale, one who whelms wave-wending sailors and their watery stallions. | flah feond gemah, þætte fira gehwylc hæleþa cynnes on his hringe biþ fæste gefeged, he him feorgbona þurh sliþen searo siþþan weorþeð, wloncum ond heanum, þe his willan her firenum fremmað, mid þam he færinga, heoloþhelme biþeaht, helle seceð, goda geasne, grundleasne wylm under mistglome, swa se micla hwæl, se þe bisenceð sæliþende eorlas ond yðmearas. | 92 | 56 | 36 |
31b | 38 | the_whale.txt | (31b-38) | (31b-8) | Such is this haunt’s habit, its diabolical way, turning a living by devious engine, tromping the many troops, and tempting decent-doers into wrong, wheedling them into willfulness — so they should seek fiends for comfort or cane, until they choose camp, cleaving there to the uncovenable. | Swa bið scinna þeaw, deofla wise, þæt hi drohtende þurh dyrne meaht duguðe beswicað, ond on teosu tyhtaþ tilra dæda, wemað on willan, þæt hy wraþe secen, frofre to feondum, oþþæt hy fæste ðær æt þam wærlogan wic geceosað. þonne þæt gecnaweð of cwicsusle | 46 | 44 | 2 |
19 | 24 | the_whale.txt | (19-24) | (19-23) | Starch now gone slack, these tide-tripping souls, unmindful of the menace, pitch their tents, awaken their kindling, kindling tall flames — mournful men go glad at heart, craving respite. | ðonne gewiciað werigferðe, faroðlacende, frecnes ne wenað, on þam ealonde æled weccað, heahfyr ælað; hæleþ beoþ on wynnum, reonigmode, ræste geliste. þonne gefeleð facnes cræftig | 29 | 25 | 4 |
11 | 18 | the_whale.txt | (11-18) | (11-18) | so much so that surf-skifters fancy they’re eye-glancing some brand of island and then they hitch their high-necked decks to that un-land with anchoring ropes, settling their sea-steeds, their swimming’s all done. Then the stiff-pithed among them venture out onto that water-land — keelboards clump clamped at the shore, winding at the wash. | swa þæt wenaþ wægliþende þæt hy on ealond sum eagum wliten, ond þonne gehydað heahstefn scipu to þam unlonde oncyrrapum, setlaþ sæmearas sundes æt ende, ond þonne in þæt eglond up gewitað collenferþe; ceolas stondað bi staþe fæste, streame biwunden. | 53 | 40 | 13 |
71 | 81 | the_whale.txt | (71-81) | (71-81) | When the wicked has wriggled them into his fortress ferociously proficient, right up to the fountaining fire, those who have fastened to him, blame-bangled, & hankering before to hearken to his heedings in the days of their living, then & only then — he crashes closed his gruesome chaps by cracking the soul fast, those grates of hell. No grant to turn away or escape nor ever to pass beyond, those who enter therein, no more than those fishes, wave-darting from the clutches of that whale are allowed to escape. | þonne se fæcna in þam fæstenne gebroht hafað, bealwes cræftig, æt þam edwylme þa þe him on cleofiað, gyltum gehrodene, ond ær georne his in hira lifdagum larum hyrdon, þonne he þa grimman goman bihlemmeð æfter feorhcwale fæste togædre, helle hlinduru; nagon hwyrft ne swice, utsiþ æfre, þa þær in cumað, þon ma þe þa fiscas faraðlacende of þæs hwæles fenge hweorfan motan. | 90 | 63 | 27 |
8 | 10 | the_whale.txt | (8-10) | (8-10) | How like a mottled stone is its coloring, like those crumbling at the tide line, hemmed round by dunes, most regal of ocean reefs — | Is þæs hiw gelic hreofum stane, swylce worie bi wædes ofre, sondbeorgum ymbseald, særyrica mæst, | 25 | 15 | 10 |
6b | 7 | the_whale.txt | (6b-7) | (6b-7) | A hashtag was hatched by them for this ancient dreadnought of the draughts: #phastitokalon (neat, huh?) | þam is noma cenned, fyrnstreama geflotan, Fastitocalon. | 16 | 7 | 9 |
