Anglo-Saxon Riddle

Hwylc is hæleþa þæs horsc     ond þæs hygecræftig		What man is so mind-strong and spirit shrewd
þæt þæt mæge asecgan,     hwa mec on sið wræce,		He can say who drives me in my fierce strength
þonne ic astige strong,     stundum reþe,		On fate's road when I rise with vengeance,
þrymful þunie,    þragum wræce		Ravage the land, with a thundering voice
fere geond foldan,    folcsalo	5	Rip folk-homes, plunder the hall-wood:	5
ræced reafige?     Recas stigað,		Gray smoke rises over rooftops--on earth
haswe ofer hrofum;     hlyn bið on eorþan,		The rattle and death-shriek of men.I shake
wælcwealm wera.     Þonne ic wudu hrere,		The forest, blooms and boles, rip trees,
bearwas bledhwate,     beamas fylle;		Wander, roofed with water, a wide road,
holme gehrefed,     heahum meahtum	10	Pressed by might. On my back I bear	10
wrecen on waþe,     wide sended;		The water that once wrapped earth-dwellers,
hæbbe me on hrycge     þæt ær hadas wreah		Flesh and spirit.
foldbuendra,     flæsc ond gæstas,		Say who shrouds me
somod on sunde.     Saga hwa mec þecce,		And what I am called who carry these burdens.
oþþe hu ic hatte,     þe þa hlæst bere.	15	Sometimes I plunge through the press of waves
Hwilum ic gewite,     swa ne wenaþ men,		To men's surprise, stalking the sea-warrior's	15
under yþa geþræc;     eorþan secan,		Fathomed floor. The white waves whip,
garsecges grund.     Fifen biþ gewreged,		Foam-flanks flaring, the ocean rips,
fam gewealcen        *     *     *		The whale's lake roars, rages--
hwælmere hlimmeð,     hlude grimmeð,	20	Savage waves beat on the shore, cast rock,
streamas staþu beatað,     stundum weorpaþ		Sand, seaweed, water on the high cliffs	20
on stealc hleoþa     stane ond sonde,		As I thrash with the wave-power on my back
ware ond wæge,     þonne ic winnende,		And shake under blue, broad plains below.
holmmægne biþeaht,     hrusan styrge,		I cannot flee from the helm of water
side sægrundas.     Sundhelme ne mæg	25	Till my lord lifts me to a higher road.
losian ær mec læte     se þe min latteow bið		Say, wise man, who it is who draws me	25
on siþa gehwam.     Saga, þoncol mon,		From sea-clutch and cover as the deep
þonne streamas    eft stille weorþað,		Sometimes my lord seizes and shoves me,
yþa geþwære,     þe mec ær wrugon.	30	Muscles me under the broad breast of ground,
Hwilum mec min frea      fæste genearwað,		Packs my power in a dark, narrow prison,	30
sendeð þonne      under salwonges		Where the hard earth rides my back.
bearm þone bradan,      ond on bid wriceð,		I cannot flee from the weight of torture,
þrafað on þystrum     þrymma sumne,		Yet I shake the home-stones of men:
hæste on enge,      þær me heord siteð	35	Horn-gabled mead-halls tremble,
hruse on hrycge.      Nah ic hwyrftweges		Walls quake, perch over hall-thanes,	35
of þam aglace,      ac ic eþelstol		Ceilings, cities shake.
hæleþa hrere;     hornsalu wagiað,		The air is quiet
wera wicstede,     weallas beofiað,		Above the land, the sea broods, silent
steape ofer stiwitum.      Stille þynceð	40	Till I break out, ride at my ruler's call--
lyft ofer londe     ond lagu swige,		My lord who laid bonds on me in the beginning,
oþþæt ic of enge      up aþringe,		Creation's chains, so I might not escape	40
efne swa mec wisaþ     se mec wræde on		His power unbowed-my guardian, my guide.
æt frumsceafte     furþum legde,		Sometimes I swoop down, whipping up waves,
bende ond clomme,      þæt ic onbugan ne mot	45	Rousing white water, driving to shore
of þæs gewealde     þe me wegas tæcneð.		The flint-gray flood, its foam-flanks flaring
Hwilum ic sceal ufan     yþa wregan,		Against the cliff wall. Dark swells loom	45
streamas styrgan     ond to staþe þywan		In the deep-hills on hills of dark water,
flintgrægne flod:      famig winneð		Driven by the sea, surge to a meeting of cliffs
