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| BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:— |
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| "Lo, now, this sea-booty, son of Healfdene, |
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| Lord of Scyldings, we've lustily brought thee, |
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| sign of glory; thou seest it here. |
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| Not lightly did I with my life escape! |
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| In war under water this work I essayed |
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| with endless effort; and even so |
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| my strength had been lost had the Lord not shielded me. |
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| Not a whit could I with Hrunting do |
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| in work of war, though the weapon is good; |
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| yet a sword the Sovran of Men vouchsafed me |
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| to spy on the wall there, in splendor hanging, |
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| old, gigantic,—how oft He guides |
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| the friendless wight!—and I fought with that brand, |
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| felling in fight, since fate was with me, |
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| the house's wardens. That war-sword then |
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| all burned, bright blade, when the blood gushed o'er it, |
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| battle-sweat hot; but the hilt I brought back |
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| from my foes. So avenged I their fiendish deeds |
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| death-fall of Danes, as was due and right. |
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| And this is my hest, that in Heorot now |
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| safe thou canst sleep with thy soldier band, |
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| and every thane of all thy folk |
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| both old and young; no evil fear, |
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| Scyldings' lord, from that side again, |
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| aught ill for thy earls, as erst thou must!" |
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| Then the golden hilt, for that gray-haired leader, |
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| hoary hero, in hand was laid, |
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| giant-wrought, old. So owned and enjoyed it |
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| after downfall of devils, the Danish lord, |
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| wonder-smiths' work, since the world was rid |
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| of that grim-souled fiend, the foe of God, |
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| murder-marked, and his mother as well. |
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| Now it passed into power of the people's king, |
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| best of all that the oceans bound |
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| who have scattered their gold o'er Scandia's isle. |
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| Hrothgar spake—the hilt he viewed, |
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| heirloom old, where was etched the rise |
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| of that far-off fight when the floods o'erwhelmed, |
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| raging waves, the race of giants |
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| (fearful their fate!), a folk estranged |
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| from God Eternal: whence guerdon due |
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| in that waste of waters the Wielder paid them. |
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| So on the guard of shining gold |
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| in runic staves it was rightly said |
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| for whom the serpent-traced sword was wrought, |
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| best of blades, in bygone days, |
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| and the hilt well wound.—The wise-one spake, |
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| son of Healfdene; silent were all:— |
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| "Lo, so may he say who sooth and right |
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| follows 'mid folk, of far times mindful, |
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| a land-warden old,[1] that this earl belongs |
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| to the better breed! So, borne aloft, |
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| thy fame must fly, O friend my Beowulf, |
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| far and wide o'er folksteads many. Firmly thou |
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| shalt all maintain, |
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| mighty strength with mood of wisdom. Love of |
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| mine will I assure thee, |
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| as, awhile ago, I promised; thou shalt prove a stay |
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| in future, |
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| in far-off years, to folk of thine, |
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| to the heroes a help. Was not Heremod thus |
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| to offspring of Ecgwela, Honor-Scyldings, |
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| nor grew for their grace, but for grisly slaughter, |
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| for doom of death to the Danishmen. |
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| He slew, wrath-swollen, his shoulder-comrades, |
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| companions at board! So he passed alone, |
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| chieftain haughty, from human cheer. |
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| Though him the Maker with might endowed, |
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| delights of power, and uplifted high |
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| above all men, yet blood-fierce his mind, |
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| his breast-hoard, grew, no bracelets gave he |
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| to Danes as was due; he endured all joyless |
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| strain of struggle and stress of woe, |
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| long feud with his folk. Here find thy lesson! |
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| Of virtue advise thee! This verse I have said for thee, |
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| wise from lapsed winters. Wondrous seems |
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| how to sons of men Almighty God |
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| in the strength of His spirit sendeth wisdom, |
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| estate, high station: He swayeth all things. |
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| Whiles He letteth right lustily fare |
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| the heart of the hero of high-born race,— |
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| in seat ancestral assigns him bliss, |
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| his folk's sure fortress in fee to hold, |
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| puts in his power great parts of the earth, |
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| empire so ample, that end of it |
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| this wanter-of-wisdom weeneth none. |
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| So he waxes in wealth, nowise can harm him |
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| illness or age; no evil cares |
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| shadow his spirit; no sword-hate threatens |
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| from ever an enemy: all the world |
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| wends at his will, no worse he knoweth, |
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| till all within him obstinate pride |
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| waxes and wakes while the warden slumbers, |
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| the spirit's sentry; sleep is too fast |
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| which masters his might, and the murderer nears, |
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| stealthily shooting the shafts from his bow! |
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