The thief did not break into the dragon-hoard,
desecrating the creature’s home, according to design,
but out of sore distress. This slave of some master
was forced to flee the beating of hostile blows,
in need of a shelter, and compounding his shame,
he invaded the mound. [Then when he saw the monster,
this unwelcome guest stood still in horror.
Yet the wretched man made his way forth,
sought safety from the wrath of the dragon,
slipping away from a sudden attack,
stealing]
20 the precious cup. Many such riches,
treasures from ancient times, lay in that earth-house,
an immense legacy of a noble nation,
a precious hoard, which some man had hidden
in days long gone by, considering with care
that place of concealment. Death seized all his people,
in time gone by, and this lone man was the only
one living
from the band of warriors, still walking their lands,
a lone watchman mourning friends, expecting the
same fate,
that for only a short moment might he enjoy the riches
long-held by his people. The barrow was prepared,
standing on a plain, near the surging of sea-waves,
newly built on the ness, artfully made hard to enter.
The guardian of ring-gifts bore inside the barrow
a mass of ancient treasures, adorned with gold,
worthy of a hoard, and said these few words:
“Hold safely, O Earth, what the heroes cannot,
the wealth of our nobles! Of course, men of worth
first found it on you. War-death swept away,
in malicious slaughter, every one of the men
of my own people, who had once known hall-joy,
before leaving this life. I have no one to wield a sword,
or polish the precious vessel, plated with gold,
the drinking cup for feasting, now that comrades
are gone.
The high bold helmet, skillfully wrought with gold,
will lose its gold plating, while those assigned to polish
the war-masks have long departed in the sleep of death.
So also the mail-coat, which came through fierce fighting,
the sharp biting of blades, in the clashing of shields,
decays like the warrior. Nor may the ringing mail
travel far and wide on campaigns with the war-chief,
protecting the sides of the hero. Nor is there joy of
the harp,
gladness of the wood-strings; nor does the good hawk
swing through the hall; nor does the swift horse
tramp through the stronghold. Terrible death has indeed
sent forth from this world many nations of men!“
21 Thus sad in spirit, he sang his lay of sorrow,
the last one to live, unhappily moving
through day and night, till death’s surging power
reached into his heart. Then the old night-raider,
a smooth-skinned dragon that burned in the dark,
flying through night skies enveloped in flames,
seeking out barrows, took joy in the hoard-treasure
which it found wide open. Greatly was it feared
by the folk of that land. It was forced by its nature
to seek the hoard in the earth, where it stood old in winters,
guarding heathen gold—yet from that got no good.