| |
| “THEN he goes to his chamber, a grief-song chants | |
| alone for his lost. Too large all seems, | |
| homestead and house. So the helmet-of-Weders | |
| hid in his heart for Herebeald | |
| waves of woe. No way could he take | 5 |
| to avenge on the slayer slaughter so foul; | |
| nor e’en could he harass that hero at all | |
| with loathing deed, though he loved him not. | |
| And so for the sorrow his soul endured, | |
| men’s gladness he gave up and God’s light chose. | 10 |
| Lands and cities he left his sons | |
| (as the wealthy do) when he went from earth. | |
| There was strife and struggle ’twixt Swede and Geat | |
| o’er the width of waters; war arose, | |
| hard battle-horror, when Hrethel died, | 15 |
| and Ongentheow’s offspring grew | |
| strife-keen, bold, nor brooked o’er the seas | |
| pact of peace, but pushed their hosts | |
| to harass in hatred by Hreosnabeorh. | |
| Men of my folk for that feud had vengeance, | 20 |
| for woful war (’tis widely known), | |
| though one of them bought it with blood of his heart, | |
| a bargain hard: for Hæthcyn proved | |
| fatal that fray, for the first-of-Geats. | |
| At morn, I heard, was the murderer killed | 25 |
| by kinsman for kinsman, 1 with clash of sword, | |
| when Ongentheow met Eofor there. | |
| Wide split the war-helm: wan he fell, | |
| hoary Scylfing; the hand that smote him | |
| of feud was mindful, nor flinched from the death-blow. | 30 |
| |
| —“For all that he 2 gave me, my gleaming sword | |
| repaid him at war,—such power I wielded,— | |
| for lordly treasure: with land he entrusted me, | |
| homestead and house. He had no need | |
| from Swedish realm, or from Spear-Dane folk, | 35 |
| or from men of the Gifths, to get him help,— | |
| some warrior worse for wage to buy! | |
| Ever I fought in the front of all, | |
| sole to the fore; and so shall I fight | |
| while I bide in life and this blade shall last | 40 |
| that early and late hath loyal proved | |
| since for my doughtiness Dæghrefn fell, | |
| slain by my hand, the Hugas’ champion. | |
| Nor fared he thence to the Frisian king | |
| with the booty back, and breast-adornments; | 45 |
| but, slain in struggle, that standard-bearer | |
| fell, atheling brave. Not with blade was he slain, | |
| but his bones were broken by brawny gripe, | |
| his heart-waves stilled.—The sword-edge now, | |
| hard blade and my hand, for the hoard shall strive.” | 50 |
| Beowulf spake, and a battle-vow made, | |
| his last of all: “I have lived through many | |
| wars in my youth; now once again, | |
| old folk-defender, feud will I seek, | |
| do doughty deeds, if the dark destroyer | 55 |
| forth from his cavern come to fight me!” | |
| Then hailed he the helmeted heroes all, | |
| for the last time greeting his liegemen dear, | |
| comrades of war: “I should carry no weapon, | |
| no sword to the serpent, if sure I knew | 60 |
| how, with such enemy, else my vows | |
| I could gain as I did in Grendel’s day. | |
| But fire in this fight I must fear me now, | |
| and poisonous breath; so I bring with me | |
| breastplate and board. 3 From the barrow’s keeper | 65 |
| no footbreadth flee I. One fight shall end | |
| our war by the wall, as Wyrd allots, | |
| all mankind’s master. My mood is bold | |
| but forbears to boast o’er this battling-flyer. | |
| —Now abide by the barrow, ye breastplate-mailed, | 70 |
| ye heroes in harness, which of us twain | |
| better from battle-rush bear his wounds. | |
| Wait ye the finish. The fight is not yours, | |
| nor meet for any but me alone | |
| to measure might with this monster here | 75 |
| and play the hero. Hardily I | |
| shall win that wealth, or war shall seize, | |
| cruel killing, your king and lord!” | |
| Up stood then with shield the sturdy champion, | |
| stayed by the strength of his single manhood, | 80 |
| and hardy ’neath helmet his harness bore | |
| under cleft of the cliffs: no coward’s path! | |
| Soon spied by the wall that warrior chief, | |
| survivor of many a victory-field | |
| where foemen fought with furious clashings, | 85 |
| an arch of stone; and within, a stream | |
| that broke from the barrow. The brooklet’s wave | |
| was hot with fire. The hoard that way | |
| he never could hope unharmed to near, | |
| or endure those deeps, 4 for the dragon’s flame. | 90 |
| Then let from his breast, for he burst with rage, | |
| the Weder-Geat prince a word outgo; | |
| stormed the stark-heart; stern went ringing | |
| and clear his cry ’neath the cliff-rocks gray. | |
| The hoard-guard heard a human voice; | 95 |
| his rage was enkindled. No respite now | |
| for pact of peace! The poison-breath | |
| of that foul worm first came forth from the cave, | |
| hot reek-of-fight: the rocks resounded. | |
| Stout by the stone-way his shield he raised, | 100 |
| lord of the Geats, against the loathed-one; | |
| while with courage keen that coiléd foe | |
| came seeking strife. The sturdy king | |
| had drawn his sword, not dull of edge, | |
| heirloom old; and each of the two | 105 |
| felt fear of his foe, though fierce their mood. | |
| Stoutly stood with his shield high-raised | |
| the warrior king, as the worm now coiled | |
| together amain: the mailed-one waited. | |
| Now, spire by spire, fast sped and glided | 110 |
| that blazing serpent. The shield protected, | |
| soul and body a shorter while | |
| for the hero-king than his heart desired, | |
| could his will have wielded the welcome respite | |
| but once in his life! But Wyrd denied it, | 115 |
| and victory’s honors.—His arm he lifted, | |
| lord of the Geats, the grim foe smote | |
| with atheling’s heirloom. Its edge was turned, | |
| brown blade, on the bone, and bit more feebly | |
| than its noble master had need of then | 120 |
| in his baleful stress.—Then the barrow’s keeper | |
| waxed full wild for that weighty blow, | |
| cast deadly flames; wide drove and far | |
| those vicious fires. No victor’s glory | |
| the Geats’ lord boasted; his brand had failed, | 125 |
| naked in battle, as never it should, | |
| excellent iron!—’Twas no easy path | |
| that Ecgtheow’s honored heir must tread | |
| over the plain to the place of the foe; | |
| for against his will he must win a home | 130 |
| elsewhere far, as must all men, leaving | |
| this lapsing life!—Not long it was | |
| ere those champions grimly closed again. | |
| The hoard-guard was heartened; high heaved his breast | |
| once more; and by peril was pressed again, | 135 |
| enfolded in flames, the folk-commander! | |
| Nor yet about him his band of comrades, | |
| sons of athelings, arméd stood | |
| with warlike front: to the woods they bent them, | |
| their lives to save. But the soul of one | 140 |
| with care was cumbered. Kinship true | |
| can never be marred in a noble mind! | |