4 | 6a | the_whale.txt | (4-6a) | (4-6a) | This one’s ever chanced upon by the wave-dancing, never by design — malign and mean-spirited to all humanity. | Se bið unwillum oft gemeted, frecne ond ferðgrim, fareðlacendum, niþþa gehwylcum; | 18 | 11 | 7 |
1 | 3 | the_whale.txt | (1-3) | (1-3) | Right about now, it’s already time — I’d like to unspool a spot of story in mad slabs of gab about this kind of fish or that, unreeled from the soul’s folds about the weighty whale. | Nu ic fitte gen ymb fisca cynn wille woðcræfte wordum cyþan þurh modgemynd bi þam miclan hwale. | 36 | 17 | 19 |
25 | 31a | the_whale.txt | (25-31a) | (25-31a) | When he perceives them, one practiced in pranks upon the salty way, the journeying safe at sojourn, keeping camp, watching the weather — then without warning, this wraith of the saw-toothed waves, plunges into the abyss, seeking its dreary bottom deceitfully and then entombs them in the drowning tomb, the ship & every sucker aboard. | þæt him þa ferend on fæste wuniaþ, wic weardiað wedres on luste, ðonne semninga on sealtne wæg mid þa noþe niþer gewiteþ garsecges gæst, grund geseceð, ond þonne in deaðsele drence bifæsteð scipu mid scealcum. | 55 | 35 | 20 |
82 | 88 | the_whale.txt | (82-88) | (82-88) | Therefore in all ways, ever oppose these devils, by way of the lord of hosts, with words & works, so that we may be allowed to see the glory-king. Let us always seek pledge in him, safety in this swifting season, so that we are granted in praise enjoyment of glories with one so beloved to the fullness of life. | Forþon is eallinga dryhtna dryhtne, ond a deoflum wiðsace wordum ond weorcum, þæt we wuldorcyning geseon moton. Uton a sibbe to him on þas hwilnan tid hælu secan, þæt we mid swa leofne in lofe motan to widan feore wuldres neotan. | 60 | 41 | 19 |
45b | 50a | the_wifes_lament.txt | (45b-50a) | (45b-50a) | May all of his joys come at his own hand. May his name be the name of infamy, a snarl in faraway mouths, so that my good friend will be sitting under a stony rain-break, crusted by the gusty storms, a man crushed at heart, flowing in his own water, in his tearful timbering. | sy æt him sylfum gelong eal his worulde wyn, sy ful wide fah feorres folclondes, þæt min freond siteð under stanhliþe storme behrimed, wine werigmod, wætre beflowen on dreorsele. | 54 | 29 | 25 |
11 | 14 | the_wifes_lament.txt | (11-14) | (11-14) | So it begins: his family starts scheming moling up mountains of secret malice to delve into our division, make us survive along the widest wound of us — could they be any more loathsome? — and I became a longing inside. | Ongunnon þæt þæs monnes magas hycgan þurh dyrne geþoht, þæt hy todælden unc, þæt wit gewidost in woruldrice lifdon laðlicost, ond mec longade. | 41 | 23 | 18 |
9 | 10 | the_wifes_lament.txt | (9-10) | (9-10) | Then I ferried myself forth, trying to dole my part of the deal, a wretch drained of friends, out a trembling need inside me. | ða ic me feran gewat folgað secan, wineleas wrecca, for minre weaþearfe. | 24 | 12 | 12 |
5 | 8 | the_wifes_lament.txt | (5-8) | (5-8) | When is it never a struggle, a torment, this arc of misfortune, mine alone? It started when my man up and left, who knows where, from his tribe across the sleeplessness of waves. I conceived a care at the dawning of dawn: where did that man of a man go? | A ic wite wonn minra wræcsiþa. ærest min hlaford gewat heonan of leodum ofer yþa gelac; hæfde ic uhtceare hwær min leodfruma londes wære. | 50 | 24 | 26 |
21 | 25a | the_wifes_lament.txt | (21-25a) | (21-25a) | Masked content, so many times we swore that nothing but finality itself could shave us in two, not them, not nothing. The pivot was not long in coming, it’s like, what did I hear a poet say once? “as if it never was…” that was our partnership. | Bliþe gebæro ful oft wit beotedan þæt unc ne gedælde nemne deað ana owiht elles; eft is þæt onhworfen, is nu swa hit no wære freondscipe uncer. | 47 | 27 | 20 |
