"LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings\nof spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,\nwe have heard, and what honor the athelings won!\nOft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,\nfrom many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,\nawing the earls. Since erst he lay\nfriendless, a foundling, fate repaid him:\nfor he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve,\ntill before him the folk, both far and near,\nwho house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,\ngave him gifts:  a good king he!\nTo him an heir was afterward born,\na son in his halls, whom heaven sent\nto favor the folk, feeling their woe\nthat erst they had lacked an earl for leader\nso long a while; the Lord endowed him,\nthe Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown.\nFamed was this Beowulf:   far flew the boast of him,\nson of Scyld, in the Scandian lands.\nSo becomes it a youth to quit him well\nwith his father's friends, by fee and gift,\nthat to aid him, aged, in after days,\ncome warriors willing, should war draw nigh,\nliegemen loyal:  by lauded deeds\nshall an earl have honor in every clan.\n\nForth he fared at the fated moment,\nsturdy Scyld to the shelter of God.\nThen they bore him over to ocean's billow,\nloving clansmen, as late he charged them,\nwhile wielded words the winsome Scyld,\nthe leader beloved who long had ruled....\nIn the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel,\nice-flecked, outbound, atheling's barge:\nthere laid they down their darling lord\non the breast of the boat, the breaker-of-rings, \nby the mast the mighty one. Many a treasure\nfetched from far was freighted with him.\nNo ship have I known so nobly dight\nwith weapons of war and weeds of battle,\nwith breastplate and blade:  on his bosom lay\na heaped hoard that hence should go\nfar o'er the flood with him floating away.\nNo less these loaded the lordly gifts,\nthanes' huge treasure, than those had done\nwho in former time forth had sent him\nsole on the seas, a suckling child.\nHigh o'er his head they hoist the standard,\na gold-wove banner; let billows take him,\ngave him to ocean. Grave were their spirits,\nmournful their mood. No man is able\nto say in sooth, no son of the halls,\nno hero 'neath heaven, -- who harbored that freight!\n\n\n\nI\n\nNow Beowulf bode in the burg of the Scyldings,\nleader beloved, and long he ruled\nin fame with all folk, since his father had gone\naway from the world, till awoke an heir,\nhaughty Healfdene, who held through life,\nsage and sturdy, the Scyldings glad.\nThen, one after one, there woke to him,\nto the chieftain of clansmen, children four:\nHeorogar, then Hrothgar, then Halga brave;\nand I heard that -- was -- 's queen,\nthe Heathoscylfing's helpmate dear.\nTo Hrothgar was given such glory of war,\nsuch honor of combat, that all his kin\nobeyed him gladly till great grew his band\nof youthful comrades. It came in his mind\nto bid his henchmen a hall uprear,\na master mead-house, mightier far\nthan ever was seen by the sons of earth,\nand within it, then, to old and young\nhe would all allot that the Lord had sent him,\nsave only the land and the lives of his men.\nWide, I heard, was the work commanded,\nfor many a tribe this mid-earth round,\nto fashion the folkstead. It fell, as he ordered,\nin rapid achievement that ready it stood there,\nof halls the noblest:  Heorot  he named it\nwhose message had might in many a land.\nNot reckless of promise, the rings he dealt,\ntreasure at banquet:  there towered the hall,\nhigh, gabled wide, the hot surge waiting\nof furious flame.  Nor far was that day\nwhen father and son-in-law stood in feud\nfor warfare and hatred that woke again. \nWith envy and anger an evil spirit\nendured the dole in his dark abode,\nthat he heard each day the din of revel\nhigh in the hall:  there harps rang out,\nclear song of the singer. He sang who knew \ntales of the early time of man,\nhow the Almighty made the earth,\nfairest fields enfolded by water,\nset, triumphant, sun and moon\nfor a light to lighten the land-dwellers,\nand braided bright the breast of earth\nwith limbs and leaves, made life for all\nof mortal beings that breathe and move.\nSo lived the clansmen in cheer and revel\na winsome life, till one began\nto fashion evils, that field of hell.\nGrendel this monster grim was called,\nmarch-riever  mighty, in moorland living,\nin fen and fastness; fief of the giants\nthe hapless wight a while had kept\nsince the Creator his exile doomed.\nOn kin of Cain was the killing avenged\nby sovran God for slaughtered Abel.\nIll fared his feud,  and far was he driven,\nfor the slaughter's sake, from sight of men.\nOf Cain awoke all that woful breed,\nEtins  and elves and evil-spirits,\nas well as the giants that warred with God\nweary while:  but their wage was paid them!\n\n\n\nII\n\nWENT he forth to find at fall of night\nthat haughty house, and heed wherever\nthe Ring-Danes, outrevelled, to rest had gone.\nFound within it the atheling band\nasleep after feasting and fearless of sorrow,\nof human hardship. Unhallowed wight,\ngrim and greedy, he grasped betimes,\nwrathful, reckless, from resting-places,\nthirty of the thanes, and thence he rushed\nfain of his fell spoil, faring homeward,\nladen with slaughter, his lair to seek.\nThen at the dawning, as day was breaking,\nthe might of Grendel to men was known;\nthen after wassail was wail uplifted,\nloud moan in the morn. The mighty chief,\natheling excellent, unblithe sat,\nlabored in woe for the loss of his thanes,\nwhen once had been traced the trail of the fiend,\nspirit accurst:  too cruel that sorrow,\ntoo long, too loathsome. Not late the respite;\nwith night returning, anew began\nruthless murder; he recked no whit,\nfirm in his guilt, of the feud and crime.\nThey were easy to find who elsewhere sought\nin room remote their rest at night,\nbed in the bowers,  when that bale was shown,\nwas seen in sooth, with surest token, --\nthe hall-thane's  hate. Such held themselves\nfar and fast who the fiend outran!\nThus ruled unrighteous and raged his fill\none against all; until empty stood\nthat lordly building, and long it bode so.\nTwelve years' tide the trouble he bore,\nsovran of Scyldings, sorrows in plenty,\nboundless cares. There came unhidden\ntidings true to the tribes of men,\nin sorrowful songs, how ceaselessly Grendel\nharassed Hrothgar, what hate he bore him,\nwhat murder and massacre, many a year,\nfeud unfading, -- refused consent\nto deal with any of Daneland's earls,\nmake pact of peace, or compound for gold:\nstill less did the wise men ween to get\ngreat fee for the feud from his fiendish hands.\nBut the evil one ambushed old and young\ndeath-shadow dark, and dogged them still,\nlured, or lurked in the livelong night\nof misty moorlands:  men may say not\nwhere the haunts of these Hell-Runes  be.\nSuch heaping of horrors the hater of men,\nlonely roamer, wrought unceasing,\nharassings heavy. O'er Heorot he lorded,\ngold-bright hall, in gloomy nights;\nand ne'er could the prince  approach his throne,\n-- 'twas judgment of God, -- or have joy in his hall.\nSore was the sorrow to Scyldings'-friend,\nheart-rending misery. Many nobles\nsat assembled, and searched out counsel\nhow it were best for bold-hearted men\nagainst harassing terror to try their hand.\nWhiles they vowed in their heathen fanes\naltar-offerings, asked with words \nthat the slayer-of-souls would succor give them\nfor the pain of their people. Their practice this,\ntheir heathen hope; 'twas Hell they thought of\nin mood of their mind. Almighty they knew not,\nDoomsman of Deeds and dreadful Lord,\nnor Heaven's-Helmet heeded they ever,\nWielder-of-Wonder. -- Woe for that man\nwho in harm and hatred hales his soul\nto fiery embraces; -- nor favor nor change\nawaits he ever. But well for him\nthat after death-day may draw to his Lord,\nand friendship find in the Father's arms!\n\n\n\nIII\n\nTHUS seethed unceasing the son of Healfdene\nwith the woe of these days; not wisest men\nassuaged his sorrow; too sore the anguish,\nloathly and long, that lay on his folk,\nmost baneful of burdens and bales of the night.\n\nThis heard in his home Hygelac's thane,\ngreat among Geats, of Grendel's doings.\nHe was the mightiest man of valor\nin that same day of this our life,\nstalwart and stately. A stout wave-walker\nhe bade make ready. Yon battle-king, said he,\nfar o'er the swan-road he fain would seek,\nthe noble monarch who needed men!\nThe prince's journey by prudent folk\nwas little blamed, though they loved him dear;\nthey whetted the hero, and hailed good omens.\nAnd now the bold one from bands of Geats\ncomrades chose, the keenest of warriors\ne'er he could find; with fourteen men\nthe sea-wood  he sought, and, sailor proved,\nled them on to the land's confines.\nTime had now flown;  afloat was the ship,\nboat under bluff. On board they climbed,\nwarriors ready; waves were churning\nsea with sand; the sailors bore\non the breast of the bark their bright array,\ntheir mail and weapons:  the men pushed off,\non its willing way, the well-braced craft.\nThen moved o'er the waters by might of the wind\nthat bark like a bird with breast of foam,\ntill in season due, on the second day,\nthe curved prow such course had run\nthat sailors now could see the land,\nsea-cliffs shining, steep high hills,\nheadlands broad. Their haven was found,\ntheir journey ended. Up then quickly\nthe Weders'  clansmen climbed ashore,\nanchored their sea-wood, with armor clashing\nand gear of battle:  God they thanked\nor passing in peace o'er the paths of the sea.\nNow saw from the cliff a Scylding clansman,\na warden that watched the water-side,\nhow they bore o'er the gangway glittering shields,\nwar-gear in readiness; wonder seized him\nto know what manner of men they were.\nStraight to the strand his steed he rode,\nHrothgar's henchman; with hand of might\nhe shook his spear, and spake in parley.\n\"Who are ye, then, ye armed men,\nmailed folk, that yon mighty vessel\nhave urged thus over the ocean ways,\nhere o'er the waters? A warden I,\nsentinel set o'er the sea-march here,\nlest any foe to the folk of Danes\nwith harrying fleet should harm the land.\nNo aliens ever at ease thus bore them,\nlinden-wielders:   yet word-of-leave\nclearly ye lack from clansmen here,\nmy folk's agreement. -- A greater ne'er saw I\nof warriors in world than is one of you, --\nyon hero in harness! No henchman he\nworthied by weapons, if witness his features,\nhis peerless presence! I pray you, though, tell\nyour folk and home, lest hence ye fare\nsuspect to wander your way as spies\nin Danish land. Now, dwellers afar,\nocean-travellers, take from me\nsimple advice:  the sooner the better\nI hear of the country whence ye came.