The flowers and the blossoms wither,
Years vanish with flying feet;
But my heart will live on forever,
That here in sadness beat.

Gladly to Allah's dwelling
Yonder would I take flight;
There will the darkness vanish,
There will my eyes have sight.

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON

THE GRAVE.

From a volume of Homilies in the Bodleian Library. See the article on Anglo-Saxon Literature in Drift-Wood, where the poem is also given.

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 side-ways 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.

BEOWULF'S EXPEDITION TO HEORT.

Printed in the article on Anglo-Saxon Literature as given in the North American Review, July, 1838, and afterward in The Poets and Poetry of Europe.

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 land-marks,

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.