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| LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings |
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| of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped, |
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| we have heard, and what honor the athelings won! |
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| Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes, |
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| from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore, |
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| awing the earls. Since erst he lay |
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| friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him: |
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| for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve, |
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| till before him the folk, both far and near, |
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| who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate, |
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| gave him gifts: a good king he! |
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| To him an heir was afterward born, |
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| a son in his halls, whom heaven sent |
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| to favor the folk, feeling their woe |
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| that erst they had lacked an earl for leader |
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| so long a while; the Lord endowed him, |
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| the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown. |
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| Famed was this Beowulf:[1] far flew the boast of him, |
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| son of Scyld, in the Scandian lands. |
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| So becomes it a youth to quit him well |
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| with his father's friends, by fee and gift, |
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| that to aid him, aged, in after days, |
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| come warriors willing, should war draw nigh, |
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| liegemen loyal: by lauded deeds |
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| shall an earl have honor in every clan. |
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| Forth he fared at the fated moment, |
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| sturdy Scyld to the shelter of God. |
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| Then they bore him over to ocean's billow, |
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| loving clansmen, as late he charged them, |
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| while wielded words the winsome Scyld, |
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| the leader beloved who long had ruled.... |
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| In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel, |
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| ice-flecked, outbound, atheling's barge: |
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| there laid they down their darling lord |
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| on the breast of the boat, the breaker-of-rings,[2] |
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| by the mast the mighty one. Many a treasure |
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| fetched from far was freighted with him. |
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| No ship have I known so nobly dight |
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| with weapons of war and weeds of battle, |
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| with breastplate and blade: on his bosom lay |
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| a heaped hoard that hence should go |
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| far o'er the flood with him floating away. |
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| No less these loaded the lordly gifts, |
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| thanes' huge treasure, than those had done |
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| who in former time forth had sent him |
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| sole on the seas, a suckling child. |
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| High o'er his head they hoist the standard, |
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| a gold-wove banner; let billows take him, |
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| gave him to ocean. Grave were their spirits, |
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| mournful their mood. No man is able |
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| to say in sooth, no son of the halls, |
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| no hero 'neath heaven,—who harbored that freight! |
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