\"\n\n\n\nIV\n\nTo him the stateliest spake in answer;\nthe warriors' leader his word-hoard unlocked:  --\n\"We are by kin of the clan of Geats,\nand Hygelac's own hearth-fellows we.\nTo folk afar was my father known,\nnoble atheling, Ecgtheow named.\nFull of winters, he fared away\naged from earth; he is honored still\nthrough width of the world by wise men all.\nTo thy lord and liege in loyal mood\nwe hasten hither, to Healfdene's son,\npeople-protector:  be pleased to advise us!\nTo that mighty-one come we on mickle errand,\nto the lord of the Danes; nor deem I right\nthat aught be hidden. We hear -- thou knowest\nif sooth it is -- the saying of men,\nthat amid the Scyldings a scathing monster,\ndark ill-doer, in dusky nights\nshows terrific his rage unmatched,\nhatred and murder. To Hrothgar I\nin greatness of soul would succor bring,\nso the Wise-and-Brave  may worst his foes, --\nif ever the end of ills is fated,\nof cruel contest, if cure shall follow,\nand the boiling care-waves cooler grow;\nelse ever afterward anguish-days\nhe shall suffer in sorrow while stands in place\nhigh on its hill that house unpeered!\"\nAstride his steed, the strand-ward answered,\nclansman unquailing:  \"The keen-souled thane\nmust be skilled to sever and sunder duly\nwords and works, if he well intends.\nI gather, this band is graciously bent\nto the Scyldings' master. March, then, bearing\nweapons and weeds the way I show you.\nI will bid my men your boat meanwhile\nto guard for fear lest foemen come, --\nyour new-tarred ship by shore of ocean\nfaithfully watching till once again\nit waft o'er the waters those well-loved thanes,\n-- winding-neck'd wood, -- to Weders' bounds,\nheroes such as the hest of fate\nshall succor and save from the shock of war.\"\nThey bent them to march, -- the boat lay still,\nfettered by cable and fast at anchor,\nbroad-bosomed ship. -- Then shone the boars \nover the cheek-guard; chased with gold,\nkeen and gleaming, guard it kept\no'er the man of war, as marched along\nheroes in haste, till the hall they saw,\nbroad of gable and bright with gold:\nthat was the fairest, 'mid folk of earth,\nof houses 'neath heaven, where Hrothgar lived,\nand the gleam of it lightened o'er lands afar.\nThe sturdy shieldsman showed that bright\nburg-of-the-boldest; bade them go\nstraightway thither; his steed then turned,\nhardy hero, and hailed them thus:  --\n\"'Tis time that I fare from you. Father Almighty\nin grace and mercy guard you well,\nsafe in your seekings. Seaward I go,\n'gainst hostile warriors hold my watch.\"\n\n\n\nV\n\nSTONE-BRIGHT the street:   it showed the way\nto the crowd of clansmen. Corselets glistened\nhand-forged, hard; on their harness bright\nthe steel ring sang, as they strode along\nin mail of battle, and marched to the hall.\nThere, weary of ocean, the wall along\nthey set their bucklers, their broad shields, down,\nand bowed them to bench:  the breastplates clanged,\nwar-gear of men; their weapons stacked,\nspears of the seafarers stood together,\ngray-tipped ash:  that iron band\nwas worthily weaponed! -- A warrior proud\nasked of the heroes their home and kin.\n\"Whence, now, bear ye burnished shields,\nharness gray and helmets grim,\nspears in multitude? Messenger, I,\nHrothgar's herald! Heroes so many\nne'er met I as strangers of mood so strong.\n'Tis plain that for prowess, not plunged into exile,\nfor high-hearted valor, Hrothgar ye seek!\"\nHim the sturdy-in-war bespake with words,\nproud earl of the Weders answer made,\nhardy 'neath helmet:  -- \"Hygelac's, we,\nfellows at board; I am Beowulf named.\nI am seeking to say to the son of Healfdene\nthis mission of mine, to thy master-lord,\nthe doughty prince, if he deign at all\ngrace that we greet him, the good one, now.\"\nWulfgar spake, the Wendles' chieftain,\nwhose might of mind to many was known,\nhis courage and counsel:  \"The king of Danes,\nthe Scyldings' friend, I fain will tell,\nthe Breaker-of-Rings, as the boon thou askest,\nthe famed prince, of thy faring hither,\nand, swiftly after, such answer bring\nas the doughty monarch may deign to give.\"\nHied then in haste to where Hrothgar sat\nwhite-haired and old, his earls about him,\ntill the stout thane stood at the shoulder there\nof the Danish king:  good courtier he!\nWulfgar spake to his winsome lord:  --\n\"Hither have fared to thee far-come men\no'er the paths of ocean, people of Geatland;\nand the stateliest there by his sturdy band\nis Beowulf named. This boon they seek,\nthat they, my master, may with thee\nhave speech at will:  nor spurn their prayer\nto give them hearing, gracious Hrothgar!\nIn weeds of the warrior worthy they,\nmethinks, of our liking; their leader most surely,\na hero that hither his henchmen has led.\"\n\n\n\nVI\n\nHROTHGAR answered, helmet of Scyldings:  --\n\"I knew him of yore in his youthful days;\nhis aged father was Ecgtheow named,\nto whom, at home, gave Hrethel the Geat\nhis only daughter. Their offspring bold\nfares hither to seek the steadfast friend.\nAnd seamen, too, have said me this, --\nwho carried my gifts to the Geatish court,\nthither for thanks, -- he has thirty men's\nheft of grasp in the gripe of his hand,\nthe bold-in-battle. Blessed God\nout of his mercy this man hath sent\nto Danes of the West, as I ween indeed,\nagainst horror of Grendel. I hope to give\nthe good youth gold for his gallant thought.\nBe thou in haste, and bid them hither,\nclan of kinsmen, to come before me;\nand add this word, -- they are welcome guests\nto folk of the Danes.\"\n[To the door of the hall\nWulfgar went] and the word declared:  --\n\"To you this message my master sends,\nEast-Danes' king, that your kin he knows,\nhardy heroes, and hails you all\nwelcome hither o'er waves of the sea!\nYe may wend your way in war-attire,\nand under helmets Hrothgar greet;\nbut let here the battle-shields bide your parley,\nand wooden war-shafts wait its end.\"\nUprose the mighty one, ringed with his men,\nbrave band of thanes:  some bode without,\nbattle-gear guarding, as bade the chief.\nThen hied that troop where the herald led them,\nunder Heorot's roof:  [the hero strode,]\nhardy 'neath helm, till the hearth he neared.\nBeowulf spake, -- his breastplate gleamed,\nwar-net woven by wit of the smith:  --\n\"Thou Hrothgar, hail! Hygelac's I,\nkinsman and follower. Fame a plenty\nhave I gained in youth! These Grendel-deeds\nI heard in my home-land heralded clear.\nSeafarers say how stands this hall,\nof buildings best, for your band of thanes\nempty and idle, when evening sun\nin the harbor of heaven is hidden away.\nSo my vassals advised me well, --\nbrave and wise, the best of men, --\nO sovran Hrothgar, to seek thee here,\nfor my nerve and my might they knew full well.\nThemselves had seen me from slaughter come\nblood-flecked from foes, where five I bound,\nand that wild brood worsted. I' the waves I slew\nnicors  by night, in need and peril\navenging the Weders,  whose woe they sought, --\ncrushing the grim ones. Grendel now,\nmonster cruel, be mine to quell\nin single battle! So, from thee,\nthou sovran of the Shining-Danes,\nScyldings'-bulwark, a boon I seek, --\nand, Friend-of-the-folk, refuse it not,\nO Warriors'-shield, now I've wandered far, --\nthat I alone with my liegemen here,\nthis hardy band, may Heorot purge!\nMore I hear, that the monster dire,\nin his wanton mood, of weapons recks not;\nhence shall I scorn -- so Hygelac stay,\nking of my kindred, kind to me! --\nbrand or buckler to bear in the fight,\ngold-colored targe:  but with gripe alone\nmust I front the fiend and fight for life,\nfoe against foe. Then faith be his\nin the doom of the Lord whom death shall take.\nFain, I ween, if the fight he win,\nin this hall of gold my Geatish band\nwill he fearless eat, -- as oft before, --\nmy noblest thanes. Nor need'st thou then\nto hide my head;  for his shall I be,\ndyed in gore, if death must take me;\nand my blood-covered body he'll bear as prey,\nruthless devour it, the roamer-lonely,\nwith my life-blood redden his lair in the fen:\nno further for me need'st food prepare!\nTo Hygelac send, if Hild  should take me,\nbest of war-weeds, warding my breast,\narmor excellent, heirloom of Hrethel\nand work of Wayland.  Fares Wyrd  as she must.\"\n\n\n\nVII\n\nHROTHGAR spake, the Scyldings'-helmet:  --\n\"For fight defensive, Friend my Beowulf,\nto succor and save, thou hast sought us here.\nThy father's combat  a feud enkindled\nwhen Heatholaf with hand he slew\namong the Wylfings; his Weder kin\nfor horror of fighting feared to hold him.\nFleeing, he sought our South-Dane folk,\nover surge of ocean the Honor-Scyldings,\nwhen first I was ruling the folk of Danes,\nwielded, youthful, this widespread realm,\nthis hoard-hold of heroes. Heorogar was dead,\nmy elder brother, had breathed his last,\nHealfdene's bairn:  he was better than I!\nStraightway the feud with fee  I settled,\nto the Wylfings sent, o'er watery ridges,\ntreasures olden:  oaths he  swore me.\nSore is my soul to say to any\nof the race of man what ruth for me\nin Heorot Grendel with hate hath wrought,\nwhat sudden harryings. Hall-folk fail me,\nmy warriors wane; for Wyrd hath swept them\ninto Grendel's grasp. But God is able\nthis deadly foe from his deeds to turn!\nBoasted full oft, as my beer they drank,\nearls o'er the ale-cup, armed men,\nthat they would bide in the beer-hall here,\nGrendel's attack with terror of blades.\nThen was this mead-house at morning tide\ndyed with gore, when the daylight broke,\nall the boards of the benches blood-besprinkled,\ngory the hall:  I had heroes the less,\ndoughty dear-ones that death had reft.\n-- But sit to the banquet, unbind thy words,\nhardy hero, as heart shall prompt thee.\"\n\nGathered together, the Geatish men\nin the banquet-hall on bench assigned,\nsturdy-spirited, sat them down,\nhardy-hearted. A henchman attended,\ncarried the carven cup in hand,\nserved the clear mead. Oft minstrels sang\nblithe in Heorot. Heroes revelled,\nno dearth of warriors, Weder and Dane.\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nUNFERTH spake, the son of Ecglaf,\nwho sat at the feet of the Scyldings' lord,\nunbound the battle-runes.  -- Beowulf's quest,\nsturdy seafarer's, sorely galled him;\never he envied that other men\nshould more achieve in middle-earth\nof fame under heaven than he himself. --\n\"Art thou that Beowulf, Breca's rival,\nwho emulous swam on the open sea,\nwhen for pride the pair of you proved the floods,\nand wantonly dared in waters deep\nto risk your lives? No living man,\nor lief or loath, from your labor dire\ncould you dissuade, from swimming the main.\nOcean-tides with your arms ye covered,\nwith strenuous hands the sea-streets measured,\nswam o'er the waters. Winter's storm\nrolled the rough waves. In realm of sea\na sennight strove ye. In swimming he topped thee,\nhad more of main! Him at morning-tide\nbillows bore to the Battling Reamas,\nwhence he hied to his home so dear\nbeloved of his liegemen, to land of Brondings,\nfastness fair, where his folk he ruled,\ntown and treasure. In triumph o'er thee\nBeanstan's bairn  his boast achieved.