BOOK Always will the prudent in their father's bosom. Their future condition God alone knows it, and compensate the more the preserving Father! honest None again return that truth about the nature of the Creshall afterwards roam, ator, and all the spirits or the people's habitations of that depart in God. glory After their death-day which he himself inhabits.18 they will abide their judgment THERE is a volume of miscellaneous Saxon poetry in the cathedral library at Exeter, the gift of its first bishop, Leofric, from which some interesting pieces have been selected, and were communicated to the Society of Antiquaries, by the Rev. J. J. Conybeare. The MS. had lain unnoticed since the time of Wanley until he inspected it. 19 Of the remains in this Exeter MS. the following complaint of an Anglo-Saxon, who had been driven into exile and separated from his lord, has the effect of interesting us with the feelings and grief of the forlorn poet. 20 18 See the Saxon ode in Hickes's Grammat. Anglo-Sax. p. 207, 208. 19 Some of these were sent to the Antiquarian Society by Mr. J. Cony beare, and were printed in the 17th volume of the Archæologia. They have been since his death republished with many valuable addi. tions by his congenial brother, who, to a love of our Saxon antiquities, adds also no common knowledge of mineralogy and geology. 20 Mr. W. Conybeare, who has printed it with a translation, justly says of it, “His situation and feelings are expressed with more pathos, and his lonely retreat amid the woods exhibits more power of description, than can be usually found in Saxon poetry.” Illust. p. 245. CHAP. III. THE EXILE'S SONG. Ic this gied wrece Bi me, ful geomorre ; Minre sylfre sith, Ic thet secgan meg Hwæt ic yrmtha gebad Siththan ic up aweox Niwes oththe ealdes. No man thon nu, A ic wite won Minra wroe sitha ærest. Min hlaford gewat Minre wea thearfe ongun I this lay compose of myself, full sad; of my own journeying, that I may say what miseries I have endured since I grew up lately or of old. I serve no man now, I have always struggled with the suffering chiefly of my exile path. My lord departed hence from his people over the lake of the waves : I had daily anxiety in what lands my chieftain was when I departed to go to seek his service: a friendless exile's journey. The hardships of my woes began that this man's relations contrived thro' perverted thought to separate us two; that we two, most widely in the world's kingdom should live most like enemies. And I was weary that my lord ordered me to be here taken hardly away. I have little that I love in this country of faithful friends. For this my mind is sad, when I fully equal to me have found no man in hard fortune, sad in mind, non Thæt thæs monnes Ahte ic leofra lyt BOOK Mod unthendue, Blithe gebæro depressed in spirit, In blithe habits, us Duna up Nemne death ana owiht elles ; except death alone; and as if it never had been is now our friendship. The bond is far broken of my greatly beloved. To endure enmities man orde me to dwell On wudre bearwa, in the bowers of the forest, Under ac treo under the oak tree In tham eorth scræfe. in this earthly cave. Cald is this eorthsele : Cold is this earth-dwelling: I am quite wearied out. Dim are the dells, high up are the mountains, Bitre burg-tanes, a bitter city of twigs, brærum beweaxne, with briars overgrown, a joyless abode. path, my friends are in the earth, Leof lifgende those loved in life Leger weardiath, the grave is guarding, Thon ic on uhtan while I above Ana gange. alone am going Under the oak-tree there I must sit Summer langne dæg. the long summer-day. Thær ic wepan mæg There I may weep Mine wræc sithas my paths of exile earfotha fela. of many troubles. Forthon ic æfne ne mæg For this I never can Thære mod ceare from the care CHAP. III. Minre gerestanne begeat. 21 of my mind, rest From the same Exeter MS. Mr. J. Conybeare extracted an Anglo-Saxon hymn of thanksgiving on the creation, which claims our notice for the elegant imitations he has subjoined to convey to the English reader its contents. Before we quote these we will copy the Saxon, and add a literal translation. Thæt is wyrthe, Thæt the wer theode Secgan Drythne thonc Dugutha ge hwylcre He us æt giefed, and æhta sped, This is worthy, Lord Welan ofer wid lond, Sunne and mona, Dreoseth deaw, And ren duguthe Weccath to feorhnere He has given us food, sions, The sun and moon, The dew falls, 21 Cony beare's Illust. p. 244–248. That I may not borrow servilely from him, I have inserted my own translation, assisted by that of Mr. W. C. BOOK Fira cynne: IX. Iecath eorth welan. the race of mortals : Se the ær sungen Erst he had sung thro' an angered mind to our elders in sorrow, “ I thee over the earth have made. On that thou shalt live in sufferings, dwell in toils, and endure punishment from the rage of enemies, ready with their evil song: and to that same shalt thou again return, breaking out into worms. Then the fiery punishment from this earth thou shaltfinally seek.23 22 Mr.J. Cony beare has thus pleasingly versified this passage, p. 218. Befits it well that man should raise The kindly seasons temper'd reign, Of this mid-earths' extended plain, His boundless pow'r and mercy gave. Beneath the vaulted sky, Where'er on earth his lot be sped, For Man the clouds their richness shed, 23 Not such the doom The doom that in dread accents told |