ABSTRACT
In sorrow of soul they laid on the pyre Their mighty leader, their well-loved lord. The warriors kindled the bale on the barrow, Wakened the greatest of funeral fires. Dark o'er the blaze the wood-smoke mounted; The winds were still, and the sound of weeping Rose with the roar of the surging flame Till the heat of the fire had broken the body. With hearts that were heavy they chanted their sorrow, Singing a dirge for the death of their lord; And an aged woman with upbound locks Lamented for Beowulf, wailing in woe. Over and over she uttered her dread Of sorrow to come, of bloodshed and slaughter, Terror of battle, and bondage, and shame. The smoke of the bale-fire rose to the sky! Beowulf
