"Hold them now, Earth, now hand of man cannot,
A great tribe's treasures. Truly, from you
Brave men first got them; battle-death has taken,
Murderous fighting, the men, one and all,
Peers of my people: they have passed from this life,
Rest from hall-joys. None remains with me
To bear the sword, burnish the rich goblet,
Costly drinking-cup; the company has gone elsewhere.
Now the hard helmet, hammered with gold,
Must be stripped of its plating; the polishers sleep
Who once made bright those grim battle-masks;
Also the armor, which endured in battle,
Mid breaking of shields, the bite of swords,
Rots with the warrior. The ringed-corslet
May not wander far on the war-chief's path,
At the soldier's side. The harp is silent,
No glad music sounds, nor any good hawk
Sweeps through the hall, nor swift hoofbeats
Drum in the courtyard. Death-qualm has sent
Full many a folk forth on their way."