THE WANDERER*

The lament of The Wanderer is an excellent example of the elegiac mood so common in Old English
poetry. The loss of a lord, of companions in arms, of a mead hall (in which Anglo-Saxon life realized
itself to the full) are themes that enhance the melancholy tone of Beowulf as they are the emotional
basis for such a poem as the present one. But nowhere more poignantly expressed than in The
Wanderer is the loneliness of the exile in search of a new lord and hall; this is what Beowulf's father,
Ecgtheow, would have suffered, had it not been for Hrothgar's hospitality. To the wretched seeker
all weather is wintry, for nature seems to conspire to match a man's mood as he moves over the
water from one land to another, yearning for a home and kin to replace those vanished ones that
still fill his thoughts. As is true of most Old English elegiac laments, both the language and the
structure of The Wanderer are difficult. At the beginning the speaker (whom the poet identifies as an
"earth-walker") voices hope of finding comfort after his many tribulations. After the poet's
interruption, the wanderer continues to speakto himselfof his long search for a new home,
describing how he must keep his thoughts locked within him while he makes his search. But these
thoughts form the most vivid and moving part of his soliloquyhow, floating on the sea, dazed with
sorrow and fatigue, he imagines that he sees his old companions, and how, as he wakens to reality,
they vanish over the water like seabirds. The second part of the poem, beginning with the seventh
paragraph ("Therefore I cannot think why . . ."), expands the theme from one man to all human
beings in a world wasted by war and time, and the speaker draws philosophical implications from
his harsh experiences (presumably now in the past). He derives such cold comfort as he can from
asking the old question Ubi sunt?where are they who were once so glad to be alive? And he
concludes with the thought that "all this earthly habitation shall be emptied" of humankind. The
narrator communes with himself in private, apparently as an indication of his detachment from life.
The poem concludes with a characteristic Old English injunction to practice restraint on earth,
place hope only in heaven. The Waitderer is preserved only in the Exeter Book, a manuscript copied
about 975, which contains the largest surviving collection of Old English poetry.

The Wanderer1
"He who is alone often lives to find favor, mildness of the Lord, even though he has long had to stir with
his arms the frost-cold sea, troubled in heart over the water-way had to tread the tracks of exile. Fullyfixed is his fate." So spoke the earth-walker, remembering hardships, fierce war-slaughters the fall of
dear kinsmen.
"Often before the day dawned I have had to speak of my cares, alone: there is now none among the living
to whom I dare clearly express the thought of my heart. I know indeed that it is a fine custom for a man to
lock tight his heart's coffer, keep closed the hoard-case of his mind, whatever his thoughts may be. Words
of a weary heart may not withstand fate, nor those of an angry spirit bring help. Therefore men eager for
fame shut sorrowful thought up fast in their breast's coffer.
"Thus I, wretched with care, removed from my homeland, far from dear kinsmen, have had to fasten with
fetters the thoughts of my heartever since the time, many years ago, that I covered my gold-friend in
the darkness of the earth; and from there I crossed the woven waves, winter-sad, downcast for want of a
hall, sought a giver of treasurea place, far or near, where I might find one in a mead-hall who should
know of my people, or would comfort me friendless, receive me with gladness. He who has experienced
it knows how cruel a companion sorrow is to the man who has no beloved protectors. Exile's path awaits
him, not twisted goldfrozen thoughts in his heart-case, no joy of earth. He recalls the hall-warriors and
the taking of treasure, how in youth his gold-friend made him accustomed to feasting. All delight has
gone. "He who has had long to forgo the counsel of a beloved lord knows indeed how, when sorrow and
1 This translation by E. T. Donaldson is based on the text as edited by John C. Pope in Eight Old English Poems,
3rd ed., rev. by R. D. Fulk (2000)

