TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON.

For thee was a house built Ere thou wast born, For thee was a mould meant Ere thou of mother camest. But it is not made ready, Nor its depth measured, Nor is it seen How long it shall be. Now I bring thee Where thou shalt be; Now I shall measure thee, And the mould afterwards. Thy house is not Highly timbered, It is unhigh and low; When thou art therein, The heel-ways are low, The sideways unhigh. The roof is built Thy breast full nigh, So thou shalt in mould Dwell full cold, Dimly and dark. Doorless is that house, And dark it is within; There thou art fast detained, And death hath the key. Loathsome is that earth-house, And grim within to dwell. There thou shalt dwell, And worms shall divide thee. Thus thou art laid, And leavest thy friends; Thou hast no friend Who will come to thee, Who will ever see How that house pleaseth thee; Who will ever open The door for thee, And descend after thee, For soon thou art loathsome And hateful to see.

Thus then, much care-worn, The son of Healfden Sorrowed evermore, Nor might the prudent hero His woes avert. The war was too hard, Too loath and longsome, That on the people came, Dire wrath and grim, Of night-woes the worst. This from home heard Higelac’s Thane, Good among the Goths, Grendel’s deeds. He was of mankind In might the strongest, At that day Of this life, Noble and stalwart. He bade him a sea-ship, A goodly one, prepare. Quoth he, the war-king, Over the swan’s road, Seek he would The mighty monarch, Since he wanted men. For him that journey His prudent fellows Straight made ready, Those that loved him. They excited their souls, The omen they beheld. Had the good-man Of the Gothic people Champions chosen, Of those that keenest He might find, Some fifteen men. The sea-wood sought he, The warrior showed, Sea-crafty man! The landmarks, And first went forth. The ship was on the waves, Boat under the cliffs. The barons ready To the prow mounted. The streams they whirled The sea against the sands. The chieftains bore On the naked breast Bright ornaments, War-gear, Goth-like. The men shoved off, Men on their willing way, The bounden wood. Then went over the sea-waves, Hurried by the wind, The ship with foamy neck Most like a sea-fowl, Till about one hour Of the second day The curved prow Had passed onward, So that the sailors The land saw, The shore-cliffs shining, Mountains steep, And broad sea-noses. Then was the sea-sailing Of the earl at an end. Then up speedily The Weather people On the land went, The sea-bark moored, Their mail-sarks shook, Their war-weeds. God thanked they, That to them the sea journey Easy had been. Then from the wall beheld The warden of the Scyldings, He who the sea-cliffs Had in his keeping, Bear o’er the balks The bright shields, The war-weapons speedily. Him the doubt disturbed In his mind’s thought, What these men might be. Went then to the shore, On his steed riding, The Thane of Hrothgar. Before the host he shook His warden’s staff in hand, In measured words demanded: “What men are ye War-gear wearing, Host in harness, Who thus the brown keel Over the water-street Leading come Hither over the sea? I these boundaries As shore-warden hold; That in the Land of the Danes Nothing loathsome With a ship-crew Scathe us might.... Ne’er saw I mightier Earl upon earth Than is your own, Hero in harness. Not seldom this warrior Is in weapons distinguished; Never his beauty belies him, His peerless countenance! Now would I fain Your origin know, Ere ye forth As false spies Into the Land of the Danes Farther fare. Now, ye dwellers afar off! Ye sailors of the sea! Listen to my One-fold thought. Quickest is best To make known Whence your coming may be.”

Much it behoveth Each one of mortals, That he his soul’s journey In himself ponder, How deep it may be. When death cometh, The bonds he breaketh By which united Were body and soul. Long it is henceforth Ere the soul taketh From God himself Its woe or its weal; As in the world erst, Even in its earth-vessel, It wrought before. The soul shall come Wailing with loud voice, After a sennight, The soul, to find The body That it erst dwelt in;— Three hundred winters, Unless ere that worketh The eternal Lord, The Almighty God, The end of the world. Crieth then, so care-worn, With cold utterance, And speaketh grimly, The ghost to the dust: “Dry dust! thou dreary one! How little didst thou labour for me! In the foulness of earth Thou all wearest away Like to the loam! Little didst thou think How thy soul’s journey Would be thereafter, When from the body It should be led forth.”