You hold the treasures of princes now, earth,

now that princes' hands hold nothing.

They took those prizes first from you,

before the anguish of battle gripped them.

Death took everyone who knew

the joys of our people's great hall.

They've all left this life.

No one carries the sword now,

no one polishes the feasting cup.

They've all gone off somewhere.

Now the stout helmet of finely-hammered gold

falls to you, the polishers who

should shine the war mask sleep.

The mail coat that endured battle

among the breaking of shields

and the bite of swords

rusts on a corpse.

Its chains won't ring out

while a war-prince rides

with heroes beside him.

There'll be no joy from the harp,

no hand touching the sweet strings,

no hawk flying from beam to beam

across the people's great hall,

no swift mare stamping

on the courtyard stones.

Death has pointed

many peoples on their way.

Translated from Old English by K.S.