of mind he hath surely determined
Whether his purpose can be turned aside.
Surely the wise man may see like the desert
How the whole wealth of the world lieth waste,
How through the earth the lone walls are still standing,
Blown by the wind and despoiled and defaced.
Covered with frost, the proud dwellings are ruined,
Crumbled the wine-halls--the king lieth low,
Robbed of his pride--and his troop have all fallen
Proud by the wall--some, the spoil of the foe,
War took away--and some the fierce sea-fowl
Over the ocean--and some the wolf gray
Tore after death--and yet others the hero
Sad-faced has laid in earth-caverns away.
Thus at his will the eternal Creator
Famished the fields of the earth's ample fold--
Until her dwellers abandoned their feast-boards.
Void stood the work of the giants of old.
One who was viewing full wisely this wall-place,
Pondering deeply his dark, dreary life.
Spake then as follows, his past thus reviewing,
Years full of slaughter and struggle and strife:--
"Wither, alas, have my horses been carried?
Whither, alas, are my kinspeople gone?
Where is my giver of treasure and feasting?
Where are the joys of the hall I have known?
Ah, the bright cup--and the corseleted warrior--
Ah, the bright joy of a king's happy lot!
How the glad time has forever departed,
Swallowed in darkness, as though it were not!
Standeth, instead of the troop of young warriors,
Stained with the bodies of dragons, a wall--
The men were cut down in their pride by the spearpoints--
Blood-greedy weapons--but noble their fall.
Earth is enwrapped in the lowering tempest,
Fierce on the stone-cliff the storm rushes forth,
Cold winter-terror, the night shade is dark'ning,
Hail-storms are laden with death from the north.
All full of hardships is earthly existence--
Here the decrees of the Fates have their sway--
Fleeting is treasure and fleeting is friendship--
Here man is transient, here friends pass away.
Earth's widely stretching, extensive domain,
Desolate all--empty, idle, and vain."
In 'Modern Language Notes': Translation of W.R. Sims.

THE SEAFARER

Sooth the song that I of myself can sing,
Telling of my travels; how in troublous days,