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| 'TWAS now, men say, in his sovran's need |
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| that the earl made known his noble strain, |
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| craft and keenness and courage enduring. |
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| Heedless of harm, though his hand was burned, |
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| hardy-hearted, he helped his kinsman. |
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| A little lower the loathsome beast |
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| he smote with sword; his steel drove in |
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| bright and burnished; that blaze began |
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| to lose and lessen. At last the king |
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| wielded his wits again, war-knife drew, |
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| a biting blade by his breastplate hanging, |
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| and the Weders'-helm smote that worm asunder, |
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| felled the foe, flung forth its life. |
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| So had they killed it, kinsmen both, |
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| athelings twain: thus an earl should be |
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| in danger's day!—Of deeds of valor |
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|
| this conqueror's-hour of the king was last, |
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| of his work in the world. The wound began, |
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| which that dragon-of-earth had erst inflicted, |
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| to swell and smart; and soon he found |
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| in his breast was boiling, baleful and deep, |
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| pain of poison. The prince walked on, |
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| wise in his thought, to the wall of rock; |
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| then sat, and stared at the structure of giants, |
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| where arch of stone and steadfast column |
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| upheld forever that hall in earth. |
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| Yet here must the hand of the henchman peerless |
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| lave with water his winsome lord, |
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| the king and conqueror covered with blood, |
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| with struggle spent, and unspan his helmet. |
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| Beowulf spake in spite of his hurt, |
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| his mortal wound; full well he knew |
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|
| his portion now was past and gone |
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| of earthly bliss, and all had fled |
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| of his file of days, and death was near: |
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| "I would fain bestow on son of mine |
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| this gear of war, were given me now |
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| that any heir should after me come |
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| of my proper blood. This people I ruled |
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| fifty winters. No folk-king was there, |
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| none at all, of the neighboring clans |
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| who war would wage me with 'warriors'-friends'[1] |
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| and threat me with horrors. At home I bided |
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| what fate might come, and I cared for mine own; |
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| feuds I sought not, nor falsely swore |
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| ever on oath. For all these things, |
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| though fatally wounded, fain am I! |
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| From the Ruler-of-Man no wrath shall seize me, |
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| when life from my frame must flee away, |
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| for killing of kinsmen! Now quickly go |
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| and gaze on that hoard 'neath the hoary rock, |
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| Wiglaf loved, now the worm lies low, |
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| sleeps, heart-sore, of his spoil bereaved. |
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| And fare in haste. I would fain behold |
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| the gorgeous heirlooms, golden store, |
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| have joy in the jewels and gems, lay down |
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| softlier for sight of this splendid hoard |
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| my life and the lordship I long have held." |
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|
