This poem (itself missing some of the lines), written in the 8th century, is about the collapse of the Roman baths into dereliction.
Wondrous is this stone wall, wrecked by fate;
the city buildings crumble, the works of giants decay.
Roofs have caved in, towers collapsed,
barred gates are broken, hoar frost clings to mortar,
houses are gaping, tottering and fallen,
undermined by age. The earth's embrace,
its fierce grip, holds the mighty craftsmen;
they are perished and gone. A hundred generations
have passed away since then. This wall, grey with lichen
and red of hue, outlives kingdom after kingdom,
withstands tempests; its tall gate succumbed.
The city still moulders, gashed by storms...
A man's mind quickened with a plan;
subtle and strong-willed, he bound
the foundations with metal rods - a marvel.
Bright were the city halls, many the bath houses,
lofty all the gables, great the martial clamour,
many a mead-hall was full of delights
until fate the mighty altered it. Slaughtered men
fell far and wide, the plague-days came,
death removed every brave man.
Their ramparts became abandoned places,
the city decayed; warriors and builders
fell to the earth. Thus these courts crumble,
and this redstone arch sheds tiles.
The place falls to ruins, shattered
into mounds of stone, where once many a man
joyous and gold-bright, dressed in splendour,
proud and flush with wine, gleamed in his armour;
he gazed on his treasure - silver, precious stones,
jewellery and wealth, all that he owned -
and on this bright city in the broad kingdom.
Stone houses stood here; a hot spring
gushed in a wide stream; a stone wall
enclosed in the bright interior; the baths
were there, the heated water; that was convenient.
They allowed the scalding water to pour
over the grey stone into the circular pool.
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