THE WANDERER. (From the English of Cynewulf.) STILL the lone one and desolate waits for his Maker's ruth God's good mercy, albeit so long it tarry, in sooth: Careworn and sad of heart, on the watery ways must he Plough with the hand-graspt oar-how long?-the rimecold sea : Tread thy paths of exile, O Fate, who art cruelty. Thus did a wanderer speak, being heart-full of woe, and all Thoughts of the cruel slayings, and pleasant comrades' fall. Morn by morn I, alone, am fain to utter my woe; Now is there none of the living to whom I dare to show Plainly the thought of my heart in very sooth I know Excellent is it in man that his breast he straitly bind, Shut fast his thinkings in silence, whatever he have in his mind. The man that is weary in heart, he never can fate with stand; The man that grieves in his spirit, he finds not the helper's hand. Therefore the glory-grasper full heavy of soul may be. So, far from my fatherland, and mine own good kinsmen free. I must bind my heart in fetters, for long, ah ! long ago, The earth's cold darkness cover'd my giver of gold brought low; And I, sore stricken and humbled, and winter-sadden'd, went Away o'er the frost-bound waves to seek for the dear con tent Of the hall of the giver of rings; but far nor near could I find Who felt the love of the mead-hall, or who with comforts kind Would comfort me, the friendless. 'Tis he alone will know, Who knows, being desolate too, how evil a fere is woe. For him the path of the exile, and not the twisted gold; For him the frost in his bosom, and not earth-riches old. Oh, well he remembers the hall-men, the treasure bestow'd in the hall; The feast that his gold-giver made him, the joy at its highth, at its fall: He knows who must be forlorn for his dear lord's coun sels gone When sleep and sorrow together are binding the lonely one; When himthinks he clasps and kisses his leader of men, and lays His hands and head on his knee, as when, in the good yore-days, He sat on the throne of his might, in the strength that wins and saves But the friendless man awakes, and he sees the yellow waves, And the sea-birds dip to the sea, and broaden their wings to the gale, And he sees the dreary rime, and the snow commingled with hail. Oh, then are the wounds of his heart the sorer much for this, The grief for the lov'd and lost made new by the dream of old bliss. His kinsmen's memory comes to him as he lies asleep, And he greets it with joy, with joy, and the heart in his breast doth leap ; But out of his ken the shapes of his warrior-comrades swim To the land whence seafarers bring no dear old saws for him. Then fresh grows sorrow and new to him whose bitter part Is to send o'er the frost-bound waves full often his weary heart. For this do I look around this world, and cannot see Wherefore or why my heart should not grow dark in me, When I think of the lives of the leaders, the clansmen mighty in mood; When I think how sudden and swift they yielded the place where they stood. So droops this mid-earth and falls, and never a man is found Wise ere a many winters have girt his life around. Full patient the sage must be, and he that would counsel teach Not over-hot in his heart, nor over-swift in his speech ; Nor faint of soul nor secure, nor fain for the fight nor afraid; Nor ready to boast before he know himself well array'd. The proud-soul'd man must bide when he utters his vaunt, until He know of the thoughts of the heart, and whitherward turn they will. The prudent must understand how terror and awe shall be, When the glory and weal of the world lie waste, as now men see On our mid-earth, many a where, the wind-swept walls arise, And the ruin'd dwellings and void, and the rime that on them lies. The wine-halls crumble, bereft of joy the warriors lie, The flower of the doughty fallen, the proud ones fair to the eye. War took off some in death, and one did a strong bird bear Over the deep; and one-his bones did the grey wolf share ; And one was hid in a cave by a comrade sorrowful fac'd. Oh, thus the Shaper of men hath laid the earth all waste, Till the works of the city-dwellers, the works of the giants of earth, Stood empty and lorn of the burst of the mighty reveller's mirth. Who wisely hath mus'd on this wallstead, and ponders this dark life well, In his heart he hath often bethought him of slayings many and fell, And these be the words he taketh, the thoughts of his heart to tell. Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the giver of gold? Where be the seats at the banquet? Where be the halljoys of old? Alas for the burnisht cup!-for the byrnied chief to day! Alas for the strength of the prince! for the time hath past away Is hid 'neath the shadow of night, as it never had been at all. Behind the dear and doughty there standeth now a wall, |