THE WORDS OF BEOWULF, SON OF EGTHEOF.


From the Anglo Saxon.

Every one beneath the heaven
Should of death expect the day,
And let him, whilst life is given,
Bright with fame his name array.

For amongst the countless number
In the clay-cold grave at rest,
Lock'd in arms of iron slumber,
He most happy is and blest.




THE LAY OF BIARKE.


From the Ancient Norse.

The day in East is glowing,
The cock on high is crowing;
Upon the heath's brown heather