Often the solitary one experiences mercy for himself, the mercy of the Measurer, although he, troubled in spirit, over the ocean must long stir with his hands the rime-cold sea,

travel the paths of exile – Fate is inexorable.” So said the wanderer, mindful of hardships, of cruel deadly combats, the fall of dear kinsmen – “Often alone each morning I must Bewail my sorrow; there is now none living

to whom I dare tell clearly my inmost thoughts. I know indeed that it is a noble custom in a man to bind fast his thoughts with restraint, hold his treasure-chest, think what he will.

The man weary in spirit cannot withstand fate, nor may the troubled mind offer help. Therefore those eager for praise often bind a sad mind in their breast-coffer with restraint. So I, miserably sad, separated from homeland, far from my noble kin, had to bind my thoughts with fetters,

since that long ago the darkness of the earth covered my gold-friend, and I, abject, proceeded thence, winter-sad, over the binding of the waves.

Sad, I sought the hall of a giver of treasure, Where I might find, far or near, one who in the meadhall might know about my people, or might wish to comfort me, friendless, entertain with delights. He knows who experiences it

how cruel care is as a companion, to him who has few beloved protectors. The path of exile awaits him, not twisted gold, frozen feelings, not earth’s glory. he remembers retainers and the receiving of treasure,

how in youth his gold-friend accustomed him to the feast. But all pleasure has failed. Indeed he knows who must for a long time do without the counsels of his beloved lord when sorrow and sleep together

often bind the wretched solitary man– he thinks in his heart that he embraces and kisses his lord, and lays hands and head on his knee, just as he once at times in former days, enjoyed the gift-giving.

Then the friendless man awakes again, sees before him the dusky waves, the seabirds bathing, spreading their wings, frost and snow fall, mingled with hail. Then are his heart’s wounds the heavier because of that,

sore with longing for a loved one. Sorrow is renewed when the memory of kinsmen passes through his mind; he greets with signs of joy, eagerly surveys his companions, warriors. They swim away again. The spirit of the floating ones never brings there many

familiar utterances. Care is renewed for the one who must very often send his weary spirit over the binding of the waves, Therefore I cannot think why throughout the world my mind should not grow dark

when I contemplate all the life of men, how they suddenly left the hall floor, brave young retainers. So this middle-earth fails and falls each day; therefore a man may not become wise before he owns

a share of winters in the kingdom of this world. A wise man must be patient, nor must he ever be too hot tempered, nor too hasty of speech nor too weak in battles, nor too heedless, nor too fearful, nor too cheerful, nor too greedy for wealth nor ever too eager for boasting before he knows for certain.

A man must wait, when he speaks a boast, until, stout-hearted, he knows for certain whither the thought of the heart may wish to turn. The prudent man must realize how ghastly it will be when all the wealth of this world stands waste,

as now variously throughout this middle-earth walls stand beaten by the wind, covered with rime, snow-covered the dwellings. The wine-halls go to ruin, the rulers lie deprived of joy, the host has all perished

proud by the wall. Some war took, carried on the way forth; one a bird carried off over the high sea; one the gray wolf shared with Death; one a sad-faced nobleman buried in an earth-pit.

So the Creator of men laid waste this region, until the ancient world of giants, lacking the noises of the citizens, stood idle. He who deeply contemplates this wall-stead, and this dark life with wise thought,

old in spirit, often remembers long ago, a multitude of battles, and speaks these words: “Where is the horse? Where is the young warrior? Where is the giver of treasure? Where are the seats of the banquets? Where are the joys in the hall? Alas the bright cup! Alas the mailed warrior!

Alas the glory of the prince! How the time has gone, vanished under night’s helm, as if it never were! Now in place of a beloved host stands a wall wondrously high, decorated with the likenesses of serpents. The powers of spears took the noblemen, weapons greedy for slaughter; fate the renowned, and storms beat against these rocky slopes, falling snowstorm binds the earth, the noise of winter, then the dark comes. The shadow of night grows dark, sends from the north a rough shower of hail in enmity to the warriors. All the kingdom of earth is full of trouble, the operation of the fates changes the world under the heavens. Here wealth is transitory, here friend is transitory, here man is transitory, here woman is transitory,

this whole foundation of the earth becomes empty. So spoke the wise in spirit, sat by himself in private meditation. He who is good keeps his pledge, nor shall the man ever manifest the anger of his breast too quickly, unless he, the man, should know beforehand how to accomplish the remedy with courage. It will be well for him who seeks grace,

comfort from the Father in the heavens, where a fastness stands for us all.

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!” Swa cwæð eardstapa, earfeþa gemyndig, wraþra wælsleahta, winemæga hryre: “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 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. 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! 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. 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. 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, 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.

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.

Yþde swa þisne eardgeard ælda scyppend oþþæt burgwara breahtma lease eald enta geweorc idlu stodon. Se þonne þisne wealsteal wise geþohte ond þis deorce lif deope geondþenceð,

frod in ferðe, feor oft gemon wælsleahta worn, ond þas word acwið: “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. 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. 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!” 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. Wel bið þam þe him are seceð,

frofre to fæder on heofonum, þær us eal seo fæstnung stondeð.