\nSo ween I for thee a worse adventure\n-- though in buffet of battle thou brave hast been,\nin struggle grim, -- if Grendel's approach\nthou darst await through the watch of night!\"\n\nBeowulf spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:  --\n\"What a deal hast uttered, dear my Unferth,\ndrunken with beer, of Breca now,\ntold of his triumph! Truth I claim it,\nthat I had more of might in the sea\nthan any man else, more ocean-endurance.\nWe twain had talked, in time of youth,\nand made our boast, -- we were merely boys,\nstriplings still, -- to stake our lives\nfar at sea:  and so we performed it.\nNaked swords, as we swam along,\nwe held in hand, with hope to guard us\nagainst the whales. Not a whit from me\ncould he float afar o'er the flood of waves,\nhaste o'er the billows; nor him I abandoned.\nTogether we twain on the tides abode\nfive nights full till the flood divided us,\nchurning waves and chillest weather,\ndarkling night, and the northern wind\nruthless rushed on us:  rough was the surge.\nNow the wrath of the sea-fish rose apace;\nyet me 'gainst the monsters my mailed coat,\nhard and hand-linked, help afforded, --\nbattle-sark braided my breast to ward,\ngarnished with gold. There grasped me firm\nand haled me to bottom the hated foe,\nwith grimmest gripe. 'Twas granted me, though,\nto pierce the monster with point of sword,\nwith blade of battle:  huge beast of the sea\nwas whelmed by the hurly through hand of mine.\n\n\n\nIX\n\nME thus often the evil monsters\nthronging threatened. With thrust of my sword,\nthe darling, I dealt them due return!\nNowise had they bliss from their booty then\nto devour their victim, vengeful creatures,\nseated to banquet at bottom of sea;\nbut at break of day, by my brand sore hurt,\non the edge of ocean up they lay,\nput to sleep by the sword. And since, by them\non the fathomless sea-ways sailor-folk\nare never molested. -- Light from east,\ncame bright God's beacon; the billows sank,\nso that I saw the sea-cliffs high,\nwindy walls. For Wyrd oft saveth\nearl undoomed if he doughty be!\nAnd so it came that I killed with my sword\nnine of the nicors. Of night-fought battles\nne'er heard I a harder 'neath heaven's dome,\nnor adrift on the deep a more desolate man!\nYet I came unharmed from that hostile clutch,\nthough spent with swimming. The sea upbore me,\nflood of the tide, on Finnish land,\nthe welling waters. No wise of thee\nhave I heard men tell such terror of falchions,\nbitter battle. Breca ne'er yet,\nnot one of you pair, in the play of war\nsuch daring deed has done at all\nwith bloody brand, -- I boast not of it! --\nthough thou wast the bane  of thy brethren dear,\nthy closest kin, whence curse of hell\nawaits thee, well as thy wit may serve!\nFor I say in sooth, thou son of Ecglaf,\nnever had Grendel these grim deeds wrought,\nmonster dire, on thy master dear,\nin Heorot such havoc, if heart of thine\nwere as battle-bold as thy boast is loud!\nBut he has found no feud will happen;\nfrom sword-clash dread of your Danish clan\nhe vaunts him safe, from the Victor-Scyldings.\nHe forces pledges, favors none\nof the land of Danes, but lustily murders,\nfights and feasts, nor feud he dreads\nfrom Spear-Dane men. But speedily now\nshall I prove him the prowess and pride of the Geats,\nshall bid him battle. Blithe to mead\ngo he that listeth, when light of dawn\nthis morrow morning o'er men of earth,\nether-robed sun from the south shall beam!\"\nJoyous then was the Jewel-giver,\nhoar-haired, war-brave; help awaited\nthe Bright-Danes' prince, from Beowulf hearing,\nfolk's good shepherd, such firm resolve.\nThen was laughter of liegemen loud resounding\nwith winsome words. Came Wealhtheow forth,\nqueen of Hrothgar, heedful of courtesy,\ngold-decked, greeting the guests in hall;\nand the high-born lady handed the cup\nfirst to the East-Danes' heir and warden,\nbade him be blithe at the beer-carouse,\nthe land's beloved one. Lustily took he\nbanquet and beaker, battle-famed king.\n\nThrough the hall then went the Helmings' Lady,\nto younger and older everywhere\ncarried the cup, till come the moment\nwhen the ring-graced queen, the royal-hearted,\nto Beowulf bore the beaker of mead.\nShe greeted the Geats' lord, God she thanked,\nin wisdom's words, that her will was granted,\nthat at last on a hero her hope could lean\nfor comfort in terrors. The cup he took,\nhardy-in-war, from Wealhtheow's hand,\nand answer uttered the eager-for-combat.\nBeowulf spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:  --\n\"This was my thought, when my thanes and I\nbent to the ocean and entered our boat,\nthat I would work the will of your people\nfully, or fighting fall in death,\nin fiend's gripe fast. I am firm to do\nan earl's brave deed, or end the days\nof this life of mine in the mead-hall here.\"\nWell these words to the woman seemed,\nBeowulf's battle-boast. -- Bright with gold\nthe stately dame by her spouse sat down.\nAgain, as erst, began in hall\nwarriors' wassail and words of power,\nthe proud-band's revel, till presently\nthe son of Healfdene hastened to seek\nrest for the night; he knew there waited\nfight for the fiend in that festal hall,\nwhen the sheen of the sun they saw no more,\nand dusk of night sank darkling nigh,\nand shadowy shapes came striding on,\nwan under welkin. The warriors rose.\nMan to man, he made harangue,\nHrothgar to Beowulf, bade him hail,\nlet him wield the wine hall:  a word he added:  --\n\"Never to any man erst I trusted,\nsince I could heave up hand and shield,\nthis noble Dane-Hall, till now to thee.\nHave now and hold this house unpeered;\nremember thy glory; thy might declare;\nwatch for the foe! No wish shall fail thee\nif thou bidest the battle with bold-won life.\"\n\n\n\nX\n\nTHEN Hrothgar went with his hero-train,\ndefence-of-Scyldings, forth from hall;\nfain would the war-lord Wealhtheow seek,\ncouch of his queen. The King-of-Glory\nagainst this Grendel a guard had set,\nso heroes heard, a hall-defender,\nwho warded the monarch and watched for the monster.\nIn truth, the Geats' prince gladly trusted\nhis mettle, his might, the mercy of God!\nCast off then his corselet of iron,\nhelmet from head; to his henchman gave, --\nchoicest of weapons, -- the well-chased sword,\nbidding him guard the gear of battle.\nSpake then his Vaunt the valiant man,\nBeowulf Geat, ere the bed be sought:  --\n\"Of force in fight no feebler I count me,\nin grim war-deeds, than Grendel deems him.\nNot with the sword, then, to sleep of death\nhis life will I give, though it lie in my power.\nNo skill is his to strike against me,\nmy shield to hew though he hardy be,\nbold in battle; we both, this night,\nshall spurn the sword, if he seek me here,\nunweaponed, for war. Let wisest God,\nsacred Lord, on which side soever\ndoom decree as he deemeth right.\"\nReclined then the chieftain, and cheek-pillows held\nthe head of the earl, while all about him\nseamen hardy on hall-beds sank.\nNone of them thought that thence their steps\nto the folk and fastness that fostered them,\nto the land they loved, would lead them back!\nFull well they wist that on warriors many\nbattle-death seized, in the banquet-hall,\nof Danish clan. But comfort and help,\nwar-weal weaving, to Weder folk\nthe Master gave, that, by might of one,\nover their enemy all prevailed,\nby single strength. In sooth 'tis told\nthat highest God o'er human kind\nhath wielded ever! -- Thro' wan night striding,\ncame the walker-in-shadow. Warriors slept\nwhose hest was to guard the gabled hall, --\nall save one. 'Twas widely known\nthat against God's will the ghostly ravager\nhim  could not hurl to haunts of darkness;\nwakeful, ready, with warrior's wrath,\nbold he bided the battle's issue.\n\n\n\nXI\n\nTHEN from the moorland, by misty crags,\nwith God's wrath laden, Grendel came.\nThe monster was minded of mankind now\nsundry to seize in the stately house.\nUnder welkin he walked, till the wine-palace there,\ngold-hall of men, he gladly discerned,\nflashing with fretwork. Not first time, this,\nthat he the home of Hrothgar sought, --\nyet ne'er in his life-day, late or early,\nsuch hardy heroes, such hall-thanes, found!\nTo the house the warrior walked apace,\nparted from peace;  the portal opended,\nthough with forged bolts fast, when his fists had\nstruck it,\nand baleful he burst in his blatant rage,\nthe house's mouth. All hastily, then,\no'er fair-paved floor the fiend trod on,\nireful he strode; there streamed from his eyes\nfearful flashes, like flame to see.\n\nHe spied in hall the hero-band,\nkin and clansmen clustered asleep,\nhardy liegemen. Then laughed his heart;\nfor the monster was minded, ere morn should dawn,\nsavage, to sever the soul of each,\nlife from body, since lusty banquet\nwaited his will! But Wyrd forbade him\nto seize any more of men on earth\nafter that evening. Eagerly watched\nHygelac's kinsman his cursed foe,\nhow he would fare in fell attack.\nNot that the monster was minded to pause!\nStraightway he seized a sleeping warrior\nfor the first, and tore him fiercely asunder,\nthe bone-frame bit, drank blood in streams,\nswallowed him piecemeal:  swiftly thus\nthe lifeless corse was clear devoured,\ne'en feet and hands. Then farther he hied;\nfor the hardy hero with hand he grasped,\nfelt for the foe with fiendish claw,\nfor the hero reclining, -- who clutched it boldly,\nprompt to answer, propped on his arm.\nSoon then saw that shepherd-of-evils\nthat never he met in this middle-world,\nin the ways of earth, another wight\nwith heavier hand-gripe; at heart he feared,\nsorrowed in soul, -- none the sooner escaped!\nFain would he flee, his fastness seek,\nthe den of devils:  no doings now\nsuch as oft he had done in days of old!\nThen bethought him the hardy Hygelac-thane\nof his boast at evening:  up he bounded,\ngrasped firm his foe, whose fingers cracked.\nThe fiend made off, but the earl close followed.\nThe monster meant -- if he might at all --\nto fling himself free, and far away\nfly to the fens, -- knew his fingers' power\nin the gripe of the grim one. Gruesome march\nto Heorot this monster of harm had made!\nDin filled the room; the Danes were bereft,\ncastle-dwellers and clansmen all,\nearls, of their ale. Angry were both\nthose savage hall-guards:  the house resounded.\nWonder it was the wine-hall firm\nin the strain of their struggle stood, to earth\nthe fair house fell not; too fast it was\nwithin and without by its iron bands\ncraftily clamped; though there crashed from sill\nmany a mead-bench -- men have told me --\ngay with gold, where the grim foes wrestled.