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,
     Seeking, sad-hearted, some giver of treasure,
       Some one to cherish me friendless—­some chief
     Able to guide me with wisdom of counsel,
       Willing to greet me and comfort my grief. 
     He who hath tried it, and he alone, knoweth
       How harsh a comrade is comfortless Care
     Unto the man who hath no dear protector,
       Gold wrought with fingers nor treasure so fair. 
     Chill is his heart as he roameth in exile—­
       Thinketh