Seafarer

[This is my translation of the OE poem The Seafarer. The image is ‘Winter Sea’, a woodcut by Merlyn Chesterman, available to buy.]

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May I by my self // reckon a strong song,
share my sea-travels, // speak of struck sufferings,
weary weeks of // wakeful worrying,
how burdens of bitterness // brought me low.

Aboard my craft I knew // crowds of cares:
a wrangling wavewash // often worked me
nervy nightwatches // navigating the ship
lest we be cliff-crashed. // Cold-throttled
were my feet, // frost-fixed,

cold clasped me, // and cares seethed
hot in my heart, // hunger slating my innards
marineweary mood. // Most men never know it.
A fellow on farmland? // Fine things befall him!
But I, always illstruck // on an icecold sea,

wasted my winter down // the ways of exile,
bereft of fine kinsmen,
hung heavy with icicles // harangued by hail.
Nothing to hear // but the howling sea
and its icecold surge. // A swan's song

was all my company; // gannets’ calls
and curlews’ cries // came to me as a comfort:
seamews’ moans // instead of mead-drinking!
Storms beat the stonecliffs // where the terns sang
icy-feathered; // eagles’ fanfares

gleaming-feathered. // No glad-kinsmen
made this mourning man // more comfortable.
Little does he realise, // life's lucky-one
abiding in some borough // far from all bad things,
proud, tipsy on wine, // whilst I'm punchdrunk

stunned on the sealanes // stuck solid.

Nightshadows enlarge. // Snow gnarls from the north;
ice seals the soil; // hail is sown on the ground,
glacial grains. // How grievous now are
my heart's hard thoughts, // and these high streams,

my sole struggle, // are self-selected.
Months mark my desire, // measuring when next
I again unheave sails // heading far from here
to the stranger's land // that I set out to seek.
For there is no man // so majestic on earth,

none so generous with gifts, // no juvenile so juiced-up,
no longshanks so lionhearted, // none so loved by his lord,
but that as soon as he sails // anxiety assaults him:
dreading what his lord // might do with him.
No harp's glissando // nor gifts of rings,

nor the winning of wives // nor worldly glory,
nor anything else either // except ocean's agitation.
But he's driven by wanting // at war with the waves.

Forests blossom // burghs become fairer,
the wolds look wonderful // the world renews

and all is urgent. // So the eager soul
is inspirited to sail out, // and sets itself to
follow the floodways // as a far-traveller.
It's the cuckoo's counsel, // her melancholy call:
summer's ward sings // a prophecy of sorrow and

bitterness in the breast. // The bloke back-home barely knows,
(though a celebrated soldier!) // what others suffer
those that wander wide // through exile's wilderness.

While my soul writhes // under my ribs,
my spirit soars // skimming the saltwater

over the whale paths // wandering wide,
to all earth's corners, // coming back to me
eager, still greedy, // a gabbling one-flier,
urging the whale-way // on the unresisting heart
over heaving seas. // Hotter for me the

delights of the Lord // than this dead life,
brief on earth's bosom. // I do not believe
that all this earth-wealth // ultimately endures.
One of three things // through it all
is destined to dissolve // all dubeity:

illness or old-age // or the edged-sword's hate
will dig out the soul // from those doomed-to-die.
It's this way for all of us: // afterwards, eulogies and
love from the living // the best last words,
this one's works // before he went his ways:

wealth in a world // at war with fiends,
his daring deeds // defying those devils,
heirs yet unborn // will be in awe of him,
and his after-fame // will abide with the angels
always and ever, // the honour of eternal life,

a deathless delight. // But the great days have declined,
the regal renown // of earthly riches.
There are not kings // nor great commanders,
nor wealthgivers // as once there were,
those mighty men // who accomplished marvels,

so much amazing // majesty was theirs!
That delight's dead now: // the dream has departed.
Weaker ones now dwell // with the world their holding;
hard-work made it theirs. // Higher glory is humbled,
earth's nobleness // and all its ages evaporate,

as does each man // across middle-earth.
Old-age overtakes him, // obscures his face:
his grey-hairs grieve // for the friends who have gone,
aristocratic offspring // all interred in the ground.
His flesh unfastens itself // as his soul's fire fails,

he can't taste the sweetness // nor sense the sour,
no heft in his hand // nor thought in his head.
Though his graveside // will be strewn with gold
by brothers of his blood // though they bury with him
cornucopias of cash // you can't take it with you.

No person's soul, // so full of sin, can
grasp such gold // given God's displeasure,
though he'd hidden it all // when he still had his health.

In awe of the Almighty // earth averts her eyes.
It was He gave us // the hefty ground,

the earth's whole surface // and the sky above.
Only a fool doesn't fear God; // death finds such a fellow faceless.
The holy man is humbler // husked in heaven's mercy,
the Maker sets his mind steady // who fathoms His might.
Man must steer a strong spirit, // and keep a settled course,

and cleave to his crew // with a clean wisdom,
his men must be // mustered effectively
love him in the light times // and be loyal in the dark.
He must firm his will // to the final fall of fire
when the funeral pyre // flames balefully

fashioned by his family. // Fate is far stronger,
the Maker much mightier // than any man's mind.
Come, consider // where we can locate home,
and then think hard // how best to get thither,
to make every effort, // so that we might

enter in that // everlasting ecstasy,
whose life relies on // loving the Lord,
in the hope of heaven. // Thanks to the Holy One,
that he gave to the world // this gift of Glory,
everlasting God, // in all the earth's ages!

Amen.