• Home
  • Contact
  • Call for Submissions
  • Current Issue
  • Back Issues
    • All Back Issues
    • Inaugural Issue (November 2023)
    • A Christmas Collection (Dec. 25, 2023)
    • Reprints (December 2023)
    • New Series Issue 1 (Winter, 2024)
    • New Series Issue 2 (Spring, 2024)
    • New Series Issue 3 (Summer, 2024)
    • New Series Issue 4 (Fall, 2024)
    • New Series Issue 5 (Winter, 2025)
  • Information Pages
    • Archive
    • Index
    • Authors
    • Books
    • Samplers
    • Resources
    • Communities
    • Historical Texts
    • The Modern Alliterative Revival
  • Reviews

Forgotten Ground Regained

Deor (Translation)

Keith Moul
Knowing wretchedness, Welund moved near snakes.Lone-minded man · muted to pain,He cleaved to his sorrow · coldest vengeanceThrough winter's longing, having watched in anguishAs Nithhad bound him · with knotted sinews,Annulled all mastery · of the better man
That passed over ... and so this may!
Not brothers' deaths, but her belly swollenAnd plump from plowing · appalled this Beadohild,Whom Welund had weighted · a pitiable way:Never bold, now bred, with bearing close,Distress drugged · and reason deserted her.
That passed over ... and so this may!
We heard rape's outrage · as ruin fell to song,Hate-words; yet heartless · by the hurt of NithhadWho, slitting the flesh, slept sorrowfully.
That passed over ... and so this may!
The Maerings' stronghold · shook steadilyFull thirty winters · in Theodoric's trust.
That passed over ... and so this may
Asking of Eormanric · we heard but evilOf his wolfish ways, how widely his swayGrieved Goths in the kingdom -- that grimmest of kings!Many a man sat, sorrow-bound,Watchful for misery; wished many a timeThat his country's nightmare · might be overcome.
That passed over ... and so this may!
And still he sits · liege to sorrow,Darkened in heart, doling himselfWhat surely seems · an endless share of woe.Yet the world's turning · works into his mind --The wicked lord · falls before the wise,Grants by his absence · honor to the abject man,Power to the weak, pain to his fallen hinds.
So that I of myself · wish to sayThat once I sang · as the Heodenings' scopTo my dear prince. Deor was my name.Many winters I ruled · rightly from my place,Ruled the high lord -- until Heorrenda now,He skilled in song, received my whole estate,That I had never stained · since bestowed on me.
That passed over ... and so this may!
Copyright © Keith Moul, 2011.
No part of this site may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems
Join email discussion

We use cookies to enable essential functionality on our website, and analyze website traffic. By clicking Accept you consent to our use of cookies. Read about how we use cookies.

Your Cookie Settings

We use cookies to enable essential functionality on our website, and analyze website traffic. Read about how we use cookies.

Cookie Categories
Essential

These cookies are strictly necessary to provide you with services available through our websites. You cannot refuse these cookies without impacting how our websites function. You can block or delete them by changing your browser settings, as described under the heading "Managing cookies" in the Privacy and Cookies Policy.

Analytics

These cookies collect information that is used in aggregate form to help us understand how our websites are being used or how effective our marketing campaigns are.