It is bitter for an old man
to see his son go riding high
on the gallows. Then he may tell
a true sorrow-song
while his son swings,
a joy to the ravens --

and old and wise and sad,
he cannot help him at all.

Always, each morning
he remembers well
his son's passing.
He does not care to wait
for another guardian of heirlooms
to grow in his homestead,
when the first has had
such a deadly fill of violent deeds.

Miserable, he looks upon
his son's dwelling  -- deserted
winehall, windswept bedding....

emptied of joy.  The rider sleeps,
warrior in the grave. No harp music,
no games in the courtyard,
as there had been.

Then he goes to his bed
and sings his cares over, alone,
for the other. All seems too open,
the fields and the house.....

Beowulf, lines 2444-2462.

(Adaptation of the Chickering translation, Doubleday, 1977).