25b | 32a | the_wifes_lament.txt | (25b-32a) | (25b-32a) | Must I flag on flogging through feud, far & near, of my many-beloved? He was the one who said I should go live in the woods or something, sit under an oak-tree, in a gravel pit. Let’s make it an earthen hall, musty & old, where I’m all foreaten with longing: Dales deep darkly, hills hedge me round, fortresses of sharpness, bramble biting — can a home be devoid of joy? | Sceal ic feor ge neah mines felaleofan fæhðu dreogan. Heht mec mon wunian on wuda bearwe, under actreo in þam eorðscræfe. Eald is þes eorðsele, eal ic eom oflongad, sindon dena dimme, duna uphea, bitre burgtunas, brerum beweaxne, wic wynna leas. | 71 | 41 | 30 |
32b | 34 | the_wifes_lament.txt | (32b-34) | (32b-34) | For too many watches the wrathful from-ways of my lord grabbed hold of me in this place. Who could I count on? Buried. Loved in their lives — all they care about now are their beds. | Ful oft mec her wraþe begeat fromsiþ frean. Frynd sind on eorþan, leofe lifgende, leger weardiað, | 36 | 16 | 20 |
35 | 41 | the_wifes_lament.txt | (35-41) | (35-41) | Then I, when dawn still rumbles, I wander the ways all alone, under the oaks, around these graven walls. There I can sit an endless summer day, where I can rain me down for my wracking steps, my collection of woes. So it goes — never can I, in no wise, catch a break from my cracking cares, nor this unfolding tear that grasps me in this my entire life. | þonne ic on uhtan ana gonge under actreo geond þas eorðscrafu. þær ic sittan mot sumorlangne dæg, þær ic wepan mæg mine wræcsiþas, earfoþa fela; forþon ic æfre ne mæg þære modceare minre gerestan, ne ealles þæs longaþes þe mec on þissum life begeat. | 70 | 44 | 26 |
42 | 45a | the_wifes_lament.txt | (42-45a) | (42-45a) | The young should always keep their heart in check, their inner kindlings cool, likewise they must keep their faces frosty, also the bubbling in their breast, though crowded with swarming sorrows. | A scyle geong mon wesan geomormod, heard heortan geþoht, swylce habban sceal bliþe gebæro, eac þon breostceare, sinsorgna gedreag, | 31 | 19 | 12 |
50b | 53 | the_wifes_lament.txt | (50b-53) | (50b-53) | That one, yeah, that man of mine will drag his days under a mighty mind-caring. He’ll remember every single morning how full of pleasure was our home. What woes are theirs who must weather their worrying for love. | Dreogeð se min wine micle modceare; he gemon to oft wynlicran wic. Wa bið þam þe sceal of langoþe leofes abidan. | 38 | 21 | 17 |
1 | 4 | the_wifes_lament.txt | (1-4) | (1-4) | She Laments Oh, I can relate a tale right here, make myself a map of miseries & trek right across. I can say as much as you like — how many gut-wretched nights ground over me once I was a full-grown woman, from early days to later nights, never ever any more than right now. | Ic þis giedd wrece bi me ful geomorre, minre sylfre sið. Ic þæt secgan mæg, hwæt ic yrmþa gebad, siþþan ic up weox, niwes oþþe ealdes, no ma þonne nu. | 55 | 30 | 25 |
15 | 20 | the_wifes_lament.txt | (15-20) | (15-20) | My love said to shack up in shadowy groves. I was light in loved ones anyways in these lands, in the loyalties of allegiance. Therefore my brain brims with bitterness, when I had located my likeness in him, blessed with hard luck, heart-hollow, painting over his intentions, plotting the greatest of heists. | Het mec hlaford min herheard niman, ahte ic leofra lyt on þissum londstede, holdra freonda. Forþon is min hyge geomor, ða ic me ful gemæcne monnan funde, heardsæligne, hygegeomorne, mod miþendne, morþor hycgendne. | 52 | 33 | 19 |
