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| THEN fashioned for him the folk of Geats |
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| firm on the earth a funeral-pile, |
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| and hung it with helmets and harness of war |
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| and breastplates bright, as the boon he asked; |
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| and they laid amid it the mighty chieftain, |
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| heroes mourning their master dear. |
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| Then on the hill that hugest of balefires |
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| the warriors wakened. Wood-smoke rose |
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| black over blaze, and blent was the roar |
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| of flame with weeping (the wind was still), |
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| till the fire had broken the frame of bones, |
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| hot at the heart. In heavy mood |
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| their misery moaned they, their master's death. |
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| Wailing her woe, the widow[1] old, |
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| her hair upbound, for Beowulf's death |
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| sung in her sorrow, and said full oft |
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| she dreaded the doleful days to come, |
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| deaths enow, and doom of battle, |
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| and shame.—The smoke by the sky was devoured. |
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| The folk of the Weders fashioned there |
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| on the headland a barrow broad and high, |
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| by ocean-farers far descried: |
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| in ten days' time their toil had raised it, |
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| the battle-brave's beacon. Round brands of the pyre |
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| a wall they built, the worthiest ever |
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| that wit could prompt in their wisest men. |
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| They placed in the barrow that precious booty, |
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| the rounds and the rings they had reft erewhile, |
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| hardy heroes, from hoard in cave,— |
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| trusting the ground with treasure of earls, |
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| gold in the earth, where ever it lies |
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| useless to men as of yore it was. |
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| Then about that barrow the battle-keen rode, |
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| atheling-born, a band of twelve, |
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| lament to make, to mourn their king, |
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| chant their dirge, and their chieftain honor. |
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| They praised his earlship, his acts of prowess |
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| worthily witnessed: and well it is |
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| that men their master-friend mightily laud, |
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| heartily love, when hence he goes |
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| from life in the body forlorn away. |
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