Meter 10

If any living man longeth for glory,
And fame without gain would fain have for his own,
Then with my words would I beseech him
On all sides about him far out to spy,
Clearly to look, south, east, and west,
And consider how broad with the clouds all about
Is the vault of the sky. So may the wise man
Easily deem this earth of ours
By the side of that other wondrously small,

Though to the witless wide it seemeth,
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 presseth,
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 ye pleasure
To bow your own necks beneath the yoke
Heavy and grievous, glad that ye may?
Why do ye labour so long in vain,

Aim to possess fame in the world,
Over the nations, more than ye 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 heedeth these not
When heaven’s Governor giveth him leave.
But the wealthy man, and the wanting in goods,
Death maketh 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 liveth
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
Moved from their courses by the might of a man.
Who now is aware of wise Weland’s bones,
In what barrow lying they litter the ground?
Where is the senator so mighty of Rome,
The bold champion of whom we chaunt,
Head of their army, he that the name
Amid the burghers of Brutus bore?
Where is the wise one that wished for fame,
The people’s shepherd, steadfast of purpose,
That was a sage in each thing several,
Keen and the cunning, Cato was hight?
Many long days ago these men departed ;
No man knoweth now where they be.
What is left of them but their fame alone ?
Too slight is the glory of such teachers.
For they were worthy, were those heroes,
Of more in the world. But worse it is now,
When over the earth, in every quarter,
They and those like them are little spoken of,
And some not a few are clean forgotten,
And their fame cannot keep them longer
Known to all men, noble heroes.
Though ye now deem, desire strongly,
That long in the land your life may last,
How ever the better can ye be or seem?
For Death no man leaveth, though long it seem,
His life-days told, if the Lord it alloweth.
But what profit doth a mortal possess

In this world’s glory, if he be gripped
By death everlasting after this life ?