915

The greedy spirit of consuming flame
Shall leap o'er the land, and the lofty halls;
With the terror of fire shall fill the world.
The battle-thirsty flame shall blaze afar,
Devouring the earth, and all therein.
Strong-built walls shall split and crumble;
Mountains shall melt, and the mighty cliffs
That buttress the earth 'gainst battering waves,
Bulwarks upreared 'gainst the rolling billows,
Shall fall on a sudden. The sweep of the fire
Shall leave no bird nor beast alive.
The lurid flame shall leap along the world
Like a raging warrior. Where the waters flowed
In a bath of fire the fish shall be stifled;
Sundered from life, their struggles over,
The monsters of the deep no more shall swim.
Like molten wax the water shall burn.
More marvels shall appear than mind may con-
ceive,

921

925

When tempest and whirlwind o'erwhelm the earth,

And rocks are riven by the roaring blast.
Men shall wail, they shall weep and lament,
Groan aghast with grovelling fear.

930

935

The smoke-dark flame o'er the sinful shall roll,
The blaze shall consume their beakers of gold,
All the ancient heirlooms of kings.
The shrieks of the living aloud shall resound
Mid the crack of doom, their cry of fear,

Houses fed by springs of water. This passage, and the reference to the hot baths in lines 34-35 support the view that the city was Bath, where the ruins of Roman baths may still be seen.

How oft through long seasons I suffered and strove,

5

The flower of the doughty fallen, the proud ones fair to the eye.

War took off some in death, and one did a strong bird bear

Over the deep; and one—his bones did the grey

Abiding within my breast
Bitterest care;

How I sailed among sorrows
In many a sea;

The wild rise of the waves,
The close watch of the night
At the dark prow in danger
Of dashing on rock,
Folded in by the frost,
My feet bound by the cold
In chill bands, in the breast
The heart burning with care.
The soul of the sea-weary
Hunger assailed.

Knows not he who finds happiest
Home upon earth

How I lived through long winter
In labour and care,

On the icy-cold ocean,
An exile from joy,

Cut off from dear kindred,
Encompassed with ice.

Hail flew in hard showers,
And nothing I heard

But the wrath of the waters,

Alas for the strength of the prince! for the time hath passed away

The icy-cold way;

75

At times the swan's song;

Is hid 'neath the shadow of night, as it never had been at all.

In the scream of the gannet

I sought for my joy,

35

Behind the dear and doughty there standeth now a wall,

In the moan of the sea-whelp

A wall that is wondrous high, and with wondrous snake-work wrought.

The strength of the spears hath fordone the earls and hath made them naught,

The weapons greedy of slaughter, and she, the mighty Wyrd;

For laughter of men,

In the song of the sea-mew For drinking of mead. Starlings answered the storm Beating stones on the cliff,

40

Icy-feathered, and often

80

The eagle would shriek,

Wet of wing.

And the tempests beat on the rocks, and the storm-wind that maketh afeard

The terrible storm that fetters the earth, the winter-bale,

When the shadow of night falls wan, and wild is the rush of the hail,

The cruel rush from the north, which maketh men to quail.

Hardship-full is the earth, o'erturned when the stark Wyrds say:

85

Byrnied chief, i. e., chief arrayed in his "byrnie," or war-shirt.

For he little believes

To whom life's joy belongs In the town, lightly troubled With dangerous tracks,

Vain with high spirit

50

1 The date and authorship are unknown. Some scholars think that the Seafarer is a dialogue between an old sailor and a young man who longs to go to sea, but as this is mere conjecture, no attempt has been made in the present version to indicate the respective parts.

There is no man among us

So proud in his mind,
Nor so good in his gifts,
Nor so gay in his youth,
Nor so daring in deeds,
Nor so dear to his lord,
That his soul never stirred
At the thought of seafaring,
Or what his great Master
Will do with him yet.
He hears not the harp,
Heeds not giving of rings,
Has to woman no will,
And no hope in the world,
Nor in aught there is else'
But the wash of the waves.
He lives ever longing
Who looks to the sea.

Groves bud with green,
The hills grow fair,
Gay shine the fields,
The world's astir:
All this but warns
The willing mind
To set the sail,
For so he thinks
Far on the waves
To win his way.

To each ere the severing hour:

125

Old age, sickness, or slaughter,

Will force the doomed soul to depart.

Therefore for each of the earls,

Of those who shall afterwards name them, This is best laud from the living

130

In last words spoken about him:He worked ere he went his way,

By children of men,

His glory grows ever

With angels of God,
In life everlasting

Of bliss with the bold.

140

With woeful note

And bleaches his face;

The cuckoo warns,

He is grey-haired and grieves,

160

The summer's warden sings,

Knows he now must give up

And sorrow rules

The old friends he cherished,

The heart-store bitterly.

Chief children of earth.

No man can know,

The husk of flesh,

Nursed in soft ease,

When life is fled,

165

The burden borne

Shall taste no sweetness,

Feel no sore;

The farthest from their friends.

Is in its hand no touch;

Is in its brain no thought.

In the soul's secret chamber

My mind now is set,

Strew gold in the grave,

My heart's thought, on wide waters,

Bury him pompously

The home of the whale;

Borne to the dead,

It wanders away

Entomb him with treasure,

Beyond limits of land:

The trouble is vain:

175

Comes again to me, yearning

The soul of the sinful

1 This poem appears originally in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle under the year 937. It celebrates a battle fought at Brunanburh, between the West Saxons led by King Athelstan, grandson of Alfred the Great, and Edmund the Athling (or prince), and a combined force of Danes, Scots, and Britons led by Constantinus and Anlaf. The site of Brunanburh has never been satisfactorily established. The most likely place seems to be the old Brunne, now Bourne, in Lincolnshire. (See Ramsay's Foundations of England, I. 285.) Tennyson based his version of the poem upon his son's prose translation from the original Old English.

Drew to this island

Doom'd to the death.

VII

45

50