sleep together bind the poor dweller-alone, it will seem to him in his mind that he is embracing and
kissing his liege lord and laying his hands and his head on his knee, as it some times was in the old days
when he took part in the gift-giving. Then he wakens again, the man with, no lord, sees the yellow waves
before him, the sea-birds bathe, spread their feathers, frost and snow fall, mingled with hail. "Then the
wounds are deeper in his heart, sore for want of his dear one. His sorrow renews as the memory of his
kinsmen moves through his mind: he greets them with glad words, eagerly looks at them, a company of
warriors. Again they fade, moving off over the water; the spirit of these fleeting ones brings to him no
familiar voices. Care renews in him who must again and again send his weary heart out over the woven
waves.
"Therefore I cannot think why the thoughts of my heart should not grow dark when I consider all the life
of men through this worldwith what terrible swiftness they forgo the hall-floor, bold young retainers.
So this middle-earth each day fails and falls. No man may indeed become wise before he has had his
share of winters in this world's kingdom. The wise man must be patient, must never be too hot-hearted,
nor too hasty of speech, nor too fearful, nor too glad, nor too greedy for wealth, nor ever too eager to
boast before he has
thought clearly. A man must wait, when he speaks in boast, until he knows clearly, sure-minded, where
the thoughts of his heart may turn.
"The wise warrior must consider how ghostly it will be when all the wealth of this world stands waste,
just as now here and there through this middleearth wind-blown walls stand covered with frost-fall,
storm-beaten dwellings. Wine-halls totter, the lord lies bereft of joy, all the company has fallen, bold men
beside the wall. War took away some, bore them forth on their way; a bird carried one away over the deep
sea; a wolf shared one with Death; another a man sad of face hid in an earth-pit.
"So the Maker of mankind laid waste this dwelling-place until the old works of giants 2 stood idle, devoid
of the noise of the stronghold's keepers. Therefore the man wise in his heart considers carefully this wallplace and this dark life, remembers the multitude of deadly combats long ago, and speaks these words:
'Where has the horse gone? Where the young warrior? Where is the giver of treasure? What has become
of the feasting seats? Where are the joys of the hall? Alas, the bright cup! Alas, the mailed warrior! Alas,
the prince's glory! How that time has gone, vanished beneath night's cover, just as if it never had been!
The wall, wondrous high, decorated with snake-likenesses, stands now over traces of the beloved
company. The ash-spears' might has borne the earls awayweapons greedy for slaughter, Fate the
mighty; and storms beat on the stone walls, snow, the herald of winter, falling thick binds the earth when
darkness comes and the night-shadow falls, sends harsh hailstones from the north in hatred of men. All
earth's kingdom is wretched, the world beneath the skies is changed by the work of the fates. Here wealth
is fleeting, here friend is fleeting, here man is fleeting, here woman is fleetingall this earthly habitation
shall be emptied.' "
So the wise man spoke in his heart, sat apart in private meditation. He is good who keeps his word; a man
must never utter too quickly his breast's passion, unless he knows first how to achieve remedy, as a leader
with his courage. It will be well with him who seeks favor, comfort from the Father in heaven, where for
us all stability resides.
* Greenblatt, Stephen, M. H. Abrahams (eds.), The Norton Anthology of English Literature, Vol. 1, 8th edition, New
York and London: W. W. Norton & Company, 2006

2 Probably a reference to Roman ruins.

2

The Seafarer*
Prose translation by
R. K. Gordon (1926)

