A folk of the Geatmen got him then ready
     A pile on the earth strong for the burning,
     Behung with helmets, hero-knight’s targets,
     And bright-shining burnies, as he begged they should have them;
     Then wailing war-heroes their world-famous chieftain,
     Their liege-lord beloved, laid in the middle. 
     Soldiers began then to make on the barrow
     The largest of dead fires:  dark o’er the vapor
     The smoke cloud ascended; the sad-roaring fire,
     Mingled with weeping (the-wind-roar subsided)
     Till the building of bone it had broken to pieces,
     Hot in the heart.  Heavy in spirit
     They mood-sad lamented the men-leader’s ruin.... 
     The men of the Weders made accordingly
     A hill on the height, high and extensive,
     Of sea-going sailors to be seen from a distance,
     And the brave one’s beacon built where the fire was,
     In ten days’ space, with a wall surrounded it,
     As wisest of world-folk could most worthily plan it. 
     They placed in the barrow rings and jewels,
     All such ornaments as erst in the treasure
     War-mooded men had won in possession: 
     The earnings of earlmen to earth they intrusted,
     The gold to the dust, where yet it remaineth
     As useless to mortals as in foregoing eras. 
     ’Round the dead-mound rode then the doughty-in-battle,
     Bairns of all twelve of the chiefs of the people,
     More would they mourn, lament for their ruler,
     Speak in measure, mention him with pleasure;
     Weighed his worth, and his warlike achievements
     Mightily commended, as ’tis meet one praise his
     Liege lord in words and love him in spirit,
     When forth from his body he fares to destruction. 
     So lamented mourning the men of the Geats,
     Fond loving vassals, the fall of their lord,
     Said he was gentlest of kings under heaven,
     Mildest of men and most philanthropic,
     Friendliest to folk-troops and fondest of honor.

By permission of John Leslie Hall, the Translator, and D.C.  Heath & Co., Publishers.

          DEOR’S LAMENT

     Wayland often wandered in exile,
     doughty earl, ills endur’d,
     had for comrades care and longing,
     winter-cold wandering; woe oft found
     since Nithhad brought such need upon him,—­
     laming wound on a lordlier man. 
       That pass’d over,—­and this may, too!

     In Beadohild’s breast, her brothers’ death
     wrought no such ill as her own disgrace,
     when she had openly understood
     her maidhood vanished; she might no wise
     think how the case could thrive at all. 
       That pass’d over,—­and this may, too!

     We have heard enough of Hild’s disgrace;
     heroes of Geat were homeless made,
     and sorrow stole their sleep away. 
       That pass’d over,—­and this may, too!