of banquets his boyhood saw spread;
     Friends and companions partook of his pleasures—­
     Knoweth he well that all friendless and lordless
       Sorrow awaits him a long bitter while;—­
     Yet, when the spirits of Sorrow and Slumber
       Fasten with fetters the orphaned exile,
     Seemeth him then that he seeth in spirit,
       Meeteth and greeteth his master once more,
     Layeth his head on his lord’s loving bosom,
       Just as he did in the dear days of yore. 
     But he awaketh, forsaken and friendless,
       Seeth before him the black billows rise,
     Seabirds are bathing and spreading their feathers,
       Hailsnow and hoar-frost are hiding the skies. 
     Then in his heart the more heavily wounded,
       Longeth full sore for his loved one, his own,
     Sad is the mind that remembereth kinsmen,
       Greeting with gladness the days that are gone. 
     Seemeth him then on the waves of the ocean
       Comrades are swimming,—­well-nigh within reach,—­
     Yet from the spiritless lips of the swimmers
       Cometh familiar no welcoming speech. 
     So is his sorrow renewed and made sharper
       When the sad exile so often must send
     Thoughts of his suffering spirit to wander
       Wide o’er the waves where the rough billows blend. 
     So, lest the thought of my mind should be clouded,
       Close must I prison my sadness of heart,
     When I remember my bold comrade-kinsmen,
       How from the mede-hall I saw them depart. 
     Thus is the earth with its splendor departing—­
       Day after day it is passing away,
     Nor may a mortal have much of true wisdom
       Till his world-life numbers many a day. 
     He who is wise, then, must learn to be patient—­
       Not too hot-hearted, too hasty of speech,
     Neither too weak nor too bold in the battle,
       Fearful, nor joyous, nor greedy to reach,
     Neither too ready to boast till he knoweth—­
       Man must abide, when he vaunted his pride,
     Till strong of mind he hath surely determined
       Whether his purpose can be turned aside. 
     Surely the wise man may see like the desert
       How the whole wealth of the world lieth waste,
     How through the earth the lone walls are still standing,
       Blown by the wind and despoiled and defaced. 
     Covered with frost, the proud dwellings are ruined,
       Crumbled the wine-halls—­the king lieth low,
     Robbed of his pride—­and his troop have all fallen
       Proud by the wall—­some, the spoil of the foe,
     War took away—­and some the fierce sea-fowl
       Over the ocean—­and some the wolf gray
     Tore after death—­and yet others the hero
       Sad-faced has laid in earth-caverns away. 
     Thus at his will the eternal Creator
       Famished the fields of the earth’s ample fold—­