Fitt XLIII — The Burning of Beowulf

The Geats build the pyre as Beowulf asked — strong for the burning, hung about with helmets and heroes' shields and bright-shining byrnies, so that the weapons he valued would burn with him. The fire is kindled. Dark smoke ascends above the vapor, the sad-roaring fire mingled with weeping, the wind-roar subsiding as the burning goes on. The wood-smoke rises black over the bone-house until the hot heart breaks.

Then the mound. In ten days the Geats raise a hill on the height — high and extensive, broad and far-famous, visible from far out at sea for sailors who need a landmark. The brave one's beacon is built where the fire had been, on the headland of Hronesness. They work for ten days and the mound is done.

Twelve horsemen ride around the barrow. Warriors, battle-brave, they chant the elegy — Beowulf's deeds, his worth, the judgment of those who knew him. They call him the kindest of kings under heaven, the gentlest of men, the most winning of manner, the friendliest to folk-troops, and the fondest of honor. And the gold — all the treasure stripped from the dragon's cave, the earnings of warriors won in ancient battles — is buried with him in the barrow, entrusted to the earth, where, the poet says, it yet remains as useless to men as it ever was. That is the last line. The hoard is in the ground and always was.