\nSo well had weened the wisest Scyldings\nthat not ever at all might any man\nthat bone-decked, brave house break asunder,\ncrush by craft, -- unless clasp of fire\nin smoke engulfed it. -- Again uprose\ndin redoubled. Danes of the North\nwith fear and frenzy were filled, each one,\nwho from the wall that wailing heard,\nGod's foe sounding his grisly song,\ncry of the conquered, clamorous pain\nfrom captive of hell. Too closely held him\nhe who of men in might was strongest\nin that same day of this our life.\n\n\n\nXII\n\nNOT in any wise would the earls'-defence \nsuffer that slaughterous stranger to live,\nuseless deeming his days and years\nto men on earth. Now many an earl\nof Beowulf brandished blade ancestral,\nfain the life of their lord to shield,\ntheir praised prince, if power were theirs;\nnever they knew, -- as they neared the foe,\nhardy-hearted heroes of war,\naiming their swords on every side\nthe accursed to kill, -- no keenest blade,\nno farest of falchions fashioned on earth,\ncould harm or hurt that hideous fiend!\nHe was safe, by his spells, from sword of battle,\nfrom edge of iron. Yet his end and parting\non that same day of this our life\nwoful should be, and his wandering soul\nfar off flit to the fiends' domain.\nSoon he found, who in former days,\nharmful in heart and hated of God,\non many a man such murder wrought,\nthat the frame of his body failed him now.\nFor him the keen-souled kinsman of Hygelac\nheld in hand; hateful alive\nwas each to other. The outlaw dire\ntook mortal hurt; a mighty wound\nshowed on his shoulder, and sinews cracked,\nand the bone-frame burst. To Beowulf now\nthe glory was given, and Grendel thence\ndeath-sick his den in the dark moor sought,\nnoisome abode:  he knew too well\nthat here was the last of life, an end\nof his days on earth. -- To all the Danes\nby that bloody battle the boon had come.\nFrom ravage had rescued the roving stranger\nHrothgar's hall; the hardy and wise one\nhad purged it anew. His night-work pleased him,\nhis deed and its honor. To Eastern Danes\nhad the valiant Geat his vaunt made good,\nall their sorrow and ills assuaged,\ntheir bale of battle borne so long,\nand all the dole they erst endured\npain a-plenty. -- 'Twas proof of this,\nwhen the hardy-in-fight a hand laid down,\narm and shoulder, -- all, indeed,\nof Grendel's gripe, -- 'neath the gabled roof.\n\n\n\nXIII\n\nMANY at morning, as men have told me,\nwarriors gathered the gift-hall round,\nfolk-leaders faring from far and near,\no'er wide-stretched ways, the wonder to view,\ntrace of the traitor. Not troublous seemed\nthe enemy's end to any man\nwho saw by the gait of the graceless foe\nhow the weary-hearted, away from thence,\nbaffled in battle and banned, his steps\ndeath-marked dragged to the devils' mere.\nBloody the billows were boiling there,\nturbid the tide of tumbling waves\nhorribly seething, with sword-blood hot,\nby that doomed one dyed, who in den of the moor\nlaid forlorn his life adown,\nhis heathen soul, and hell received it.\nHome then rode the hoary clansmen\nfrom that merry journey, and many a youth,\non horses white, the hardy warriors,\nback from the mere. Then Beowulf's glory\neager they echoed, and all averred\nthat from sea to sea, or south or north,\nthere was no other in earth's domain,\nunder vault of heaven, more valiant found,\nof warriors none more worthy to rule!\n(On their lord beloved they laid no slight,\ngracious Hrothgar:  a good king he!)\nFrom time to time, the tried-in-battle\ntheir gray steeds set to gallop amain,\nand ran a race when the road seemed fair.\nFrom time to time, a thane of the king,\nwho had made many vaunts, and was mindful of verses,\nstored with sagas and songs of old,\nbound word to word in well-knit rime,\nwelded his lay; this warrior soon\nof Beowulf's quest right cleverly sang,\nand artfully added an excellent tale,\nin well-ranged words, of the warlike deeds\nhe had heard in saga of Sigemund.\nStrange the story:  he said it all, --\nthe Waelsing's wanderings wide, his struggles,\nwhich never were told to tribes of men,\nthe feuds and the frauds, save to Fitela only,\nwhen of these doings he deigned to speak,\nuncle to nephew; as ever the twain\nstood side by side in stress of war,\nand multitude of the monster kind\nthey had felled with their swords. Of Sigemund grew,\nwhen he passed from life, no little praise;\nfor the doughty-in-combat a dragon killed\nthat herded the hoard:   under hoary rock\nthe atheling dared the deed alone\nfearful quest, nor was Fitela there.\nYet so it befell, his falchion pierced\nthat wondrous worm, -- on the wall it struck,\nbest blade; the dragon died in its blood.\nThus had the dread-one by daring achieved\nover the ring-hoard to rule at will,\nhimself to pleasure; a sea-boat he loaded,\nand bore on its bosom the beaming gold,\nson of Waels; the worm was consumed.\nHe had of all heroes the highest renown\namong races of men, this refuge-of-warriors,\nfor deeds of daring that decked his name\nsince the hand and heart of Heremod\ngrew slack in battle. He, swiftly banished\nto mingle with monsters at mercy of foes,\nto death was betrayed; for torrents of sorrow\nhad lamed him too long; a load of care\nto earls and athelings all he proved.\nOft indeed, in earlier days,\nfor the warrior's wayfaring wise men mourned,\nwho had hoped of him help from harm and bale,\nand had thought their sovran's son would thrive,\nfollow his father, his folk protect,\nthe hoard and the stronghold, heroes' land,\nhome of Scyldings. -- But here, thanes said,\nthe kinsman of Hygelac kinder seemed\nto all:  the other  was urged to crime!\nAnd afresh to the race,  the fallow roads\nby swift steeds measured! The morning sun\nwas climbing higher. Clansmen hastened\nto the high-built hall, those hardy-minded,\nthe wonder to witness. Warden of treasure,\ncrowned with glory, the king himself,\nwith stately band from the bride-bower strode;\nand with him the queen and her crowd of maidens\nmeasured the path to the mead-house fair.\n\n\n\nXIV\n\nHROTHGAR spake, -- to the hall he went,\nstood by the steps, the steep roof saw,\ngarnished with gold, and Grendel's hand:  --\n\"For the sight I see to the Sovran Ruler\nbe speedy thanks! A throng of sorrows\nI have borne from Grendel; but God still works\nwonder on wonder, the Warden-of-Glory.\nIt was but now that I never more\nfor woes that weighed on me waited help\nlong as I lived, when, laved in blood,\nstood sword-gore-stained this stateliest house, --\nwidespread woe for wise men all,\nwho had no hope to hinder ever\nfoes infernal and fiendish sprites\nfrom havoc in hall. This hero now,\nby the Wielder's might, a work has done\nthat not all of us erst could ever do\nby wile and wisdom. Lo, well can she say\nwhoso of women this warrior bore\namong sons of men, if still she liveth,\nthat the God of the ages was good to her\nin the birth of her bairn. Now, Beowulf, thee,\nof heroes best, I shall heartily love\nas mine own, my son; preserve thou ever\nthis kinship new:  thou shalt never lack\nwealth of the world that I wield as mine!\nFull oft for less have I largess showered,\nmy precious hoard, on a punier man,\nless stout in struggle. Thyself hast now\nfulfilled such deeds, that thy fame shall endure\nthrough all the ages. As ever he did,\nwell may the Wielder reward thee still!\"\nBeowulf spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:  --\n\"This work of war most willingly\nwe have fought, this fight, and fearlessly dared\nforce of the foe. Fain, too, were I\nhadst thou but seen himself, what time\nthe fiend in his trappings tottered to fall!\nSwiftly, I thought, in strongest gripe\non his bed of death to bind him down,\nthat he in the hent of this hand of mine\nshould breathe his last:  but he broke away.\nHim I might not -- the Maker willed not --\nhinder from flight, and firm enough hold\nthe life-destroyer:  too sturdy was he,\nthe ruthless, in running! For rescue, however,\nhe left behind him his hand in pledge,\narm and shoulder; nor aught of help\ncould the cursed one thus procure at all.\nNone the longer liveth he, loathsome fiend,\nsunk in his sins, but sorrow holds him\ntightly grasped in gripe of anguish,\nin baleful bonds, where bide he must,\nevil outlaw, such awful doom\nas the Mighty Maker shall mete him out.\"\n\nMore silent seemed the son of Ecglaf \nin boastful speech of his battle-deeds,\nsince athelings all, through the earl's great prowess,\nbeheld that hand, on the high roof gazing,\nfoeman's fingers, -- the forepart of each\nof the sturdy nails to steel was likest, --\nheathen's \"hand-spear,\" hostile warrior's\nclaw uncanny. 'Twas clear, they said,\nthat him no blade of the brave could touch,\nhow keen soever, or cut away\nthat battle-hand bloody from baneful foe.\n\n\n\nXV\n\nTHERE was hurry and hest in Heorot now\nfor hands to bedeck it, and dense was the throng\nof men and women the wine-hall to cleanse,\nthe guest-room to garnish. Gold-gay shone the hangings\nthat were wove on the wall, and wonders many\nto delight each mortal that looks upon them.\nThough braced within by iron bands,\nthat building bright was broken sorely; \nrent were its hinges; the roof alone\nheld safe and sound, when, seared with crime,\nthe fiendish foe his flight essayed,\nof life despairing. -- No light thing that,\nthe flight for safety, -- essay it who will!\nForced of fate, he shall find his way\nto the refuge ready for race of man,\nfor soul-possessors, and sons of earth;\nand there his body on bed of death\nshall rest after revel.\nArrived was the hour\nwhen to hall proceeded Healfdene's son:\nthe king himself would sit to banquet.\nNe'er heard I of host in haughtier throng\nmore graciously gathered round giver-of-rings!\nBowed then to bench those bearers-of-glory,\nfain of the feasting. Featly received\nmany a mead-cup the mighty-in-spirit,\nkinsmen who sat in the sumptuous hall,\nHrothgar and Hrothulf. Heorot now\nwas filled with friends; the folk of Scyldings\nne'er yet had tried the traitor's deed.\nTo Beowulf gave the bairn of Healfdene\na gold-wove banner, guerdon of triumph,\nbroidered battle-flag, breastplate and helmet;\nand a splendid sword was seen of many\nborne to the brave one. Beowulf took\ncup in hall:   for such costly gifts\nhe suffered no shame in that soldier throng.\nFor I heard of few heroes, in heartier mood,\nwith four such gifts, so fashioned with gold,\non the ale-bench honoring others thus!\nO'er the roof of the helmet high, a ridge,\nwound with wires, kept ward o'er the head,\nlest the relict-of-files  should fierce invade,\nsharp in the strife, when that shielded hero\nshould go to grapple against his foes.\nThen the earls'-defence  on the floor  bade lead\ncoursers eight, with carven head-gear,\nadown the hall:  one horse was decked\nwith a saddle all shining and set in jewels;\n'twas the battle-seat of the best of kings,\nwhen to play of swords the son of Healfdene\nwas fain to fare. Ne'er failed his valor\nin the crush of combat when corpses fell.