Áhwænne ic aðence -OE

Original text by John Milton, translated by Coleman

Áhwænne ic aðence ðæt áblann mīn léoht,
sometimes I think about that ceased my light

ymbe helf gears mīn gripde in ðys grunde ginnan and sweartan
before half years my obtained in this world wide and dark

se cræft innaþ inne me idel, se déað incundlice ætlútian.
that talent lodged inside me useless, that death secretly to put away/hide

ac mīn gást má beþearfþ mīn Gode midbissum þegnian
nevertheless my soul more desires my God with this to serve

and giefþ mīn cleane gerád, he géanþibgie ahwær cídungan
and give my true account he (should) relpy in case (in) chide

æscie æðeling dægweok, æthealdene léoht?
demands (the) noble king day-work, keeping back light?

ic léoflice laðie, as langsumnes ná ceorian lungre géanþidaþ
I lovingly ask, but patience not to murmer soon/quickly replies

God næfð gad oþþe gerweokan manan oþþe ahte lác.
God does not have need either work of man or (his) own gifts

gehwa bær betst his líðe habdhæf, hīe betst lædaþ
whoever bears best his mild burden, they best serve

æðelinghád á áwunaþ. ábydþand legie gerférab.
(his) royal state forever continues. (he) bids and legions make haste

and pæððeð land and lagu leas æfenrest
and traverse land and sea without evening-rest

hīe éac last lecgaþ hwá læfaþ and nemne ábídeð.
they also serve/follow after who remain and only wait.


Original Text:

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.
-John Milton