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| THE fall of his lord he was fain to requite |
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| in after days; and to Eadgils he proved |
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| friend to the friendless, and forces sent |
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| over the sea to the son of Ohtere, |
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| weapons and warriors: well repaid he |
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| those care-paths cold when the king he slew.[1] |
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| Thus safe through struggles the son of Ecgtheow |
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| had passed a plenty, through perils dire, |
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| with daring deeds, till this day was come |
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| that doomed him now with the dragon to strive. |
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| With comrades eleven the lord of Geats |
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| swollen in rage went seeking the dragon. |
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| He had heard whence all the harm arose |
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| and the killing of clansmen; that cup of price |
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| on the lap of the lord had been laid by the finder. |
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| In the throng was this one thirteenth man, |
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| starter of all the strife and ill, |
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| care-laden captive; cringing thence |
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| forced and reluctant, he led them on |
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| till he came in ken of that cavern-hall, |
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| the barrow delved near billowy surges, |
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| flood of ocean. Within 'twas full |
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| of wire-gold and jewels; a jealous warden, |
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| warrior trusty, the treasures held, |
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| lurked in his lair. Not light the task |
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| of entrance for any of earth-born men! |
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| Sat on the headland the hero king, |
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| spake words of hail to his hearth-companions, |
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| gold-friend of Geats. All gloomy his soul, |
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| wavering, death-bound. Wyrd full nigh |
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| stood ready to greet the gray-haired man, |
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| to seize his soul-hoard, sunder apart |
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| life and body. Not long would be |
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| the warrior's spirit enwound with flesh. |
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| Beowulf spake, the bairn of Ecgtheow:— |
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| "Through store of struggles I strove in youth, |
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| mighty feuds; I mind them all. |
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| I was seven years old when the sovran of rings, |
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| friend-of-his-folk, from my father took me, |
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| had me, and held me, Hrethel the king, |
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| with food and fee, faithful in kinship. |
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| Ne'er, while I lived there, he loathlier found me, |
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| bairn in the burg, than his birthright sons, |
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| Herebeald and Haethcyn and Hygelac mine. |
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| For the eldest of these, by unmeet chance, |
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| by kinsman's deed, was the death-bed strewn, |
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| when Haethcyn killed him with horny bow, |
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| his own dear liege laid low with an arrow, |
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| missed the mark and his mate shot down, |
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| one brother the other, with bloody shaft. |
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| A feeless fight,[2] and a fearful sin, |
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| horror to Hrethel; yet, hard as it was, |
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| unavenged must the atheling die! |
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| Too awful it is for an aged man |
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| to bide and bear, that his bairn so young |
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| rides on the gallows. A rime he makes, |
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| sorrow-song for his son there hanging |
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| as rapture of ravens; no rescue now |
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| can come from the old, disabled man! |
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| Still is he minded, as morning breaks, |
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| of the heir gone elsewhere;[3] another he hopes not |
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| he will bide to see his burg within |
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| as ward for his wealth, now the one has found |
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| doom of death that the deed incurred. |
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| Forlorn he looks on the lodge of his son, |
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| wine-hall waste and wind-swept chambers |
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| reft of revel. The rider sleepeth, |
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| the hero, far-hidden;[4] no harp resounds, |
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| in the courts no wassail, as once was heard. |
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