heroes of Geat were homeless made,
and sorrow stole their sleep away.
That pass'd over,--and this may, too!

Theodoric held for thirty winters
Maering's burg, as many have known.
That pass'd over,--and this may, too!

We have also heard of Ermanric's
wolfish mind; wide was his sway
o'er the Gothic race,--a ruler grim.
Sat many a man in misery bound,
waited but woe, and wish'd amain
that ruin might fall on the royal house.
That pass'd over,--and this may, too!

Sitteth one sighing, sunder'd from happiness;
all's dark within him; he deems forsooth
that his share of evils shall endless be.
Let such bethink him that thro' this world
mighty God sends many changes:
to earls a plenty honor he shows,
ease and bliss; to others, sorrow.

Now I will say of myself, and how
I was singer once to the sons of Heoden,
dear to my master, and Deor was my name.
Long were the winters my lord was kind,
happy my lot,--till Heorrenda now
by grace of singing has gained the land
which the "haven of heroes" erewhile gave me.
That pass'd over,--and this may, too!

Translation of F.B. Gummere in the Atlantic Monthly, February, 1891: by
permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.

FROM 'THE WANDERER'

Oft-times the Wanderer waiteth God's mercy,
Sad and disconsolate though he may be,
Far o'er the watery track must he travel,
Long must he row o'er the rime-crusted sea--
Plod his lone exile-path--Fate is severe.
Mindful of slaughter, his kinsman friends' death,
Mindful of hardships, the wanderer saith:--
Oft must I lonely, when dawn doth appear,
Wail o'er my sorrow--since living is none
Whom I may whisper my heart's undertone.
Know I full well that in man it is noble
Fast in his bosom his sorrow to bind.
Weary at heart, yet his Fate is unyielding--
Help cometh not to his suffering mind.
Therefore do those who are thirsting for glory
Bind in their bosom each pain's biting smart.
Thus must I often, afar from my kinsmen,
Fasten in fetters my home-banished heart.
Now since the day when my dear prince departed
Wrapped in the gloom of his dark earthen grave,
I, a poor exile, have wandered in winter
Over the flood of the foam-frozen wave,