| |
| IT was heavy hap for that hero young | |
| on his lord beloved to look and find him | |
| lying on earth with life at end, | |
| sorrowful sight. But the slayer too, | |
| awful earth-dragon, empty of breath, | 5 |
| lay felled in fight, nor, fain of its treasure, | |
| could the writhing monster rule it more. | |
| For edges of iron had ended its days, | |
| hard and battle-sharp, hammers’ leaving; 1 | |
| and that flier-afar had fallen to ground | 10 |
| hushed by its hurt, its hoard all near, | |
| no longer lusty aloft to whirl | |
| at midnight, making its merriment seen, | |
| proud of its prizes: prone it sank | |
| by the handiwork of the hero-king. | 15 |
| Forsooth among folk but few achieve, | |
| —though sturdy and strong, as stories tell me, | |
| and never so daring in deed of valor,— | |
| the perilous breath of a poison-foe | |
| to brave, and to rush on the ring-board hall, | 20 |
| whenever his watch the warden keeps | |
| bold in the barrow. Beowulf paid | |
| the price of death for that precious hoard; | |
| and each of the foes had found the end | |
| of this fleeting life. | 25 |
| Befell erelong | |
| that the laggards in war the wood had left, | |
| trothbreakers, cowards, ten together, | |
| fearing before to flourish a spear | |
| in the sore distress of their sovran lord. | 30 |
| Now in their shame their shields they carried, | |
| armor of fight, where the old man lay; | |
| and they gazed on Wiglaf. Wearied he sat | |
| at his sovran’s shoulder, shieldsman good, | |
| to wake him with water. 2 Nowise it availed. | 35 |
| Though well he wished it, in world no more | |
| could he barrier life for that leader-of-battles | |
| nor baffle the will of all-wielding God. | |
| Doom of the Lord was law o’er the deeds | |
| of every man, as it is to-day. | 40 |
| Grim was the answer, easy to get, | |
| from the youth for those that had yielded to fear! | |
| Wiglaf spake, the son of Weohstan,— | |
| mournful he looked on those men unloved:— | |
| “Who sooth will speak, can say indeed | 45 |
| that the ruler who gave you golden rings | |
| and the harness of war in which ye stand | |
| —for he at ale-bench often-times | |
| bestowed on hall-folk helm and breastplate, | |
| lord to liegemen, the likeliest gear | 50 |
| which near or far he could find to give,— | |
| threw away and wasted these weeds of battle, | |
| on men who failed when the foemen came! | |
| Not at all could the king of his comrades-in-arms | |
| venture to vaunt, though the Victory-Wielder, | 55 |
| God, gave him grace that he got revenge | |
| sole with his sword in stress and need. | |
| To rescue his life, ’twas little that I | |
| could serve him in struggle; yet shift I made | |
| (hopeless it seemed) to help my kinsman. | 60 |
| Its strength ever waned, when with weapon I struck | |
| that fatal foe, and the fire less strongly | |
| flowed from its head.—Too few the heroes | |
| in throe of contest that thronged to our king! | |
| Now gift of treasure and girding of sword, | 65 |
| joy of the house and home-delight | |
| shall fail your folk; his freehold-land | |
| every clansman within your kin | |
| shall lose and leave, when lords highborn | |
| hear afar of that flight of yours, | 70 |
| a fameless deed. Yea, death is better | |
| for liegemen all than a life of shame!” | |
