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