Anglo-Saxon Riddles of the Exeter Book/Annotated/2
2 (k-d 2)
| Sometimes I set forth —when none would expect it— under turbulent waves, seeking the depths, the floor of ocean. The sea is aroused, . . . . . foam is tossed up; the home of whales roars and rages. Streams lash the shore, violently dash up the steep strand with sand and shingle and seaweed, when surging I struggle and strive beneath the sea currents, stir up the bottom, the broad sea deeps. Nor can I escape from the sea’s surface until He permits who guides all my ways. O wise man, say, who is it drew me from the sea’s embraces when the surges again are stilled and quiet and calm the waves which covered me first. |
10 |
Hwilum ic gewite swa ne wenaþ men under yþa geþræc eorþan secan garsecges grund gifen biþ gewreged . . . . . fām gewealcen hwælmere hlimmeð hlude grimmeð streamas staþu beatað · stundum weorpaþ on stealc hleoþa stane ⁊ sonde ware ⁊ wæge þōn ic winnende holmmægne biþeaht hrusan styrge side sǣgrundas sundhelme ne mæg losian ær mec læte se þe min latteow bið on siþa gehwam saga þoncol mon hwa mec bregde of brimes fæþmum þōn streamas eft stille weorþað yþa geþwære þe mec ær wrugon · |
| Sometimes my Lord constrains me close and forces me under the broad bosom of the fertile fields and holds me there, drives me into darkness, where hard on my back the earth sits heavy. There is no escape from all that torment; but the houses of heroes, their gabled halls, I cause to tremble and shake the walls of the dwellings of men, high over their heads. The air seems still in the skies above and the waters quiet— until from confinement upwards I thrust, even as He commands who laid at the beginning my fetters upon me. I can never be free from the power that points the path I follow. |
10 |
hwilum mec min frēa fæste genearwað sendeð þōn under sal wonge bearm bradan ⁊ on bid wriceð þrafað on þystrū þrymma sumne hætst on enge þær me heord siteð hruse on hrycge nah ic hwyrftweges of þam aglaca ac ic eþelstol hæleþa hrera hornsalu wagiað wera wicstede weallas beofiaþ steape ofer stiwitum stille þynceð lyft ofer londe ⁊ lagu swige oþþæt ic of enge up ᵃþringe efne swa mec wisaþ se mec wræde on æt frumsceafte furþum legde bende ⁊ clomme ꝥ ic onbugan ne mot of þæs gewealde þe me wegas tæcneð · |
| Sometimes from above I rouse the surges, stir up the waters and drive to the shore the flint-gray flood. Foaming the waves fight with the wall. Dim stands up the dune over the deep; dark behind it blended with the sea comes another surge. Together they meet by the sea-mark there by the high ridges. Loud is the wooden ship, the noise of the sailors. Calmly await the steep stone cliffs the battle of waters, the clashing waves, when high the violence crowds on the headlands. There must the keel find bitter battle, if the sea lifts it with all its men in that terrible hour; till out of control, robbed of its life, it rides through the foam on the back of the waves. Then will be panic there, manifest to mortals; . . . . . but I must obey, strong on my fierce way. Who will still that? |
10 |
hwilum ic sceal ufan yþa wregan styrgan ⁊ to staþe þyran flintgrægne flod famig winneð wæg wið wealle wonn ariseð dun ofer dype hyre deorc on last eare geblonden oþer fereð þæt hy gemittað mearclonde neah · hēa hlincas þær bið hlud wudu brimgiesta breahtm bidað stille stealc stanhleoþu streamgewinnes hopgehnastes þōn heah geþring on cleofu crydeþ þær bið ceole wen sliþre sæcce gif hine sæ byreð on þa grimman tid gæsta fulne þæt he scyle rice birofen weorþan feore bifohten fæmig ridan yþa hrycgum þær bið egsa sum ældum geywed þara þe ic hyran sceal strong on stiðweg hwa gestilleð þæt · |
In this last there may be an echo of Matt. 8:24–27 (Christ calming the waves), and in the shipwreck picture a notion of divine retribution at the Last Judgment.
(k-d 3, 36–66)
| Sometimes I rush through the wan wet clouds that ride on my back, scatter them wide with their streaming water. Sometimes I allow them to glide together. Great is the din, uproar over houses, and loudest of crashes, when fiercely comes cloud against cloud like sword against sword. Darkling spirits, swift over mortals, sweat with fire, with gleaming flame and fearful noises. Above mankind with dreadful din they fare fighting; they let fall then swart rattling streams from out their bosom, water from within. Fighting moves on the terrible host; panic arises, a mighty fear in the hearts of mankind; horror in towns when gleaming shoots the gliding demon with sharp weapons. He is dull who dreads not these arrows of death; he dies nonetheless if the true Lord down through the rain, straight from above lets fly the darts of the fiery storm, its swift arrows. Few escape this who are reached by the darts of the hostile rain. I stand in the van of this battlefront when on I press the column of cloud, push through the strife in masterful might on the breast of the burns. Crowding in battle the high storm bursts. Then down I bend under the helm of the sky close to the ground, bearing on my back the burden I carry by the command of him, the all-powerful Lord. |
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hwilum ic þurhræse ꝥ me on bæce rideð won wægfatu · wide toþringe lagustreama full hwilum læte eft slupan tosomne se bið swega mæst breahtma ofer burgum ⁊ gebreca hludast · þōn scearp cymeð sceo wiþ oþrum ecg wið ecge earpan gesceafte fus ofer folcū fyre swætað blacan lige ⁊ gebrecu ferað deorc ofer dreontum gedyne micle farað feohtende feallan lætað sweart sumsendu seaw of bosme · wætan of wombe winnende fareð atol eoredþreat egsa astigeð micel modþrea monna cynne brogan on burgum þōn blace scotiað scriþende scin scearpum wæpnum · dol him ne ondrædeð ða deaðsperu swylteð hwæþre gif him soð meotud on geryhtu þurh regn ufan of gestune læteð stræle fleogan farende flan fea ꝥ gedygað þara þe geræceð rynegiestes wæpen Ic þæs orleges or anstelle þōn gewite wolcengehnaste þurh geþræc þringan þrimme micle ofer byrnan bosm biersteð hlude heah hloðgecrod þōn hnige eft under lyfte helm londe near ⁊ me hrycg hlade þæt ic habban sceal meahtum gemanad mines frean |
| Thus a mighty servant I do battle by turns— sometimes under ground; sometimes I must deep undermine the waves; sometimes from on high I arouse the waters, or rising aloft stir up the clouds. Widely I pass, swift and violent. Tell me my name, or who lifts and drives me, when I may not rest, or who it is steadies me when I become still. |
swa ic þrymful þeow þragum winne hwilū under eorþan hwilū yþa sceal heah underhnigan hwilum holm ufan streamas styrge hwilū stige up wolcnfare wrege wide fere swift ⁊ swiþfeorm saga hwæt ic hatte oþþe hwa mec rære þōn ic restan ne mot oþþe hwa mec stæðþe þonne ic stille beom :⁊ |