1 | 12 | vainglory.txt | (1-12) | (1-12) | Okay — an aged counsellor spoke to me in days gone by, a wise messenger, of many unique wonders. He unwrapped his word-hoard, witty of lesson, a warrior learned of books, of prophetic sayings, so that I could afterwards understand by those incantations God’s own son: “A cherished guest in the habitations, and the weaker just the same, deprived of all sins, reasonable in the advisor. Every man can suppose that quite easily, he who does not allow himself to be defiled in his thoughts in this loaned time, a glutton of the mind and in the count of his days drunken with power, | Hwæt, me frod wita on fyrndagum sægde, snottor ar, sundorwundra fela. Wordhord onwreah witgan larum beorn boca gleaw, bodan ærcwide, þæt ic soðlice siþþan meahte ongitan bi þam gealdre godes agen bearn, wilgest on wicum, ond þone wacran swa some, scyldum bescyredne, on gescead witan. þæt mæg æghwylc mon eaþe geþencan, se þe hine ne læteð on þas lænan tid amyrran his gemyndum modes gælsan ond on his dægrime druncen to rice, | 104 | 72 | 32 |
13 | 25 | vainglory.txt | (13-25) | (13-25) | Then many holding assembly are proud war-smiths in their wine-drenched towns— they are sitting at the feast, urging true verses, changing up their words, hastening the wisemen every place of spears within their halls abiding among men, then wine whets them, the breast-souls of warrior. Voices mount high, a tumult in the band, all sorts of noise shall rise up. So the minds become separated into parts, lordly men are all unalike. Some into over-mind closing in forcefully, swelling within him, a mind knowing no bounds—too many are like that! | þonne monige beoð mæþelhegendra, wlonce wigsmiþas winburgum in, sittaþ æt symble, soðgied wrecað, wordum wrixlað, witan fundiaþ hwylc æscstede inne in ræcede mid werum wunige, þonne win hweteð beornes breostsefan. Breahtem stigeð, cirm on corþre, cwide scralletaþ missenlice. Swa beoþ modsefan dalum gedæled, sindon dryhtguman ungelice. Sum on oferhygdo þrymme þringeð, þrinteð him in innan ungemedemad mod; sindan to monige þæt! | 90 | 61 | 29 |
26 | 40a | vainglory.txt | (26-40a) | (26-40a) | Envy will chop them all down, with the flying spears of the enemy, with treacherous machinations— it is roasted and it cries out, it boasts greatly about itself when the better man thinks that every one of his ways seem wholly beyond reproach. There will be another outcome when that man is shown the results of his fault. He skews his words and deceives, he dreams up many hooked devices—he releases his mind-spears shooting forth in showers. He knows not his crimes, the sins he has done—he despises his betters, the nobles from spite, loosing arrows of treachery break through the fortress wall, the defenses that the Measurer commanded that he keep well, sitting feast-fat, | Bið þæt æfþonca eal gefylled feondes fligepilum, facensearwum; breodað he ond bælceð, boð his sylfes swiþor micle þonne se sella mon, þenceð þæt his wise welhwam þince eal unforcuþ. Biþ þæs oþer swice, þonne he þæs facnes fintan sceawað. Wrenceþ he ond blenceþ, worn geþenceþ hinderhoca, hygegar leteð, scurum sceoteþ. He þa scylde ne wat fæhþe gefremede, feoþ his betran eorl fore æfstum, læteð inwitflan brecan þone burgweal, þe him bebead meotud þæt he þæt wigsteal wergan sceolde, siteþ symbelwlonc, | 115 | 80 | 35 |
