Riddle 23

 

Ic eom wunderlicu wiht,     wifum on hyhte,
neahbuendum nyt.     Nængum sceþþe
burgsittendra     nymþe bonan anum.
Staþol min is steapheah;     stonde ic on bedde,
neoþan ruh nathwær.     Neþeð hwilum 
ful cyrtenu     ceorles dohtor,
modwlonc meowle,     þæt heo on mec gripeð,
ræseð mec on reodne,     reafað min heafod,
fegeð mec on fæsten.      Feleþ sona
mines gemotes     seo þe mec nearwað,
wif wundenlocc--     wæt bið þæt eage.		 I am a wonderful help to women,
The hope of something to come. I harm
No citizen except my slayer.
Rooted I stand on a high bed.
I am shaggy below. Sometimes the beautiful
Peasant's daughter, an eager-armed,
Proud woman grabs my body,
Rushes my red skin, holds me hard,
Claims my head. The curly-haired
Woman who catches me fast will feel
Our meeting. Her eye will be wet.

Wulf and Eadwacer

Leodum is minum swylce him mon lac gife;
willað hy hine aþecgan, gif he on þreat cymeð.
Ungelic is us.
Wulf is on iege, ic on oþerre.
Fæst is þæt eglond, fenne biworpen.
Sindon wælreowe weras þær on ige;
willað hy hine aþecgan, gif he on þreat cymeð.
Ungelice is us.
Wulfes ic mines widlastum wenum hogode;
þonne hit wæs renig weder ond ic reotugu sæt,
þonne mec se beaducafa bogum bilegde,
wæs me wyn to þon, wæs me hwæþre eac lað.
Wulf, min Wulf, wena me þine
seoce gedydon, þine seldcymas,
murnende mod, nales meteliste.
Gehyrest þu, Eadwacer? Uncerne earne hwelp
bireð Wulf to wuda.
þæt mon eaþe tosliteð þætte næfre gesomnad wæs,
uncer giedd geador.

It is as though my people had been given a present.
They will wish to capture him, if he comes with an army.
We are apart.
Wulf is on an isle, I am on another.
Fast is that island surrounded by fens.
The people on that island are murderous.
They will wish to capture him if he comes with an army.
We are apart.
I thought with hope of my Wulf's long journey.
It was rainy weather then, and I sat mournfully,
when the bold warrior laid his arms about me.
That was a joy to me, but it was also pain.
Wulf, my Wulf, my longing for you
has made me ill, the rareness of your visits,
my grieving spirit, not the lack of food.
Do you hear, Eadwacer? Our wretched whelp
Wulf shall carry to the woods.
Men easily may sever what was never joined,
our song together.

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