(a poem composed in anglo-saxon and translated into modern english)
Cynigan dohtor cwanig mædencild
betweoh forþfædera forspildnesse stod.
þa amærgan rodortungola eorþan feoll,
ysla dwæscte fela dryhtsela.
Fram þam sacu wæs heo gesparod
dracu geworuht hire gedwolmiste.
Wyrd ne wæs hire woruldfréond.
Heo in handum hæfde bryðen
Drync álíefdede sum to ofergietean.
Grorn stod æt twicen, gyldenfeaxau cwen
blíðheort ond nyten, oððe biterlice ond wislicu.
Hléowlora híerede héafodwóþa freonda
gelegd lífléas lígbrynum
sægdedon nama hire: Seleðryð cwen
þa brytsene endeníehst behéold.
Toweard ádlíegum áwearp ampellan
þær hit scænede sceardum mónan-geléohted.
Seles forleton idelan ful beláf þanc-
Oferstealla þæt ýtend gyrnes bedranc,
mage næfre edníwede in þisse middan-geard.
The daughter of the queen, the maiden of sorrow,
Stood among the ruins of her forefathers.
The dust of stars fell to earth,
Cinders extinguished many halls.
She was spared from the strife,
The trouble wrought of her clouded judgment.
Fate was not her friend
She held in hand a potion,
A draught that allows one to forget.
The golden-haired princess sadly stood at the diversion of two roads,
Merry and ignorant, or bitter and wise.
The girl, without protectors, heard the voices of friends
Rendered lifeless by fire,
They spoke her name: Princess Selethryth,
It was the last fragment she beheld.
She cast the bottle toward the funeral flames
Where it shattered into moonlit shards.
The halls surrendered to emptiness but the thought-keeper was still full
The sole survivor did not drink from the remover of tragedy,
A maiden never to be reincarnated in this middle-earth.