40b | 49 | vainglory.txt | (40b-49) | (40b-49) | letting go cunning words to travel forth, thronging with quarrel, puffed up with pride, kindled with malice, full of overweening, with spiteful enticements. Now you could know if you have met such a thane abiding in his habitation, understand by these few pronouncements what the child of the enemy, taken up in flesh, has in his prideful life, a spirit hurrying to ground, destitute of God, | searwum læteð wine gewæged word ut faran, þræfte þringan þrymme gebyrmed, æfæstum onæled, oferhygda ful, niþum nearowrencum. Nu þu cunnan meaht, gif þu þyslicne þegn gemittest wunian in wicum, wite þe be þissum feawum forðspellum þæt þæt biþ feondes bearn flæsce bifongen, hafað fræte lif, grundfusne gæst gode orfeormne, | 66 | 49 | 17 |
50 | 66 | vainglory.txt | (50-66) | (50-66) | the King of Glory. That wise man sang, the word-ready warrior, and he retold this legend: “He who elevates himself in this perilous moment through his overmastering pride, heaving up his lofty spirit, he must be humbled after his passing journey, crushed down low, dwelling fixed in torments, encompassed with serpents. That happened many years ago in God’s realm that overweening mounted high among the angels, the struggle of the far-famed. They heaved up a crime, a severe expedition, polluting the heavens, despising their betters, those that thought too deceitfully to rob the power of the regal throne from the Majestic King, as was not right, and then set themselves over that delightful land of glory, upon their own judgment. That fate the Father of First-Creation resisted them in war— that struggle became too grim for them. | wuldorcyninge. þæt se witga song, gearowyrdig guma, ond þæt gyd awræc: "Se þe hine sylfne in þa sliþnan tid þurh oferhygda up ahlæneð, ahefeð heahmodne, se sceal hean wesan æfter neosiþum niþer gebiged, wunian witum fæst, wyrmum beþrungen. þæt wæs geara iu in godes rice þætte mid englum oferhygd astag, widmære gewin. Wroht ahofan, heardne heresiþ, heofon widledan, forsawan hyra sellan, þa hi to swice þohton ond þrymcyning þeodenstoles ricne beryfan, swa hit ryht ne wæs, ond þonne gesettan on hyra sylfra dom wuldres wynlond. þæt him wige forstod fæder frumsceafta; wearð him seo feohte to grim. | 137 | 97 | 40 |
67 | 85 | vainglory.txt | (67-85) | (67-85) | Then he who will be unlike the others here on earth will dwell humbly, and with any of his brothers he always keeps concord among the people and loves his enemy, though he often made offense against him, with his desires in this world. He will be allowed to mount up from here the joys of glory into the hope of holiness in the yards of angels. Nor can it be for those others, him who live in laughter through wicked deeds in overweening pride, nor will their rewards be alike with the Glory-King.” Understand by these words, if you encounter a humble earl, a thane in his tribe, who will always be gathered in his spirit, God’s own child, pleasant in this world— if this wise man does not lie to me. Therefore we must always, considering the counsel of safety, remember in our mind with all of these words the greatest Sovereign of Victories. Amen. | ðonne bið þam oþrum ungelice se þe her on eorþan eaðmod leofað, ond wiþ gesibbra gehwone simle healdeð freode on folce ond his feond lufað, þeah þe he him abylgnesse oft gefremede willum in þisse worulde. Se mot wuldres dream in haligra hyht heonan astigan on engla eard. Ne biþ þam oþrum swa, se þe on ofermedum eargum dædum leofaþ in leahtrum, ne beoð þa lean gelic mid wuldorcyning." Wite þe be þissum, gif þu eaðmodne eorl gemete, þegn on þeode, þam bið simle gæst gegæderad godes agen bearn wilsum in worlde, gif me se witega ne leag. Forþon we sculon a hycgende hælo rædes gemunan in mode mæla gehwylcum þone selestan sigora waldend. Amen. | 157 | 115 | 42 |
