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| IT was heavy hap for that hero young |
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| on his lord beloved to look and find him |
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| lying on earth with life at end, |
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| sorrowful sight. But the slayer too, |
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| awful earth-dragon, empty of breath, |
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| lay felled in fight, nor, fain of its treasure, |
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| could the writhing monster rule it more. |
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| For edges of iron had ended its days, |
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| hard and battle-sharp, hammers' leaving;[1] |
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| and that flier-afar had fallen to ground |
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| hushed by its hurt, its hoard all near, |
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| no longer lusty aloft to whirl |
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| at midnight, making its merriment seen, |
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| proud of its prizes: prone it sank |
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| by the handiwork of the hero-king. |
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| Forsooth among folk but few achieve, |
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| —though sturdy and strong, as stories tell me, |
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| and never so daring in deed of valor,— |
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| the perilous breath of a poison-foe |
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| to brave, and to rush on the ring-board hall, |
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| whenever his watch the warden keeps |
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| bold in the barrow. Beowulf paid |
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| the price of death for that precious hoard; |
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| and each of the foes had found the end |
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| of this fleeting life. |
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| Befell erelong |
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| that the laggards in war the wood had left, |
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| trothbreakers, cowards, ten together, |
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| fearing before to flourish a spear |
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| in the sore distress of their sovran lord. |
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| Now in their shame their shields they carried, |
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| armor of fight, where the old man lay; |
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| and they gazed on Wiglaf. Wearied he sat |
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| at his sovran's shoulder, shieldsman good, |
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| to wake him with water.[2] Nowise it availed. |
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| Though well he wished it, in world no more |
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| could he barrier life for that leader-of-battles |
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| nor baffle the will of all-wielding God. |
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| Doom of the Lord was law o'er the deeds |
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| of every man, as it is to-day. |
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| Grim was the answer, easy to get, |
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| from the youth for those that had yielded to fear! |
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| Wiglaf spake, the son of Weohstan,— |
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| mournful he looked on those men unloved:— |
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| "Who sooth will speak, can say indeed |
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| that the ruler who gave you golden rings |
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| and the harness of war in which ye stand |
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| —for he at ale-bench often-times |
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| bestowed on hall-folk helm and breastplate, |
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| lord to liegemen, the likeliest gear |
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| which near of far he could find to give,— |
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| threw away and wasted these weeds of battle, |
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| on men who failed when the foemen came! |
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| Not at all could the king of his comrades-in-arms |
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| venture to vaunt, though the Victory-Wielder, |
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| God, gave him grace that he got revenge |
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| sole with his sword in stress and need. |
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| To rescue his life, 'twas little that I |
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| could serve him in struggle; yet shift I made |
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| (hopeless it seemed) to help my kinsman. |
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| Its strength ever waned, when with weapon I struck |
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| that fatal foe, and the fire less strongly |
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| flowed from its head.—Too few the heroes |
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| in throe of contest that thronged to our king! |
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| Now gift of treasure and girding of sword, |
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| joy of the house and home-delight |
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| shall fail your folk; his freehold-land |
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| every clansman within your kin |
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| shall lose and leave, when lords highborn |
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| hear afar of that flight of yours, |
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| a fameless deed. Yea, death is better |
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| for liegemen all than a life of shame!" |
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