\nTo Beowulf over them both then gave\nthe refuge-of-Ingwines right and power,\no'er war-steeds and weapons:  wished him joy of them.\nManfully thus the mighty prince,\nhoard-guard for heroes, that hard fight repaid\nwith steeds and treasures contemned by none\nwho is willing to say the sooth aright.\n\n\n\nXVI\n\nAND the lord of earls, to each that came\nwith Beowulf over the briny ways,\nan heirloom there at the ale-bench gave,\nprecious gift; and the price  bade pay\nin gold for him whom Grendel erst\nmurdered, -- and fain of them more had killed,\nhad not wisest God their Wyrd averted,\nand the man's  brave mood. The Maker then\nruled human kind, as here and now.\nTherefore is insight always best,\nand forethought of mind. How much awaits him\nof lief and of loath, who long time here,\nthrough days of warfare this world endures!\n\nThen song and music mingled sounds\nin the presence of Healfdene's head-of-armies \nand harping was heard with the hero-lay\nas Hrothgar's singer the hall-joy woke\nalong the mead-seats, making his song\nof that sudden raid on the sons of Finn. \nHealfdene's hero, Hnaef the Scylding,\nwas fated to fall in the Frisian slaughter. \nHildeburh needed not hold in value\nher enemies' honor!  Innocent both\nwere the loved ones she lost at the linden-play,\nbairn and brother, they bowed to fate,\nstricken by spears; 'twas a sorrowful woman!\nNone doubted why the daughter of Hoc\nbewailed her doom when dawning came,\nand under the sky she saw them lying,\nkinsmen murdered, where most she had kenned\nof the sweets of the world! By war were swept, too,\nFinn's own liegemen, and few were left;\nin the parleying-place  he could ply no longer\nweapon, nor war could he wage on Hengest,\nand rescue his remnant by right of arms\nfrom the prince's thane. A pact he offered:\nanother dwelling the Danes should have,\nhall and high-seat, and half the power\nshould fall to them in Frisian land;\nand at the fee-gifts, Folcwald's son\nday by day the Danes should honor,\nthe folk of Hengest favor with rings,\neven as truly, with treasure and jewels,\nwith fretted gold, as his Frisian kin\nhe meant to honor in ale-hall there.\nPact of peace they plighted further\non both sides firmly. Finn to Hengest\nwith oath, upon honor, openly promised\nthat woful remnant, with wise-men's aid,\nnobly to govern, so none of the guests\nby word or work should warp the treaty, \nor with malice of mind bemoan themselves\nas forced to follow their fee-giver's slayer,\nlordless men, as their lot ordained.\nShould Frisian, moreover, with foeman's taunt,\nthat murderous hatred to mind recall,\nthen edge of the sword must seal his doom.\n\nOaths were given, and ancient gold\nheaped from hoard. -- The hardy Scylding,\nbattle-thane best,  on his balefire lay.\nAll on the pyre were plain to see\nthe gory sark, the gilded swine-crest,\nboar of hard iron, and athelings many\nslain by the sword:  at the slaughter they fell.\nIt was Hildeburh's hest, at Hnaef's own pyre\nthe bairn of her body on brands to lay,\nhis bones to burn, on the balefire placed,\nat his uncle's side. In sorrowful dirges\nbewept them the woman:  great wailing ascended.\nThen wound up to welkin the wildest of death-fires,\nroared o'er the hillock:   heads all were melted,\ngashes burst, and blood gushed out\nfrom bites  of the body. Balefire devoured,\ngreediest spirit, those spared not by war\nout of either folk:  their flower was gone.\n\n\n\nXVII\n\nTHEN hastened those heroes their home to see,\nfriendless, to find the Frisian land,\nhouses and high burg. Hengest still\nthrough the death-dyed winter dwelt with Finn,\nholding pact, yet of home he minded,\nthough powerless his ring-decked prow to drive\nover the waters, now waves rolled fierce\nlashed by the winds, or winter locked them\nin icy fetters. Then fared another\nyear to men's dwellings, as yet they do,\nthe sunbright skies, that their season ever\nduly await. Far off winter was driven;\nfair lay earth's breast; and fain was the rover,\nthe guest, to depart, though more gladly he pondered\non wreaking his vengeance than roaming the deep,\nand how to hasten the hot encounter\nwhere sons of the Frisians were sure to be.\nSo he escaped not the common doom,\nwhen Hun with \"Lafing,\" the light-of-battle,\nbest of blades, his bosom pierced:\nits edge was famed with the Frisian earls.\nOn fierce-heart Finn there fell likewise,\non himself at home, the horrid sword-death;\nfor Guthlaf and Oslaf of grim attack\nhad sorrowing told, from sea-ways landed,\nmourning their woes.  Finn's wavering spirit\nbode not in breast. The burg was reddened\nwith blood of foemen, and Finn was slain,\nking amid clansmen; the queen was taken.\nTo their ship the Scylding warriors bore\nall the chattels the chieftain owned,\nwhatever they found in Finn's domain\nof gems and jewels. The gentle wife\no'er paths of the deep to the Danes they bore,\nled to her land.\nThe lay was finished,\nthe gleeman's song. Then glad rose the revel;\nbench-joy brightened. Bearers draw\nfrom their \"wonder-vats\" wine. Comes Wealhtheow forth,\nunder gold-crown goes where the good pair sit,\nuncle and nephew, true each to the other one,\nkindred in amity. Unferth the spokesman\nat the Scylding lord's feet sat:  men had faith in his spirit,\nhis keenness of courage, though kinsmen had found him\nunsure at the sword-play. The Scylding queen spoke:\n\"Quaff of this cup, my king and lord,\nbreaker of rings, and blithe be thou,\ngold-friend of men; to the Geats here speak\nsuch words of mildness as man should use.\nBe glad with thy Geats; of those gifts be mindful,\nor near or far, which now thou hast.\n\nMen say to me, as son thou wishest\nyon hero to hold. Thy Heorot purged,\njewel-hall brightest, enjoy while thou canst,\nwith many a largess; and leave to thy kin\nfolk and realm when forth thou goest\nto greet thy doom. For gracious I deem\nmy Hrothulf,  willing to hold and rule\nnobly our youths, if thou yield up first,\nprince of Scyldings, thy part in the world.\nI ween with good he will well requite\noffspring of ours, when all he minds\nthat for him we did in his helpless days\nof gift and grace to gain him honor!\"\nThen she turned to the seat where her sons wereplaced,\nHrethric and Hrothmund, with heroes' bairns,\nyoung men together:  the Geat, too, sat there,\nBeowulf brave, the brothers between.\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\nA CUP she gave him, with kindly greeting\nand winsome words. Of wounden gold,\nshe offered, to honor him, arm-jewels twain,\ncorselet and rings, and of collars the noblest\nthat ever I knew the earth around.\nNe'er heard I so mighty, 'neath heaven's dome,\na hoard-gem of heroes, since Hama bore\nto his bright-built burg the Brisings' necklace,\njewel and gem casket. -- Jealousy fled he,\nEormenric's hate:  chose help eternal.\nHygelac Geat, grandson of Swerting,\non the last of his raids this ring bore with him,\nunder his banner the booty defending,\nthe war-spoil warding; but Wyrd o'erwhelmed him\nwhat time, in his daring, dangers he sought,\nfeud with Frisians. Fairest of gems\nhe bore with him over the beaker-of-waves,\nsovran strong:  under shield he died.\nFell the corpse of the king into keeping of Franks,\ngear of the breast, and that gorgeous ring;\nweaker warriors won the spoil,\nafter gripe of battle, from Geatland's lord,\nand held the death-field.\nDin rose in hall.\nWealhtheow spake amid warriors, and said:  --\n\"This jewel enjoy in thy jocund youth,\nBeowulf lov'd, these battle-weeds wear,\na royal treasure, and richly thrive!\nPreserve thy strength, and these striplings here\ncounsel in kindness:  requital be mine.\nHast done such deeds, that for days to come\nthou art famed among folk both far and near,\nso wide as washeth the wave of Ocean\nhis windy walls. Through the ways of life\nprosper, O prince! I pray for thee\nrich possessions. To son of mine\nbe helpful in deed and uphold his joys!\nHere every earl to the other is true,\nmild of mood, to the master loyal!\nThanes are friendly, the throng obedient,\nliegemen are revelling:  list and obey!\"\nWent then to her place. -- That was proudest of feasts;\nflowed wine for the warriors. Wyrd they knew not,\ndestiny dire, and the doom to be seen\nby many an earl when eve should come,\nand Hrothgar homeward hasten away,\nroyal, to rest. The room was guarded\nby an army of earls, as erst was done.\nThey bared the bench-boards; abroad they spread\nbeds and bolsters. -- One beer-carouser\nin danger of doom lay down in the hall. --\n\nAt their heads they set their shields of war,\nbucklers bright; on the bench were there\nover each atheling, easy to see,\nthe high battle-helmet, the haughty spear,\nthe corselet of rings. 'Twas their custom so\never to be for battle prepared,\nat home, or harrying, which it were,\neven as oft as evil threatened\ntheir sovran king. -- They were clansmen good.\n\n\n\nXIX\n\nTHEN sank they to sleep. With sorrow one bought\nhis rest of the evening, -- as ofttime had happened\nwhen Grendel guarded that golden hall,\nevil wrought, till his end drew nigh,\nslaughter for sins. 'Twas seen and told\nhow an avenger survived the fiend,\nas was learned afar. The livelong time\nafter that grim fight, Grendel's mother,\nmonster of women, mourned her woe.\nShe was doomed to dwell in the dreary waters,\ncold sea-courses, since Cain cut down\nwith edge of the sword his only brother,\nhis father's offspring:  outlawed he fled,\nmarked with murder, from men's delights\nwarded the wilds. -- There woke from him\nsuch fate-sent ghosts as Grendel, who,\nwar-wolf horrid, at Heorot found\na warrior watching and waiting the fray,\nwith whom the grisly one grappled amain.\nBut the man remembered his mighty power,\nthe glorious gift that God had sent him,\nin his Maker's mercy put his trust\nfor comfort and help:  so he conquered the foe,\nfelled the fiend, who fled abject,\nreft of joy, to the realms of death,\nmankind's foe. And his mother now,\ngloomy and grim, would go that quest\nof sorrow, the death of her son to avenge.\nTo Heorot came she, where helmeted Danes\nslept in the hall. Too soon came back\nold ills of the earls, when in she burst,\nthe mother of Grendel. Less grim, though, that terror,\ne'en as terror of woman in war is less,\nmight of maid, than of men in arms\nwhen, hammer-forged, the falchion hard,\nsword gore-stained, through swine of the helm,\ncrested, with keen blade carves amain.\nThen was in hall the hard-edge drawn,\nthe swords on the settles,  and shields a-many\nfirm held in hand:  nor helmet minded\nnor harness of mail, whom that horror seized.\nHaste was hers; she would hie afar\nand save her life when the liegemen saw her.\nYet a single atheling up she seized\nfast and firm, as she fled to the moor.