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We must hurry nowTo take a last look at the kingAnd launch him, lord and lavisher of rings, On the funeral road. His royal pyreWill melt no small amount of gold:Heaped there in a hoard, it was bought at heavy cost, And that pile of rings he paid for at the endWith his own life will go up with the flame, Be furled in fire: treasure no followerWill wear in his memory, nor lovely womanLink and attach as a torque around her neck-But often, repeatedly, in the path of exileThey shall walk bereft, bowed under woe, Now that their leader's laugh is silenced, High spirits quenched. Many a spearDawn-cold to the touch will be taken down And waved on high; the swept harpWon't waken warriors, but the raven wingingDarkly over the doomed will have news, Tidings for the eagle of how he hoked and ate, How the world and he made short work of the dead.

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