Seafarers
    Who from afar over the mists of waters
    Drive foamy keels may call it Beowulf’s Mount
    Hereafter.”  Then the hero from his neck
    Put off a golden collar; to his thane,
    To the young warrior, gave it with his helm,
    Armlet and corslet; bade him use them well. 
    “Thou art the last Waegmunding of our race,
    For fate has swept my kinsmen all away. 
    Earls in their strength are to their Maker gone,
    And I must follow them."[12]

Beowulf was still living when Wiglaf sent a messenger hurriedly to his people; when they came they found him dead, and the huge dragon dead on the sand beside him.

    Then the Goth’s people reared a mighty pile
    With shields and armour hung, as he had asked,
    And in the midst the warriors laid their lord,
    Lamenting.  Then the warriors on the mount
    Kindled a mighty bale fire; the smoke rose
    Black from the Swedish pine, the sound of flame
    Mingled with sound of weeping; ... while smoke
    Spread over heaven.  Then upon the hill
    The people of the Weders wrought a mound,
    High, broad, and to be seen far out at sea. 
    In ten days they had built and walled it in
    As the wise thought most worthy; placed in it
    Rings, jewels, other treasures from the hoard. 
    They left the riches, golden joy of earls,
    In dust, for earth to hold; where yet it lies,
    Useless as ever.  Then about the mound
    The warriors rode, and raised a mournful song
    For their dead king; exalted his brave deeds,
    Holding it fit men honour their liege lord,
    Praise him and love him when his soul is fled. 
    Thus the [Geat’s] people, sharers of his hearth,
    Mourned their chief’s fall, praised him, of kings, of men
    The mildest and the kindest, and to all
    His people gentlest, yearning for their praise.[13]

One is tempted to linger over the details of the magnificent ending:  the unselfish heroism of Beowulf, the great prototype of King Alfred; the generous grief of his people, ignoring gold and jewels in the thought of the greater treasure they had lost; the memorial mound on the low cliff, which would cause every returning mariner to steer a straight course to harbor in the remembrance of his dead hero; and the pure poetry which marks every noble line.  But the epic is great enough and simple enough to speak for itself.  Search the literatures of the world, and you will find no other such picture of a brave man’s death.