\nHe was for Hrothgar of heroes the dearest,\nof trusty vassals betwixt the seas,\nwhom she killed on his couch, a clansman famous,\nin battle brave. -- Nor was Beowulf there;\nanother house had been held apart,\nafter giving of gold, for the Geat renowned. --\nUproar filled Heorot; the hand all had viewed,\nblood-flecked, she bore with her; bale was returned,\ndole in the dwellings:  'twas dire exchange\nwhere Dane and Geat were doomed to give\nthe lives of loved ones. Long-tried king,\nthe hoary hero, at heart was sad\nwhen he knew his noble no more lived,\nand dead indeed was his dearest thane.\nTo his bower was Beowulf brought in haste,\ndauntless victor. As daylight broke,\nalong with his earls the atheling lord,\nwith his clansmen, came where the king abode\nwaiting to see if the Wielder-of-All\nwould turn this tale of trouble and woe.\nStrode o'er floor the famed-in-strife,\nwith his hand-companions, -- the hall resounded, --\nwishing to greet the wise old king,\nIngwines' lord; he asked if the night\nhad passed in peace to the prince's mind.\n\n\n\nXX\n\nHROTHGAR spake, helmet-of-Scyldings:  --\n\"Ask not of pleasure! Pain is renewed\nto Danish folk. Dead is Aeschere,\nof Yrmenlaf the elder brother,\nmy sage adviser and stay in council,\nshoulder-comrade in stress of fight\nwhen warriors clashed and we warded our heads,\nhewed the helm-boars; hero famed\nshould be every earl as Aeschere was!\nBut here in Heorot a hand hath slain him\nof wandering death-sprite. I wot not whither, \nproud of the prey, her path she took,\nfain of her fill. The feud she avenged\nthat yesternight, unyieldingly,\nGrendel in grimmest grasp thou killedst, --\nseeing how long these liegemen mine\nhe ruined and ravaged. Reft of life,\nin arms he fell. Now another comes,\nkeen and cruel, her kin to avenge,\nfaring far in feud of blood:\nso that many a thane shall think, who e'er\nsorrows in soul for that sharer of rings,\nthis is hardest of heart-bales. The hand lies low\nthat once was willing each wish to please.\nLand-dwellers here  and liegemen mine,\nwho house by those parts, I have heard relate\nthat such a pair they have sometimes seen,\nmarch-stalkers mighty the moorland haunting,\nwandering spirits:  one of them seemed,\nso far as my folk could fairly judge,\nof womankind; and one, accursed,\nin man's guise trod the misery-track\nof exile, though huger than human bulk.\nGrendel in days long gone they named him,\nfolk of the land; his father they knew not,\nnor any brood that was born to him\nof treacherous spirits. Untrod is their home;\nby wolf-cliffs haunt they and windy headlands,\nfenways fearful, where flows the stream\nfrom mountains gliding to gloom of the rocks,\nunderground flood. Not far is it hence\nin measure of miles that the mere expands,\nand o'er it the frost-bound forest hanging,\nsturdily rooted, shadows the wave.\nBy night is a wonder weird to see,\nfire on the waters. So wise lived none\nof the sons of men, to search those depths!\nNay, though the heath-rover, harried by dogs,\nthe horn-proud hart, this holt should seek,\nlong distance driven, his dear life first\non the brink he yields ere he brave the plunge\nto hide his head:  'tis no happy place!\nThence the welter of waters washes up\nwan to welkin when winds bestir\nevil storms, and air grows dusk,\nand the heavens weep. Now is help once more\nwith thee alone! The land thou knowst not,\nplace of fear, where thou findest out\nthat sin-flecked being. Seek if thou dare!\nI will reward thee, for waging this fight,\nwith ancient treasure, as erst I did,\nwith winding gold, if thou winnest back.\"\n\n\n\nXXI\n\nBEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:\n\"Sorrow not, sage! It beseems us better\nfriends to avenge than fruitlessly mourn them.\nEach of us all must his end abide\nin the ways of the world; so win who may\nglory ere death! When his days are told,\nthat is the warrior's worthiest doom.\nRise, O realm-warder! Ride we anon,\nand mark the trail of the mother of Grendel.\nNo harbor shall hide her -- heed my promise! --\nenfolding of field or forested mountain\nor floor of the flood, let her flee where she will!\nBut thou this day endure in patience,\nas I ween thou wilt, thy woes each one.\"\nLeaped up the graybeard:  God he thanked,\nmighty Lord, for the man's brave words.\nFor Hrothgar soon a horse was saddled\nwave-maned steed. The sovran wise\nstately rode on; his shield-armed men\nfollowed in force. The footprints led\nalong the woodland, widely seen,\na path o'er the plain, where she passed, and trod\nthe murky moor; of men-at-arms\nshe bore the bravest and best one, dead,\nhim who with Hrothgar the homestead ruled.\nOn then went the atheling-born\no'er stone-cliffs steep and strait defiles,\nnarrow passes and unknown ways,\nheadlands sheer, and the haunts of the Nicors.\nForemost he  fared, a few at his side\nof the wiser men, the ways to scan,\ntill he found in a flash the forested hill\nhanging over the hoary rock,\na woful wood:  the waves below\nwere dyed in blood. The Danish men\nhad sorrow of soul, and for Scyldings all,\nfor many a hero, 'twas hard to bear,\nill for earls, when Aeschere's head\nthey found by the flood on the foreland there.\nWaves were welling, the warriors saw,\nhot with blood; but the horn sang oft\nbattle-song bold. The band sat down,\nand watched on the water worm-like things,\nsea-dragons strange that sounded the deep,\nand nicors that lay on the ledge of the ness --\nsuch as oft essay at hour of morn\non the road-of-sails their ruthless quest, --\nand sea-snakes and monsters. These started away,\nswollen and savage that song to hear,\nthat war-horn's blast. The warden of Geats,\nwith bolt from bow, then balked of life,\nof wave-work, one monster, amid its heart\nwent the keen war-shaft; in water it seemed\nless doughty in swimming whom death had seized.\nSwift on the billows, with boar-spears well\nhooked and barbed, it was hard beset,\ndone to death and dragged on the headland,\nwave-roamer wondrous. Warriors viewed\nthe grisly guest.\nThen girt him Beowulf\nin martial mail, nor mourned for his life.\nHis breastplate broad and bright of hues,\nwoven by hand, should the waters try;\nwell could it ward the warrior's body\nthat battle should break on his breast in vain\nnor harm his heart by the hand of a foe.\nAnd the helmet white that his head protected\nwas destined to dare the deeps of the flood,\nthrough wave-whirl win:  'twas wound with chains,\ndecked with gold, as in days of yore\nthe weapon-smith worked it wondrously,\nwith swine-forms set it, that swords nowise,\nbrandished in battle, could bite that helm.\nNor was that the meanest of mighty helps\nwhich Hrothgar's orator offered at need:\n\"Hrunting\" they named the hilted sword,\nof old-time heirlooms easily first;\niron was its edge, all etched with poison,\nwith battle-blood hardened, nor blenched it at fight\nin hero's hand who held it ever,\non paths of peril prepared to go\nto folkstead  of foes. Not first time this\nit was destined to do a daring task.\nFor he bore not in mind, the bairn of Ecglaf\nsturdy and strong, that speech he had made,\ndrunk with wine, now this weapon he lent\nto a stouter swordsman. Himself, though, durst not\nunder welter of waters wager his life\nas loyal liegeman. So lost he his glory,\nhonor of earls. With the other not so,\nwho girded him now for the grim encounter.\n\n\n\nXXII\n\nBEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:  --\n\"Have mind, thou honored offspring of Healfdene\ngold-friend of men, now I go on this quest,\nsovran wise, what once was said:\nif in thy cause it came that I\nshould lose my life, thou wouldst loyal bide\nto me, though fallen, in father's place!\nBe guardian, thou, to this group of my thanes,\nmy warrior-friends, if War should seize me;\nand the goodly gifts thou gavest me,\nHrothgar beloved, to Hygelac send!\nGeatland's king may ken by the gold,\nHrethel's son see, when he stares at the treasure,\nthat I got me a friend for goodness famed,\nand joyed while I could in my jewel-bestower.\nAnd let Unferth wield this wondrous sword,\nearl far-honored, this heirloom precious,\nhard of edge:  with Hrunting I\nseek doom of glory, or Death shall take me.\"\n\nAfter these words the Weder-Geat lord\nboldly hastened, biding never\nanswer at all:  the ocean floods\nclosed o'er the hero. Long while of the day\nfled ere he felt the floor of the sea.\n\nSoon found the fiend who the flood-domain\nsword-hungry held these hundred winters,\ngreedy and grim, that some guest from above,\nsome man, was raiding her monster-realm.\nShe grasped out for him with grisly claws,\nand the warrior seized; yet scathed she not\nhis body hale; the breastplate hindered,\nas she strove to shatter the sark of war,\nthe linked harness, with loathsome hand.\nThen bore this brine-wolf, when bottom she touched,\nthe lord of rings to the lair she haunted\nwhiles vainly he strove, though his valor held,\nweapon to wield against wondrous monsters\nthat sore beset him; sea-beasts many\ntried with fierce tusks to tear his mail,\nand swarmed on the stranger. But soon he marked\nhe was now in some hall, he knew not which,\nwhere water never could work him harm,\nnor through the roof could reach him ever\nfangs of the flood. Firelight he saw,\nbeams of a blaze that brightly shone.\nThen the warrior was ware of that wolf-of-the-deep,\nmere-wife monstrous. For mighty stroke\nhe swung his blade, and the blow withheld not.\nThen sang on her head that seemly blade\nits war-song wild. But the warrior found\nthe light-of-battle  was loath to bite,\nto harm the heart:  its hard edge failed\nthe noble at need, yet had known of old\nstrife hand to hand, and had helmets cloven,\ndoomed men's fighting-gear. First time, this,\nfor the gleaming blade that its glory fell.\nFirm still stood, nor failed in valor,\nheedful of high deeds, Hygelac's kinsman;\nflung away fretted sword, featly jewelled,\nthe angry earl; on earth it lay\nsteel-edged and stiff. His strength he trusted,\nhand-gripe of might. So man shall do\nwhenever in war he weens to earn him\nlasting fame, nor fears for his life!\nSeized then by shoulder, shrank not from combat,\nthe Geatish war-prince Grendel's mother.\nFlung then the fierce one, filled with wrath,\nhis deadly foe, that she fell to ground.\nSwift on her part she paid him back\nwith grisly grasp, and grappled with him.\nSpent with struggle, stumbled the warrior,\nfiercest of fighting-men, fell adown.\nOn the hall-guest she hurled herself, hent her short sword,\nbroad and brown-edged,  the bairn to avenge,\nthe sole-born son. -- On his shoulder lay\nbraided breast-mail, barring death,\nwithstanding entrance of edge or blade.\nLife would have ended for Ecgtheow's son,\nunder wide earth for that earl of Geats,\nhad his armor of war not aided him,\nbattle-net hard, and holy God\nwielded the victory, wisest Maker.