Mec on þissum dagum dēadne ofgeafum
fæder ond mōdor; ne wæs mē feorh þā gēn,
ealdor in innan. þā mec [ān] ongon,
wel-hold mēge, wēdum weccan,
heold ond freoþode, hleo-sceorpe wrāh
snārlīce swā hire āgen bearn,
oþþæt ic under scēate, swā mīn gesceapu wæron,
ungesibbum wearð ēacen gæste.
Mec sēo friþe mæg fedde siþþan,
oþþæt ic āweox, wīddor meahte
sīþas āsettan. Hēo hæfde swǣsra þȳ lǣs
suna ond dohtra, þȳ hēo swā dyde.
Riddle 7
Ophelia Eryn Hostetter
Days like this they leave me for dead,
mother and father both.
What life was in me yet?
— What spirit within?
At some point, some woman
roused my life in her aprons,
such a gracious step-mother,
keeping me and preserving me,
snarled up in sweet snares —
just like her own children.
Until my nature was known
under her swaddling
while I swelled with life
amongst my unsiblings,
my sheltering step-mom
schooling me all the while,
until I waxed into fullness,
able to rove my riddling
along these wider ways.
Poor her, the more
she lavished her love,
the fewer she had — her dear ones,
sons and daughters both.