wæg wið wealle.     Wonn ariseð	50	On the coast road.
dun ofer dype;     hyre deorc on last,		There is the keel's cry,
eare geblonden,      oþer fereð,		The sea-guests' moan. Sheer cliffs wait
þæt hy gemittað      mearclonde neah		Sea-charge, wave-clash, war of water,	50
hea hlincas.     Þær bið hlud wudu,		As the high troop crowds the headland.
brimgiesta breahtm,      bidað stille	55	There the ship finds a fierce struggle
stealc stanhleoþu     streamgewinnes,		As the sea steals its craft and strength,
hopgehnastes,      þonne heah geþring		The souls of men, while white terror	55
on cleofu crydeþ.      Þær bið ceole wen		Rides the waves' back. Cruel and killing
sliþre sæcce,     gif hine sæ byreð		On the savage road--who stills us?
on þa grimman tid,      gæsta fulne,	60	Sometimes I rush through the clouds riding
þæt he scyle rice     birofen weorþan,		My back, spill the black rain-jugs,
feore bifohten,     fæmig ridan		Rippling streams, crack clouds together	60
yþa hrycgum.      Þær bið egsa sum		With a sharp shriek, scattering light-shards.
ældum geywed,     þar þar ic hyran sceal		Sky-breakers surge over shattered men,
strong on stiðweg.     Hwa gestilleð þæt?	65	Dark thunder rolls with a battle-din,
Hwilum ic þurhræse,     þæt me on bæce rideð		And the black rain hums from a wet
won wægfatu,     wide toþringe		Waves from the war-cloud's womb. breast,	65
lagustreama full,     hwilum læte eft		The dark horsemen storm. There is fear
slupan tosomne.     Se bið swega mæst,		In the cities in the souls of men when dark
breahtma ofer burgum,     ond gebreca hludast,	70	Gliding spectres raise light-sharp swords.
þonne scearp cymeð      sceo wiþ oþrum,		Only a dull fool fears no death-stroke;
ecg wið ecge.     Earpan gesceafte		He dies nonetheless if the true lord	70
fus ofer folcum      fyre swætað,		Whistles an arrow from the whirlwind
blacan lige,     ond gebrecu ferað		Streaking rain through his heart. Few
deorc ofer dryhtum     gedyne micle,	75	Find life in the rain-shriek's dart.
farað feohtende,     feallan lætað		I urge that battle, incite the clash
sweart sumsendu     seaw of bosme,		Of clouds as I rage through riders' tumult	75
wætan of wombe. Winnende fareð		Over sky-streams. Then I bow down
atol eoredþreat;      egsa astigeð,		At my lord's command, bear my burden
micel modþrea     monna cynne,	80	Close to the land, a mighty slave.
brogan on burgum,      þonne blace scotiað		Sometimes I storm beneath the land,
scriþende scin     scearpum wæpnum.		Sometimes rage in the cavern of waves,	80
Dol him ne ondrædeð     ða deaðsperu,		Sometimes whip the waters from above,
swylteð hwæþre,     gif him soð meotud		Or climb quickening the clash of clouds.
on geryhtu     þurh regn ufan	85	Mighty and swift-say what I'm called
of gestune læteð      stræle fleogan,		And who rouses and calms my fierce power.
farende flan.     Fea þæt gedygað,
þara þe geræceð     rynegiestes wæpen.
þonne gewite      wolcengehnaste	90
þurh geþræc þringan     þrimme micle
ofer byrnan bosm.     Biersteð hlude
heah hloðgecrod;     þonne hnige eft
under lyfte helm     londe near,
ond me on hrycg hlade      þæt ic habban sceal,	95
meahtum gemagnad     mines frean.
Swa ic þrymful þeow     þragum winne,
hwilum under eorþan,     hwilum yþa sceal
hean underhnigan,     hwilum holm ufan
streamas styrge,      hwilum stige up,	100
wolcnfare wrege,     wide fere
swift ond swiþfeorm.     Saga hwæt ic hatte,
oþþe hwa mec rære,      þonne ic restan ne mot,
oþþe hwa mec stæðþe,     þonne ic stille beom.

I maintain a messy mentality

A multiple mistake-maker

Responsible for riveting works

Manipulated in a multitude of ways

Can produce multi-colored portrayals

Best used by writers around the big blue-ball

Clearly conveys thoughts of the class-dictator

Answer: Pen