Faring thro' many a folk and plowing many a sea-plainThese sad funeral-rites (Brother!) to deal thee I come,So wi' the latest boons to the dead bestowed I may gift thee,And I may vainly address ashes that answer have none,Sithence of thee, very thee, to deprive me Fortune behested,Woe for thee, Brother forlore! Cruelly severed fro' me.Yet in the meanwhile now what olden usage of forbearsBrings as the boons that befit mournfullest funeral rites,Thine be these gifts which flow with tear-flood shed by thy brother,And, for ever and aye (Brother!) all hail and farewell.