Theodoric held for thirty winters Mæring'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 of banquets his boyhood saw spread; Friends and companions partook of his pleasures-- Knoweth he well that all friendless and lordless Sorrow awaits him a long bitter while;--