Through the might of the Maker From all misdoers.
Fair is the field, Full happy and glad,
Filled with the sweetest Scented flowers.
Unique is that island, Almighty the worker
Mickle of might Who moulded that land.
There oft lieth open To the eyes of the blest,
With happiest harmony, The gate of heaven.
Winsome its woods And its fair green wolds,
Roomy with reaches. No rain there nor snow,
Nor breath of frost, Nor fiery blast,
Nor summer's heat, Nor scattered sleet,
Nor fall of hail, Nor hoary rime,
Nor weltering weather, Nor wintry shower,
Falleth on any; But the field resteth
Ever in peace, And the princely land
Bloometh with blossoms. Berg there nor mount
Standeth not steep, Nor stony crag
High lifteth the head, As here with us,
Nor vale, nor dale, Nor deep-caverned down,
Hollows or hills; Nor hangeth aloft
Aught of unsmooth; But ever the plain,
Basks in the beam, Joyfully blooming.
Twelve fathoms taller Towereth that land
(As quoth in their writs Many wise men)
Than ever a berg That bright among mortals
High lifteth the head Among heaven's stars.

Two noteworthy points may be marked in this extract. Its feeling for
natural scenery is quite different from the wild sublimity of the
descriptions of nature in _Beowulf_. Cynewulf's verse is essentially the