The Wife's Lament

Sorrowfully I sing my song of woe,
My tale of trials. In truth I may say
That the buffets I have borne since my birth in the world
Were never more than now, either new or old.
Ever the evils of exile I endure!
Long since went my lord from the land of his birth,
Over the welling waves. Woeful at dawn I asked
Where lingers my lord, in what land does he dwell?
Then I fared into far lands and faithfully sought him,
A weary wanderer in want of comfort.
His treacherous tribesmen contrived a plot,
Dark and dastardly, to drive us apart
The width of a world, where with weary hearts
We live in loneliness, and longing consumes me.
My master commanded me to make my home here.
Alas, in this land my loved ones are few,
My faithful friends! Hence I feel great sorrow
That the man well-matched with me I have found
To be sad in soul and sorrowful in mind,
Concealing his thoughts and thinking of murder,
Though blithe in his bearing. Oft we bound us by oath
That the day of our death should draw us apart,
Nothing less end our love. Alas, all is changed!
Now is as naught, as if never it were,
Our faith and our friendship. Far and near I shall
Endure the hate of one dear to my heart!
He condemned me to dwell in a darksome wood,
Under an oak-tree in an earth-cave drear.
Old is the earth-hall. I am anxious with longing.
Dim are the dales, dark the hills tower,
Bleak the tribe-dwellings, with briars entangled,
Unblessed abodes. Here bitterly I have suffered
The faring of my lord afar. Friends there are on earth
Living in love, in lasting bliss,
While, wakeful at dawn, I wander alone
Under the oak-tree the earth-cave near.
Sadly I sit there the summer-long day,
Wearily weeping my woeful exile,
My many miseries. Hence I may not ever
Cease my sorrowing, my sad bewailing,
Nor all the longings of my life of woe.
Always may the young man be mournful of spirit,
Unhappy of heart, and have as his portion
Many sorrows of soul, unceasing breast-cares,
Though now blithe of behavior. Unbearable likewise
Be his joys in the world. Wide be his exile
To far-away folk-lands where my friend sits alone,
A stranger under stone-cliffs, by storm made hoary,
A weary-souled wanderer, by waters encompassed,
In his lonely lodging. My lover endures
Unmeasured mind-care: he remembers too oft
A happier home. To him is fate cruel
Who lingers and longs for the loved one's return!