Often the lone-dweller awaits his own favor, the Measurer’s mercy, though he must, mind-caring, throughout the ocean’s way stir the rime-chilled sea with his hands for a long while, tread the tracks of exile— the way of the world is ever an open book.

So spoke the earth-stepper, mindful of miseries, slaughter of the wrathful, crumbling of kinsmen:

Often alone, every daybreak, I must bewail my cares. There is now no one living to whom I dare articulate my mind’s grasp. I know as truth that it is a noble custom for a man to enchain his spirit’s close, to hold his hoarded coffer, think what he will.

Nor can the weary mind withstand these outcomes, nor can a troubled heart effect itself help. Therefore those eager for glory will often secure a sorrowing mind in their breast-coffer — just as I must fasten in fetters my heart’s ken, often wretched, deprived of my homeland, far from freeborn kindred, since years ago I gathered my gold-friend in earthen gloom, and went forth from there abjected, winter-anxious over the binding of waves, hall-wretched, seeking a dispenser of treasure, where I, far or near, could find him who in the mead-hall might know of my kind, or who wishes to comfort a friendless me, accustomed as he is to joys.

The experienced one knows how cruel sorrow is as companion, he who has few adored protectors— the paths of the exile claim him, not wound gold at all— a frozen spirit-lock, not at all the fruits of the earth. He remembers hall-retainers and treasure-taking, how his gold-friend accustomed him in his youth to feasting. Joy is all departed!

Therefore he knows who must long forgo the counsels of beloved lord, when sleep and sorrow both together constrain the miserable loner so often. It seems to him in his mind that he embraces and kisses his lord, and lays both hands and head on his knee, just as he sometimes in the days of yore delighted in the gift-throne. Then he soon wakes up, a friendless man, seeing before him the fallow waves, the sea-birds bathing, fanning their feathers, ice and snow falling down, mixed with hail.

Then the hurt of the heart will be heavier, painful after the beloved. Sorrow will be renewed. Whenever the memory of kin pervades his mind, he greets them joyfully, eagerly looking them up and down, the companions of men—they always swim away.

The spirits of seabirds do not bring many familiar voices there. Cares will be renewed for him who must very frequently send his weary soul over the binding of the waves.

Therefore I cannot wonder across this world why my mind does not muster in the murk when I ponder pervading all the lives of men, how they suddenly abandoned their halls, the proud young thanes. So this entire middle-earth tumbles and falls every day —

Therefore a man cannot become wise, before he has earned his share of winters in this world. A wise man ought to be patient, nor too hot-hearted, nor too hasty of speech, nor too weak a warrior, nor too foolhardy, nor too fearful nor too fey, nor too coin-grasping, nor ever too bold for boasting, before he knows readily.

A stout-hearted warrior ought to wait, when he makes a boast, until he readily knows where the thoughts of his heart will veer. A wise man ought to perceive how ghostly it will be when all this world’s wealth stands wasted, so now in various places throughout this middle-earth, the walls stand, blown by the wind, crushed by frost, the buildings snow-swept. The winehalls molder, their wielder lies deprived of joys, his peerage all perished, proud by the wall. War destroyed some, ferried along the forth-way, some a bird bore away over the high sea, another the grey wolf separated in death, another a teary-cheeked warrior hid in an earthen cave.

And so the Shaper of Men has laid this middle-earth to waste until the ancient work of giants stood empty, devoid of the revelry of their citizens.

Then he wisely contemplates this wall-stead and deeply thinks through this darkened existence, aged in spirit, often remembering from afar many war-slaughterings, and he speaks these words:

Where has the horse gone? Where is the man? Where is the giver of treasure? Where are the seats at the feast? Where are the joys of the hall? Alas the bright goblet! Alas the mailed warrior! Alas the pride of princes! How the space of years has passed — it grows dark beneath the night-helm, as if it never was!

It stands now in the track of the beloved multitude, a wall wonderfully tall, mottled with serpents— the force of ashen spears has seized its noblemen, weapons greedy for slaughter, the well-known way of the world, and the storms beat against these stony cliffs. The tumbling snows bind up the earth, the clash of winter, when the darkness comes. The night-shadows grow dark, sent down from the north, the ferocious hail-showers, in hatred of men.

All is misery-fraught in the realm of earth, the work of fortune changes the world under the heavens. Here wealth is loaned. Here friends are loaned. Here man is loaned. Here family is loaned— And this whole foundation of the earth wastes away!

So spoke the wise man in his mind, as he sat apart in secret consultation.

A good man who keeps his troth ought never manifest his miseries too quickly from his breast, unless he knows his balm beforehand, an earl practicing his courage.

It will be well for him who seeks the favor, the comfort from our father in heaven, where a fortress stands for us all.