\nThe Lord of Heaven allowed his cause;\nand easily rose the earl erect.\n\n\n\n\nXXIII\n\n'MID the battle-gear saw he a blade triumphant,\nold-sword of Eotens, with edge of proof,\nwarriors' heirloom, weapon unmatched,\n-- save only 'twas more than other men\nto bandy-of-battle could bear at all --\nas the giants had wrought it, ready and keen.\nSeized then its chain-hilt the Scyldings' chieftain,\nbold and battle-grim, brandished the sword,\nreckless of life, and so wrathfully smote\nthat it gripped her neck and grasped her hard,\nher bone-rings breaking:  the blade pierced through\nthat fated-one's flesh:  to floor she sank.\nBloody the blade:  he was blithe of his deed.\nThen blazed forth light. 'Twas bright within\nas when from the sky there shines unclouded\nheaven's candle. The hall he scanned.\nBy the wall then went he; his weapon raised\nhigh by its hilts the Hygelac-thane,\nangry and eager. That edge was not useless\nto the warrior now. He wished with speed\nGrendel to guerdon for grim raids many,\nfor the war he waged on Western-Danes\noftener far than an only time,\nwhen of Hrothgar's hearth-companions\nhe slew in slumber, in sleep devoured,\nfifteen men of the folk of Danes,\nand as many others outward bore,\nhis horrible prey. Well paid for that\nthe wrathful prince! For now prone he saw\nGrendel stretched there, spent with war,\nspoiled of life, so scathed had left him\nHeorot's battle. The body sprang far\nwhen after death it endured the blow,\nsword-stroke savage, that severed its head.\nSoon,  then, saw the sage companions\nwho waited with Hrothgar, watching the flood,\nthat the tossing waters turbid grew,\nblood-stained the mere. Old men together,\nhoary-haired, of the hero spake;\nthe warrior would not, they weened, again,\nproud of conquest, come to seek\ntheir mighty master. To many it seemed\nthe wolf-of-the-waves had won his life.\nThe ninth hour came. The noble Scyldings\nleft the headland; homeward went\nthe gold-friend of men.  But the guests sat on,\nstared at the surges, sick in heart,\nand wished, yet weened not, their winsome lord\nagain to see.\n\nNow that sword began,\nfrom blood of the fight, in battle-droppings, \nwar-blade, to wane:  'twas a wondrous thing\nthat all of it melted as ice is wont\nwhen frosty fetters the Father loosens,\nunwinds the wave-bonds, wielding all\nseasons and times:  the true God he!\nNor took from that dwelling the duke of the Geats\nsave only the head and that hilt withal\nblazoned with jewels:  the blade had melted,\nburned was the bright sword, her blood was so hot,\nso poisoned the hell-sprite who perished within there.\nSoon he was swimming who safe saw in combat\ndownfall of demons; up-dove through the flood.\nThe clashing waters were cleansed now,\nwaste of waves, where the wandering fiend\nher life-days left and this lapsing world.\nSwam then to strand the sailors'-refuge,\nsturdy-in-spirit, of sea-booty glad,\nof burden brave he bore with him.\nWent then to greet him, and God they thanked,\nthe thane-band choice of their chieftain blithe,\nthat safe and sound they could see him again.\nSoon from the hardy one helmet and armor\ndeftly they doffed:  now drowsed the mere,\nwater 'neath welkin, with war-blood stained.\nForth they fared by the footpaths thence,\nmerry at heart the highways measured,\nwell-known roads. Courageous men\ncarried the head from the cliff by the sea,\nan arduous task for all the band,\nthe firm in fight, since four were needed\non the shaft-of-slaughter  strenuously\nto bear to the gold-hall Grendel's head.\nSo presently to the palace there\nfoemen fearless, fourteen Geats,\nmarching came. Their master-of-clan\nmighty amid them the meadow-ways trod.\nStrode then within the sovran thane\nfearless in fight, of fame renowned,\nhardy hero, Hrothgar to greet.\nAnd next by the hair into hall was borne\nGrendel's head, where the henchmen were drinking,\nan awe to clan and queen alike,\na monster of marvel:  the men looked on.\n\n\n\nXXIV\n\nBEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:  --\n\"Lo, now, this sea-booty, son of Healfdene,\nLord of Scyldings, we've lustily brought thee,\nsign of glory; thou seest it here.\nNot lightly did I with my life escape!\nIn war under water this work I essayed\nwith endless effort; and even so\nmy strength had been lost had the Lord not shielded me.\nNot a whit could I with Hrunting do\nin work of war, though the weapon is good;\nyet a sword the Sovran of Men vouchsafed me\nto spy on the wall there, in splendor hanging,\nold, gigantic, -- how oft He guides\nthe friendless wight! -- and I fought with that brand,\nfelling in fight, since fate was with me,\nthe house's wardens. That war-sword then\nall burned, bright blade, when the blood gushed o'er it,\nbattle-sweat hot; but the hilt I brought back\nfrom my foes. So avenged I their fiendish deeds\ndeath-fall of Danes, as was due and right.\nAnd this is my hest, that in Heorot now\nsafe thou canst sleep with thy soldier band,\nand every thane of all thy folk\nboth old and young; no evil fear,\nScyldings' lord, from that side again,\naught ill for thy earls, as erst thou must!\"\nThen the golden hilt, for that gray-haired leader,\nhoary hero, in hand was laid,\ngiant-wrought, old. So owned and enjoyed it\nafter downfall of devils, the Danish lord,\nwonder-smiths' work, since the world was rid\nof that grim-souled fiend, the foe of God,\nmurder-marked, and his mother as well.\nNow it passed into power of the people's king,\nbest of all that the oceans bound\nwho have scattered their gold o'er Scandia's isle.\nHrothgar spake -- the hilt he viewed,\nheirloom old, where was etched the rise\nof that far-off fight when the floods o'erwhelmed,\nraging waves, the race of giants\n(fearful their fate!), a folk estranged\nfrom God Eternal:  whence guerdon due\nin that waste of waters the Wielder paid them.\nSo on the guard of shining gold\nin runic staves it was rightly said\nfor whom the serpent-traced sword was wrought,\nbest of blades, in bygone days,\nand the hilt well wound. -- The wise-one spake,\nson of Healfdene; silent were all:  --\n\"Lo, so may he say who sooth and right\nfollows 'mid folk, of far times mindful,\na land-warden old,  that this earl belongs\nto the better breed! So, borne aloft,\nthy fame must fly, O friend my Beowulf,\nfar and wide o'er folksteads many. Firmly thou\nshalt all maintain,\nmighty strength with mood of wisdom. Love of\nmine will I assure thee,\nas, awhile ago, I promised; thou shalt prove a stay\nin future,\nin far-off years, to folk of thine,\nto the heroes a help. Was not Heremod thus\nto offspring of Ecgwela, Honor-Scyldings,\nnor grew for their grace, but for grisly slaughter,\nfor doom of death to the Danishmen.\n\nHe slew, wrath-swollen, his shoulder-comrades,\ncompanions at board! So he passed alone,\nchieftain haughty, from human cheer.\nThough him the Maker with might endowed,\ndelights of power, and uplifted high\nabove all men, yet blood-fierce his mind,\nhis breast-hoard, grew, no bracelets gave he\nto Danes as was due; he endured all joyless\nstrain of struggle and stress of woe,\nlong feud with his folk. Here find thy lesson!\nOf virtue advise thee! This verse I have said for thee,\nwise from lapsed winters. Wondrous seems\nhow to sons of men Almighty God\nin the strength of His spirit sendeth wisdom,\nestate, high station:  He swayeth all things.\nWhiles He letteth right lustily fare\nthe heart of the hero of high-born race, --\nin seat ancestral assigns him bliss,\nhis folk's sure fortress in fee to hold,\nputs in his power great parts of the earth,\nempire so ample, that end of it\nthis wanter-of-wisdom weeneth none.\nSo he waxes in wealth, nowise can harm him\nillness or age; no evil cares\nshadow his spirit; no sword-hate threatens\nfrom ever an enemy:  all the world\nwends at his will, no worse he knoweth,\ntill all within him obstinate pride\nwaxes and wakes while the warden slumbers,\nthe spirit's sentry; sleep is too fast\nwhich masters his might, and the murderer nears,\nstealthily shooting the shafts from his bow!\n\n\n\nXXV\n\n\"UNDER harness his heart then is hit indeed\nby sharpest shafts; and no shelter avails\nfrom foul behest of the hellish fiend. \nHim seems too little what long he possessed.\nGreedy and grim, no golden rings\nhe gives for his pride; the promised future\nforgets he and spurns, with all God has sent him,\nWonder-Wielder, of wealth and fame.\nYet in the end it ever comes\nthat the frame of the body fragile yields,\nfated falls; and there follows another\nwho joyously the jewels divides,\nthe royal riches, nor recks of his forebear.\nBan, then, such baleful thoughts, Beowulf dearest,\nbest of men, and the better part choose,\nprofit eternal; and temper thy pride,\nwarrior famous! The flower of thy might\nlasts now a while:  but erelong it shall be\nthat sickness or sword thy strength shall minish,\nor fang of fire, or flooding billow,\nor bite of blade, or brandished spear,\nor odious age; or the eyes' clear beam\nwax dull and darken:  Death even thee\nin haste shall o'erwhelm, thou hero of war!\nSo the Ring-Danes these half-years a hundred I ruled,\nwielded 'neath welkin, and warded them bravely\nfrom mighty-ones many o'er middle-earth,\nfrom spear and sword, till it seemed for me\nno foe could be found under fold of the sky.\nLo, sudden the shift! To me seated secure\ncame grief for joy when Grendel began\nto harry my home, the hellish foe;\nfor those ruthless raids, unresting I suffered\nheart-sorrow heavy. Heaven be thanked,\nLord Eternal, for life extended\nthat I on this head all hewn and bloody,\nafter long evil, with eyes may gaze!\n-- Go to the bench now! Be glad at banquet,\nwarrior worthy! A wealth of treasure\nat dawn of day, be dealt between us!\"\nGlad was the Geats' lord, going betimes\nto seek his seat, as the Sage commanded.\nAfresh, as before, for the famed-in-battle,\nfor the band of the hall, was a banquet dight\nnobly anew. The Night-Helm darkened\ndusk o'er the drinkers.\nThe doughty ones rose:\nfor the hoary-headed would hasten to rest,\naged Scylding; and eager the Geat,\nshield-fighter sturdy, for sleeping yearned.\nHim wander-weary, warrior-guest\nfrom far, a hall-thane heralded forth,\nwho by custom courtly cared for all\nneeds of a thane as in those old days\nwarrior-wanderers wont to have.\nSo slumbered the stout-heart. Stately the hall\nrose gabled and gilt where the guest slept on\ntill a raven black the rapture-of-heaven \nblithe-heart boded. Bright came flying\nshine after shadow. The swordsmen hastened,\nathelings all were eager homeward\nforth to fare; and far from thence\nthe great-hearted guest would guide his keel.\nBade then the hardy-one Hrunting be brought\nto the son of Ecglaf, the sword bade him take,\nexcellent iron, and uttered his thanks for it,\nquoth that he counted it keen in battle,\n\"war-friend\" winsome:  with words he slandered not\nedge of the blade:  'twas a big-hearted man!