The Wife’s Lament

I speak this poem about my miserable self, my own journey. I can tell about the hardship I endured, while I grew up, recently or long ago: never more hardship than now. Always I suffered the torment of my exile-journey.

First, my lord departed from the people and over the tumult of waves. I grieved (at dusk and dawn) about where my leader of men might be. When I, a friendless wanderer, departed, because of my woeful need, and sought his retinue, his kinsmen—with secret thoughts—began to conspire how they might separate the two of us: so we have lived most wretchedly, as far apart as possible in this world—and it afflicted me with longing. My lord ordered me to take up in a grove-abode; I had few dear people, loyal friends, in this country, and my mind is therefore sad. Then I found a man completely suitable for me—ill-fated, sad in mind, secretive—planning murder behind my chearful demeanor. Often we two vowed that nothing at all might separate us except death alone. But now our friendship is changed: it is as if it never had been. Everywhere I must endure the enmity of my beloved.

The man commanded me to dwell in a grove of trees, under an oak tree, in a cave. This barrow is old; I am completely seized with longing; the valleys are dreary; the hills are lofty; the strongholds are grim, grown over with briars; the house is devoid of joys. Very often the departure of the lord tormented me here. Friends are on earth, living lovers; before dawn they occupy beds, when I alone walk under the oak tree and through the barrows. There I may sit as long as a summer’s day; there I can weep over my exile-journeys, my many sorrows; therefore I never can rest from my grieving heart, nor all of the longing that I have begottin in this life.

It could be that a young man must always be sad-minded, hard-hearted; he must likewise have a cheerful demeanor, in addition to heart-grief, a tumult of constant sorrows. If he relies on himself for all his joy in the world, or if he is an outcast, far from the land of his people, that friend of mine—weary-minded—sits under a cliff in a frost-covered storm, surrounded by water in a desolate hall, and suffers much grief in his heart; too often he remembers a more delightful house. Woe be to those who must wait the beloved with longing.

The original follows:

Ic þis giedd wrece bi me ful geomorre,
minresylfre sið. Ic þæt secgan mæg,
hwæt ic yrmþa gebad, siþþan ic up aweox,
niwes oþþe ealdes, no ma þonne nu.
A ic wite wonn minra wræcsiþa.

Ærest min hlaford gewat heonan of leodum
ofer yþa gelac; hæfde ic uhtceare
hwær min leodfruma londes wære.
Ða ic me feran gewat folgað secan,
wineleas wræcca, for minre weaþearfe;
ongunnon þæt þæs monnes magas hycgan
þurh dyrne geþoht, þæt hy todælden unc,
þæt wit gewidost in woruldrice
lifdon laðlicost, ond mec longade.
Het mec hlaford min herheard niman,
ahte ic leofra lyt on þissum londstede,
holdra freonda, for þon is min hyge geomor.
Ða ic me ful gemæcne monnan funde,
heardsæligne, hygegeomorne,
mod miþendne, morþor hycgendne
bliþe gebæro. Ful oft wit beotedan
þæt unc ne gedælde nemne deað ana
owiht elles; eft is þæt onhworfen,
is nu swa hit næfre wære,
freondscipe uncer. 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. Ful oft mec her wraþe begeat
fromsiþ frean. Frynd sind on eorþan,
leofe lifgende, leger weardiað,
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.

A scyle geong mon wesan geomormod,
heard heortan geþoht, swylce habban sceal
bliþe gebæro, eac þon breostceare,
sinsorgna gedreag. 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, dreogeð se min wine
micle modceare; he gemon to oft
wynlicran wic. Wa bið þam þe sceal
of langoþe leofes abidan.

Notes

The Wife’s Lament is notable not only for its powerful language: it is the only poem in Old English that is clearly narrated by a woman.

The poem contains some vocabulary that doesn’t translate well into modern English. See the highlighted words for a few potential alternate definitions. I’ve attempted to smooth things out as well as I can; the Old English edition is from Mitchell & Robinson.

Bibliography