Wreccan wifes ged [The Wife's Lament; The Wife's Complaint]
anonimo
Originale | Traduzione inglese di Michael R. Burch |
WRECCAN WIFES GED [THE WIFE'S LAMENT; THE WIFE'S COMPLAINT] Ic þis giedd wrece bi me ful geomorre minre sylfre sið; ic þæt secgan mæg hwæt ic yrmþa gebad siþþan ic up weox niwes oþþe ealdes, noma 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 icme 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, and mec longade. Het mec hlaford min her heard niman. Ahte ic leofra lyt on þissum londstede, holdra freonda; for þon is min hyge geomor, ða icme ful gemæcne monnan funde heardsæligne, hygegeomorne, mod miþendne, morþor hycgende bliþe gebæro. Ful oft wit beotedan þæt unc ne gedælde nemne deað ana. owiht elles. Eft is þæt onhworfen is nu […....] swa hit no wære. freondscipe uncer! Sceal ic feor ge neah mines fela leofan 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. For þon 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! | THE WIFE’S LAMENT I draw these words from deep wells of wild grief, care-worn, unutterably sad. I can recount woes I've borne since birth, present and past, till I was driven mad. I have won, from my exile-paths, only pain here on earth. First, my lord forsook his kin-folk, left, crossed the seas' wide expanse, abandoning our tribe. Since then, I've known only misery ... wrenching dawn-griefs, despair in wild tides; where, oh where can he be? Then I, too, left—a lonely, lordless refugee, full of unaccountable desires! But the man's kinsmen schemed secretly to estrange us, divide us, keep us apart, divorced from hope, unable to touch, and my heart broke ... Then my lord spoke: "Take up residence here." I had few acquaintances in this alien region, none close. I was penniless, friendless; Christ, I felt lost! Eventually I thought I had found a well-matched man—one meant for me, but unfortunately he was ill-starred and blind, with a devious mind, full of murderous intentions, plotting some crime! Before God we vowed never to part, not till kingdom come, never! But now that's all changed, forever— our marriage is done, severed. So now I must hear, far and near, contempt for my husband. Then other men bade me, "Go, live in repentance in the sacred grove, beneath the great oak trees, in a grotto, alone." Now in this ancient earth-cave I am lost and oppressed— the valleys are dark, the hills strange, wild, immense, and this cruel-briared enclosure—an arid abode! Now the injustice assails me—my lord's absence! Elsewhere on earth lovers share the same bed while I pass through life dead, in this dark abscess where I wilt in the heat, unable to rest or forget the sorrows of my life's hard lot. A young woman must always be stern, hard-of-heart, unmoved, full of belief, enduring breast-cares, suppressing her own feelings. She must appear cheerful even in a tumult of grief. Now, like a criminal exiled to a far-off land, moaning beneath insurmountable cliffs, my weary-minded love, drenched by wild storms and caught in the clutches of anguish, mourns, reminded constantly of our former happiness. Woe be it to them who abide in longing. |