In Geatland bold, a hero rose,
Beowulf his name, the tale it goes.
From shores of home to Hrothgar’s hall,
He heard the call, he’d heed them all.

Raise your horns, sing of glory,
Beowulf's brave, enduring story.
In the halls of kings and battle's fire,
He forged his fate, through realms dire.

Grendel came, a monstrous plight,
In Herot's heart, he struck at night.
Beowulf sailed o'er the sea,
To end the fiend and set men free.

With grip of steel, he faced the beast,
Tore limb from limb, the feast did cease.
Yet darker threats lay still in wait,
A mother's wrath, a dragon's fate.

In murky depths, the mother dwelled,
A vengeful heart, her fury swelled.
Beowulf dove into the deep,
To claim his victory and peace to keep.

Years did pass, a king renowned,
Yet one last foe would bring him down.
A dragon fierce with breath of flame,
Beowulf faced his final claim.

In ancient halls his deeds remain,
A hero’s song, a timeless strain.
Beowulf's name in saga lore,
Lives evermore, forevermore.

When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, 
Oblivion! may thy languid wing 
Wave gently o'er my dying bed! 

No band of friends or heirs be there, 
To weep, or wish, the coming blow: 
No maiden, with dishevell'd hair, 
To feel, or feign, decorous woe. 

But silent let me sink to earth, 
With no officious mourners near: 
I would not mar one hour of mirth, 
Nor startle friendship with a fear. 

Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 
Could nobly check its useless sighs, 
Might then exert its latest power 
In her who lives and him who dies. 

'T were sweet, my Psyche! to the last 
Thy features still serene to see: 
Forgetful of its struggles past, 
E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. 

But vain the wish — for Beauty still 
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath; 
And woman's tears, produced at will, 
Deceive in life, unman in death. 

Then lonely be my latest hour, 
Without regret, without a groan; 
For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, 
And pain been transient or unknown. 

"Ay, but to die, and go," alas! 
Where all have gone, and all must go! 
To be the nothing that I was 
Ere born to life and living woe! — 

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 
And know, whatever thou hast been, 
'T is something better not to be.