135 | 143 | widsith.txt | (135-143) | (135-143) | So the minstrels of men turned to leave wandering among the created world, throughout many lands, talking at need, speaking grateful words, always to the south or north, measuring out a certain wise song, unstingy of their gifts— he who wishes to rear up glory among the multitude to execute his authority, until everything hurries away, the light and life together—he works praise, having under the heavens an enduring reputation. | Swa scriþende gesceapum hweorfað gleomen gumena geond grunda fela, þearfe secgað, þoncword sprecaþ, simle suð oþþe norð sumne gemetað gydda gleawne, geofum unhneawne, se þe fore duguþe wile dom aræran, eorlscipe æfnan, oþþæt eal scæceð, leoht ond lif somod; lof se gewyrceð, hafað under heofonum heahfæstne dom. | 70 | 47 | 23 |
1 | 9 | widsith.txt | (1-9) | (1-9) | Widsith came to talk, unlocking his wordy hoard, he who had travelled furthest across the earth among men and tribes and peoples— often he had prospered on the hall-floor with agreeable treasures. From among the Myrgingas his lineage sprung. He with Ealhild, an unfailing peace-weaver, for the first time seeking the home of Hreth-king, east of the Angle, of Eormanric, the angry breaker of covenant. He began to speak many words: | Widsið maðolade, wordhord onleac, se þe monna mæst mægþa ofer eorþan, folca geondferde; oft he on flette geþah mynelicne maþþum. Him from Myrgingum æþele onwocon. He mid Ealhhilde, fælre freoþuwebban, forman siþe Hreðcyninges ham gesohte eastan of Ongle, Eormanrices, wraþes wærlogan. Ongon þa worn sprecan: | 71 | 45 | 26 |
109 | 122 | widsith.txt | (109-122) | (109-122) | From there I wandered all throughout the homeland of the Goths, seeking always the best companions— that was within the horde of Eormanric. I sought Hethca and Beadeca and the Herelingas, I sought Emerca and Fridla and the East-Goths, aged and excellent, the father of Unwena. I sought Secca and Becca, Seafola and Theodric, Heathoric and Sifeca, Hlithe and Ingentheow. I sought Eadwine and Elsa, Ægelmund and Hungar, and those proud companies of the With-Myrgingas. I sought Wulfhere and Wyrmhere—very often the war did not end there, when the forces of Hræda with hardened swords must defend their old home-seat around the Wistla Woods against the folk of Attila. | ðonan ic ealne geondhwearf eþel Gotena, sohte ic a gesiþa þa selestan; þæt wæs innweorud Earmanrices. Heðcan sohte ic ond Beadecan ond Herelingas, Emercan sohte ic ond Fridlan ond Eastgotan, frodne ond godne fæder Unwenes. Seccan sohte ic ond Beccan, Seafolan ond þeodric, Heaþoric ond Sifecan, Hliþe ond Incgenþeow. Eadwine sohte ic ond Elsan, ægelmund ond Hungar, ond þa wloncan gedryht Wiþmyrginga. Wulfhere sohte ic ond Wyrmhere; ful oft þær wig ne alæg, þonne Hræda here heardum sweordum ymb Wistlawudu wergan sceoldon ealdne eþelstol ætlan leodum. | 109 | 86 | 23 |
103 | 108 | widsith.txt | (103-108) | (103-108) | “Then we two Scillingas heaved up a song for our victory-lord with shining speech, loud by the harp, voices chiming, when many men, with proud minds, spoke wordfully, those that knew how to well, so that never was a better song heard. | ðonne wit Scilling sciran reorde for uncrum sigedryhtne song ahofan, hlude bi hearpan hleoþor swinsade, þonne monige men, modum wlonce, wordum sprecan, þa þe wel cuþan, þæt hi næfre song sellan ne hyrdon. | 42 | 33 | 9 |
97 | 102 | widsith.txt | (97-102) | (97-102) | “And then Ealhild gave to me another gift, the lordly queen of glory, the daughter of Eadwine. Her praises I extended throughout many lands, when I had to speak through songs where I knew best beneath the heavens the gold-adorned queen was sharing out gifts. | Ond me þa Ealhhild oþerne forgeaf, dryhtcwen duguþe, dohtor Eadwines. Hyre lof lengde geond londa fela, þonne ic be songe secgan sceolde hwær ic under swegle selast wisse goldhrodene cwen giefe bryttian. | 45 | 32 | 13 |
Subsets and Splits