The folk of the Geatmen got him then ready A pile on the earth strong for the burning, Behung with helmets, hero-knights’ targets, And bright-shining burnies, as he begged they should have them; Then wailing war-heroes their world-famous chieftain, Their liegelord 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; And mournful measures the much-grieving widow ⋮ ⋮ ⋮ ⋮ ⋮ ⋮ 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,