E'en the briny water's mother {38}
'Gainst the beach, breast-forward, cast her,
On a little sand-hill rais'd her,
On her side with toil up-crawling.
E'en from Woinomoinen's eye-balls
Tears of heart-felt pleasure trickled,
Bigger than the whortle-berry,
Heavier than the eggs of plovers,
Down his broad and mighty bosom,
Knee-ward from his bosom flowing,
From his knee his feet bedewing;
And I've heard, his tears they trickled
Through the five wool-wefts of thickness,
Through his jackets eight of wadmal.
THE WORDS OF BEOWULF, SON OF EGTHEOF.
From the Anglo Saxon.
Every one beneath the heaven
Should of death expect the day,
And let him, whilst life is given,
Bright with fame his name array.
For amongst the countless number
In the clay-cold grave at rest,
Lock'd in arms of iron slumber,
He most happy is and blest.
THE LAY OF BIARKE.
From the Ancient Norse.
The day in East is glowing,
The cock on high is crowing;
Upon the heath's brown heather
'Tis time our bands we gather.
Ye Chieftains disencumber
Your eyes of clogging slumber;
Ye mighty friends of Attil,
The far-renown'd in battle!
Thou Har, who grip'st thy foeman
Right hard, and Rolf the bowman,
And many, many others,
The forky lightning's brothers!
Wake--not for banquet-table!
Wake--not with maids to gabble!
But wake for rougher sporting,
For Hildur's {40} bloody courting.
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