Page:King Alfred's Version of the Consolations of Boethius.djvu/251



A man may not build    a house on a mountain

That may long tarry;    soon the tempest

Swift on it sweeps. Sand is useless

In deluge of rain    to him that dwells

In the house as master;    it melts away,

In the rain sinks. So with every man;

His inmost mind    is mightily shaken,

Stirred from its station,    when the strong winds,

Of earthly troubles    toss and tease it,

Or when the ruthless    rain of affliction,

Boundless distress,    dashes upon it.

But he that ever    wishes to own

True joy eternal    must turn and flee

This world's beauty. Then let him build

The house of his soul    so that he find

The Rock of Humility,    hard and fastest,

Sure foundation;    he shall not slip

Though that the tempest    of worldly troubles

Or flood of worries    fiercely assail it.

For in that Vale of the Lowly    the Lord Himself

Ever abides,    owns His Home;

And there too Wisdom    in memory waits.

A life without sorrow    he always leads

That chooses wisdom;    it never changes,

Since he disdains    delights of the world,

From every evil    utterly free;

He hopes in eternity    hereafter to come.

Him then everywhere    God Almighty

Keeps always,    ever unceasing,

Fast abiding    in the blessed joys