I can utter a true song about myself, tell of my travels, how in toilsome days I often
suffered a time of hardship, how I have borne bitter sorrow in my breast, made trial of
many sorrowful abodes on ships; dread was the rolling of the waves. There the hard
night watch at the boat's prow was often my task, when it tossed by the cliffs.
Afflicted with cold, my feet were fettered by frost, chill bonds. There my sorrows, hot
round my heart, were sighed forth; hunger within rent the mind of the sea-weary man.
The man who fares most prosperously on land knows not how I, careworn, have spent
a winter as an exile on the ice-cold sea, cut off from kinsmen, hung round with icicles.
The hail flew in showers, I heard naught there save the sea booming, the ice-cold
billow, at times the song of the swan. I took my gladness in the cry of the gannet and
the sound of the curlew instead of the laughter of men, in the screaming of gull
instead of the drink of mead. There the storms beat against the rocky cliffs; there the
tern with icy feathers answered them full often the dewy-winged eagle screamed
around. No protector could comfort the heart in its need. And yet he who has the bliss
of life, who, proud and flushed with wine, suffers few hardships in the city, little
believes how I often in weariness had to dwell on the ocean path. The shadow of night
grew dark, snow came from the north, frost bound the earth; hail fell on the ground,
coldest of grain. And yet the thoughts of my heart are now stirred that I myself should
make trial of the high streams, of the tossing of the salt waves; the desire of the heart
always exhorts to venture forth that I may visit the land of strange people far hence.
And yet there is no man on earth so proud, nor so generous of his gifts, nor so bold in
youth, nor so daring in his deeds, nor with a lord so gracious unto him, that he has not
always anxiety about his seafaring, as to what the Lord will bestow on him. His
thoughts are not of the harp, nor of receiving rings, nor of delight in a woman, nor of
joy in the world, not of aught else save the rolling of the waves; but he who sets out
on the waters ever feels longing. The groves put forth blossoms; cities grow beautiful;
the fields are fair; the world revives; all these urge the heart of the eager-minded man
to a journey, him who thus purposes to fare far on the ways of the flood. Likewise the
cuckoo exhorts with sad voice; the harbinger of summer sings, bodes bitter sorrow to
the heart. The man knows not, the prosperous being, what some of those endure who
most widely pace the paths of exile. And yet my heart is now restless in my breast, my
mind is with the sea-flood over the whale's domain; it fares widely over the face of the
earth, comes again to me eager and unsatisfied; the lone-flier screams, resistlessly
urges he heart to the whale-way over the stretch of seas.
3

Wherefore the joys of the Lord are more inspiring for me than this dead fleeting life
on earth. I have no faith that earthly riches will abide for ever. Each one of three
things is ever uncertain ere its time comes; illness or age or hostility will take life
away from a man doomed and dying. Wherefore the praise of living men who shall
speak after he is gone, the best of fame after death for every man, is that he should
strive ere he must depart, work on earth with bold deeds against the malice of fiends,
against the devil, so that the children of men may later exalt him and his praise live
afterwards among the angels for ever and ever, the joy of life eternal, delight amid
angels.
The days have departed, all the pomps of earth's kingdom; kings, or emperors, or
givers of gold, are not as of yore when they wrought among themselves greatest deeds
of glory, and lived in most lordly splendour. This host has fallen, the delights have
departed; weaklings live on and possess this world, enjoy it by their toil. Glory is laid
low; the nobleness of the earth ages and withers, as now every man does throughout
the world. Old age comes on him; his face grows pale; grey-haired he laments; he
knows that his former friends, the sons of princes, have been laid in the earth. Then,
when life leaves him, his body can neither taste sweetness, nor feel pain, nor stir a
hand, nor ponder in thought. Though he will strew the grave with gold, bury his
brother with various treasures beside dead kinsmen, that will not go with him. (1) To the
soul full of sins the gold which it hoards while it lives here gives no help in the face of
God's wrath. Great is the fear of God, whereby the earth turns; he established the
mighty plains, the face of the earth, and the sky above. Foolish is he who fears not his
Lord; death comes to him unexpected. Blessed is he who lives humbly; mercy comes
to him from heaven; God establishes that heart in him because he trusts in his
strength.
One must check a violent mind and control it with firmness, and be trustworthy to
men, pure in ways of life.
Every man should show moderation in love towards a friend and enmity towards a
foe. . . . Fate is more strong, God more mighty than any man's thought. Let us
consider where we possess our home, and then think how we may come thither, and
let us then also attempt to win there, to the eternal bliss, where life springs from God's
love, joy in heaven. Thanks be for ever to the Holy One because He, the Prince of
glory, the Lord everlasting, has honoured us. Amen.
1. An obscure passage.
* http://www.usask.ca/english/seafarer/startp.htm