To straying men strong in its place.
Yet may the sage deep in his spirit
Feel great shame for the lust of glory,
When the thirst for fame fiercely presses,
Although he may not make it to spread,
In no wise whatever, over these narrow
Quarters of earth. How idle is glory!
Why ever, O proud ones, take you pleasure
To bow your own necks beneath the yoke
Heavy and grievous, glad that you may?
Why do you labour so long in vain,
Aim to possess fame in the world,
Over the nations, more than you need?
Though it befell that southward and north
The uttermost denizens, dwellers of earth,
In many a tongue intoned your praises;
Though you were known for noblest birth,
Worshipped for wealth, waxing in splendour,
Dear for your valour; Death heeds these not
When heaven's Governor gives him leave.
But the wealthy man, and the wanting in goods,
Death makes equal, in all things alike.
Where now are the wise one's, Weland's bones,
The worker in gold, once greatest in glory?
I ask where the bones of Weland are buried
For never any that on earth lives
May lose any virtue lent him by Christ;
Nor may one poor wretch be robbed with more ease
Of his soul's virtue, than may the sun
Be swung from his path, or the swift heavens
