The Wife’s Lament
By Unknown
Translated By André Babyn
“The Wife’s Lament” appears only in the Exeter Book, a tenth century Old English manuscript compiled between 960 and 990 CE. In the poem, an exiled female speaker laments her forced separation from someone who may be her husband.
I sing this song, full of sadness,
this song which is myself. I will tell, what I am able,
about what hardships I have faced—since I grew up,
recently or long ago, never more than now.
Always I suffer my misery of exile.
First my lord departed from my people,
over waves rolling; I had grief before dawn
thinking of the lands which held him, my people’s lord.
Then I set out, a friendless stranger, searching
for his retinue, because of my grievous need.
Relatives of this man began to plan
through secret thought that they would separate us,
that we as far apart as possible in the kingdom of the world
would live, wretchedly, and me longing.
My lord commanded me to take a grove for a house:
little of what is beloved to me did I possess in this country,
no loyal friends; for that is my mind’s sadness.
When I found the man who was my complete match,
he was unfortunate, sad of mind and heart,
with thoughts concealed, planning his crime
behind a joyful demeanor. Very often we vowed
that we would never be separated, not by death
or anything else; what was before is now changed,
is now as if it never were, that friendship
between us. Must I who desires you nearby
suffer, my dearly loved, this feud?
Commanded was I to dwell in a forest grove.
Under an oak tree, in a cave—the earth’s chest.
Old is this earth hall and I am filled with longing.
Here is a gloomy valley, treacherous hills,
bitter hedges, briars waxing, overgrown
in this house without joy. Very often my cruel departure
takes hold of me. Friends live on earth
lying in bed with their beloveds
while I in the time before dawn alone walk
under oak tree. In the earth’s chest
I sit many long summer days
weeping for the misery of exile
my many hardships; there I am never able
to rest from my mind’s grief
nor from all the longing that in this life takes hold of me.
It may be that he is always sorrowful,
his heart’s thoughts stern; perhaps he has
a joyful demeanor next to his grief,
its constant sorrowful tumult. Whether he is dependent on himself
for all of his worldly joy, or whether he is an outcast, very far
from his distant country, sitting
under stone cliffs frost-rimmed from storms,
friendless, water flowing before
his echoing home, my lover suffers
much grief of the mind. Too often he remembers
a house full of joy. Woe to those that must
of longing in life abide.
Translated from the Old English, below
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Iċ þis ġiedd wrece bi mē ful ġeōmorre,
mīnre sylfre sīð. Iċ þæt secgan mæġ,
hwæt iċ yrmþa ġebād, siþþan iċ ūp wēox,
nīwes oþþe ealdes, nō mā þonne nū.
Ā iċ wīte wonn mīnra wræcsīþa.
Ǣrest mīn hlāford ġewāt heonan of lēodum
ofer ȳþa ġelāc; hæfde iċ ūhtċeare
hwǣr mīn lēodfruma londes wǣre.
Ðā iċ mē fēran ġewāt folgað sēċan,
winelēas wræċċa, for mīnre wēaþearfe,
ongunnon þæt þæs monnes māgas hycgan
þurh dyrne ġeþōht þæt hȳ tōdǣlden unc,
þæt wit ġewīdost in woruldrīċe
lifdon lāðlicost, ond mec longade.
Hēt mec hlāford mīn herheard niman.
Āhte iċ lēofra lȳt on þissum londstede,
holdra frēonda; for þon is mīn hyġe ġeōmor.
Ðā iċ mē ful ġemæcne monnan funde—
heardsǣliġne, hyġeġeōmorne,
mōd mīþendne, morþor hycgendne—
blīþe ġebǣro ful oft wit bēotedan
þæt unc ne ġedǣlde nemne dēað āna
ōwiht elles. Eft is þæt onhworfen;
is nū ġeworden swā hit nō wǣre
frēondscipe uncer. Sceal iċ feor ġe nēah
mīnes felalēofan fǣhðe drēogan.
Heht mec mon wunian on wuda bearwe,
under āctrēo in þām eorðscræfe.
Eald is þes eorðsele; eal iċ eom oflongad.
Sindon dena dimme, dūna ūphēa,
bitre burgtūnas brērum beweaxne,
wīċ wynna lēas. Ful oft mec hēr wrāþe beġeat
fromsīþ frēan. Frȳnd sind on eorþan
lēofe lifġende, leġer weardiað,
þonne iċ on ūhtan āna gonge
under āctrēo ġeond þās eorðscrafu.
Þǣr iċ sittan mōt sumorlangne dæġ;
þǣr iċ wēpan mæġ mīne wræcsīþas,
earfoþa fela, for þon iċ ǣfre ne mæġ
þǣre mōdċeare mīnre ġerestan,
ne ealles þæs longaþes þe mec on þissum līfe beġeat.
Ā scyle ġeong mon wesan ġeōmormōd,
heard heortan ġeþōht; swylċe habban sceal
blīþe ġebǣro, ēac þon brēostċeare,
sinsorgna ġedreag. Sȳ æt him sylfum ġelong
eal his worulde wyn, sȳ ful wīde fāh
feorres folclondes, þæt mīn frēond siteð
under stānhliþe storme behrīmed,
wine wēriġmōd, wætre beflōwen
on drēorsele, drēogeð se mīn wine
miċle mōdċeare. Hē ġemon tō oft
wynlicran wīċ. Wā bið þām þe sceal
of langoþe lēofes ābīdan.
Source: Poetry (May 2022)