\nNow eager for parting and armed at point\nwarriors waited, while went to his host\nthat Darling of Danes. The doughty atheling\nto high-seat hastened and Hrothgar greeted.\n\n\n\nXXVI\n\nBEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:  --\n\"Lo, we seafarers say our will,\nfar-come men, that we fain would seek\nHygelac now. We here have found\nhosts to our heart:  thou hast harbored us well.\nIf ever on earth I am able to win me\nmore of thy love, O lord of men,\naught anew, than I now have done,\nfor work of war I am willing still!\nIf it come to me ever across the seas\nthat neighbor foemen annoy and fright thee, --\nas they that hate thee erewhile have used, --\nthousands then of thanes I shall bring,\nheroes to help thee. Of Hygelac I know,\nward of his folk, that, though few his years,\nthe lord of the Geats will give me aid\nby word and by work, that well I may serve thee,\nwielding the war-wood to win thy triumph\nand lending thee might when thou lackest men.\nIf thy Hrethric should come to court of Geats,\na sovran's son, he will surely there\nfind his friends. A far-off land\neach man should visit who vaunts him brave.\"\nHim then answering, Hrothgar spake:  --\n\"These words of thine the wisest God\nsent to thy soul! No sager counsel\nfrom so young in years e'er yet have I heard.\nThou art strong of main and in mind art wary,\nart wise in words! I ween indeed\nif ever it hap that Hrethel's heir\nby spear be seized, by sword-grim battle,\nby illness or iron, thine elder and lord,\npeople's leader, -- and life be thine, --\nno seemlier man will the Sea-Geats find\nat all to choose for their chief and king,\nfor hoard-guard of heroes, if hold thou wilt\nthy kinsman's kingdom! Thy keen mind pleases me\nthe longer the better, Beowulf loved!\n\nThou hast brought it about that both our peoples,\nsons of the Geat and Spear-Dane folk,\nshall have mutual peace, and from murderous strife,\nsuch as once they waged, from war refrain.\nLong as I rule this realm so wide,\nlet our hoards be common, let heroes with gold\neach other greet o'er the gannet's-bath,\nand the ringed-prow bear o'er rolling waves\ntokens of love. I trow my landfolk\ntowards friend and foe are firmly joined,\nand honor they keep in the olden way.\"\nTo him in the hall, then, Healfdene's son\ngave treasures twelve, and the trust-of-earls\nbade him fare with the gifts to his folk beloved,\nhale to his home, and in haste return.\nThen kissed the king of kin renowned,\nScyldings' chieftain, that choicest thane,\nand fell on his neck. Fast flowed the tears\nof the hoary-headed. Heavy with winters,\nhe had chances twain, but he clung to this,  --\nthat each should look on the other again,\nand hear him in hall. Was this hero so dear to him.\nhis breast's wild billows he banned in vain;\nsafe in his soul a secret longing,\nlocked in his mind, for that loved man\nburned in his blood. Then Beowulf strode,\nglad of his gold-gifts, the grass-plot o'er,\nwarrior blithe. The wave-roamer bode\nriding at anchor, its owner awaiting.\nAs they hastened onward, Hrothgar's gift\nthey lauded at length. -- 'Twas a lord unpeered,\nevery way blameless, till age had broken\n-- it spareth no mortal -- his splendid might.\n\n\n\nXXVII\n\nCAME now to ocean the ever-courageous\nhardy henchmen, their harness bearing,\nwoven war-sarks. The warden marked,\ntrusty as ever, the earl's return.\nFrom the height of the hill no hostile words\nreached the guests as he rode to greet them;\nbut \"Welcome!\" he called to that Weder clan\nas the sheen-mailed spoilers to ship marched on.\nThen on the strand, with steeds and treasure\nand armor their roomy and ring-dight ship\nwas heavily laden:  high its mast\nrose over Hrothgar's hoarded gems.\nA sword to the boat-guard Beowulf gave,\nmounted with gold; on the mead-bench since\nhe was better esteemed, that blade possessing,\nheirloom old. -- Their ocean-keel boarding,\nthey drove through the deep, and Daneland left.\nA sea-cloth was set, a sail with ropes,\nfirm to the mast; the flood-timbers moaned; \nnor did wind over billows that wave-swimmer blow\nacross from her course. The craft sped on,\nfoam-necked it floated forth o'er the waves,\nkeel firm-bound over briny currents,\ntill they got them sight of the Geatish cliffs,\nhome-known headlands. High the boat,\nstirred by winds, on the strand updrove.\nHelpful at haven the harbor-guard stood,\nwho long already for loved companions\nby the water had waited and watched afar.\nHe bound to the beach the broad-bosomed ship\nwith anchor-bands, lest ocean-billows\nthat trusty timber should tear away.\nThen Beowulf bade them bear the treasure,\ngold and jewels; no journey far\nwas it thence to go to the giver of rings,\nHygelac Hrethling:  at home he dwelt\nby the sea-wall close, himself and clan.\nHaughty that house, a hero the king,\nhigh the hall, and Hygd  right young,\nwise and wary, though winters few\nin those fortress walls she had found a home,\nHaereth's daughter. Nor humble her ways,\nnor grudged she gifts to the Geatish men,\nof precious treasure. Not Thryth's pride showed she,\nfolk-queen famed, or that fell deceit.\nWas none so daring that durst make bold\n(save her lord alone) of the liegemen dear\nthat lady full in the face to look,\nbut forged fetters he found his lot,\nbonds of death! And brief the respite;\nsoon as they seized him, his sword-doom was spoken,\nand the burnished blade a baleful murder\nproclaimed and closed. No queenly way\nfor woman to practise, though peerless she,\nthat the weaver-of-peace  from warrior dear\nby wrath and lying his life should reave!\nBut Hemming's kinsman hindered this. --\nFor over their ale men also told\nthat of these folk-horrors fewer she wrought,\nonslaughts of evil, after she went,\ngold-decked bride, to the brave young prince,\natheling haughty, and Offa's hall\no'er the fallow flood at her father's bidding\nsafely sought, where since she prospered,\nroyal, throned, rich in goods,\nfain of the fair life fate had sent her,\nand leal in love to the lord of warriors.\nHe, of all heroes I heard of ever\nfrom sea to sea, of the sons of earth,\nmost excellent seemed. Hence Offa was praised\nfor his fighting and feeing by far-off men,\nthe spear-bold warrior; wisely he ruled\nover his empire. Eomer woke to him,\nhelp of heroes, Hemming's kinsman,\nGrandson of Garmund, grim in war.\n\n\n\nXXVIII\n\nHASTENED the hardy one, henchmen with him,\nsandy strand of the sea to tread\nand widespread ways. The world's great candle,\nsun shone from south. They strode along\nwith sturdy steps to the spot they knew\nwhere the battle-king young, his burg within,\nslayer of Ongentheow, shared the rings,\nshelter-of-heroes. To Hygelac\nBeowulf's coming was quickly told, --\nthat there in the court the clansmen's refuge,\nthe shield-companion sound and alive,\nhale from the hero-play homeward strode.\nWith haste in the hall, by highest order,\nroom for the rovers was readily made.\nBy his sovran he sat, come safe from battle,\nkinsman by kinsman. His kindly lord\nhe first had greeted in gracious form,\nwith manly words. The mead dispensing,\ncame through the high hall Haereth's daughter,\nwinsome to warriors, wine-cup bore\nto the hands of the heroes. Hygelac then\nhis comrade fairly with question plied\nin the lofty hall, sore longing to know\nwhat manner of sojourn the Sea-Geats made.\n\"What came of thy quest, my kinsman Beowulf,\nwhen thy yearnings suddenly swept thee yonder\nbattle to seek o'er the briny sea,\ncombat in Heorot? Hrothgar couldst thou\naid at all, the honored chief,\nin his wide-known woes? With waves of care\nmy sad heart seethed; I sore mistrusted\nmy loved one's venture:  long I begged thee\nby no means to seek that slaughtering monster,\nbut suffer the South-Danes to settle their feud\nthemselves with Grendel. Now God be thanked\nthat safe and sound I can see thee now!\"\nBeowulf spake, the bairn of Ecgtheow:  --\n\"'Tis known and unhidden, Hygelac Lord,\nto many men, that meeting of ours,\nstruggle grim between Grendel and me,\nwhich we fought on the field where full too many\nsorrows he wrought for the Scylding-Victors,\nevils unending. These all I avenged.\nNo boast can be from breed of Grendel,\nany on earth, for that uproar at dawn,\nfrom the longest-lived of the loathsome race\nin fleshly fold! -- But first I went\nHrothgar to greet in the hall of gifts,\nwhere Healfdene's kinsman high-renowned,\nsoon as my purpose was plain to him,\nassigned me a seat by his son and heir.\nThe liegemen were lusty; my life-days never\nsuch merry men over mead in hall\nhave I heard under heaven! The high-born queen,\npeople's peace-bringer, passed through the hall,\ncheered the young clansmen, clasps of gold,\nere she sought her seat, to sundry gave.\nOft to the heroes Hrothgar's daughter,\nto earls in turn, the ale-cup tendered, --\nshe whom I heard these hall-companions\nFreawaru name, when fretted gold\nshe proffered the warriors. Promised is she,\ngold-decked maid, to the glad son of Froda.\nSage this seems to the Scylding's-friend,\nkingdom's-keeper:  he counts it wise\nthe woman to wed so and ward off feud,\nstore of slaughter. But seldom ever\nwhen men are slain, does the murder-spear sink\nbut briefest while, though the bride be fair! \n\"Nor haply will like it the Heathobard lord,\nand as little each of his liegemen all,\nwhen a thane of the Danes, in that doughty throng,\ngoes with the lady along their hall,\nand on him the old-time heirlooms glisten\nhard and ring-decked, Heathobard's treasure,\nweapons that once they wielded fair\nuntil they lost at the linden-play \nliegeman leal and their lives as well.\nThen, over the ale, on this heirloom gazing,\nsome ash-wielder old who has all in mind\nthat spear-death of men,  -- he is stern of mood,\nheavy at heart, -- in the hero young\ntests the temper and tries the soul\nand war-hate wakens, with words like these:  --\nCanst thou not, comrade, ken that sword\nwhich to the fray thy father carried\nin his final feud, 'neath the fighting-mask,\ndearest of blades, when the Danish slew him\nand wielded the war-place on Withergild's fall,\nafter havoc of heroes, those hardy Scyldings?\nNow, the son of a certain slaughtering Dane,\nproud of his treasure, paces this hall,\njoys in the killing, and carries the jewel \nthat rightfully ought to be owned by thee!_\nThus he urges and eggs him all the time\nwith keenest words, till occasion offers\nthat Freawaru's thane, for his father's deed,\nafter bite of brand in his blood must slumber,\nlosing his life; but that liegeman flies\nliving away, for the land he kens.\nAnd thus be broken on both their sides\noaths of the earls, when Ingeld's breast\nwells with war-hate, and wife-love now\nafter the care-billows cooler grows.\n\"So  I hold not high the Heathobards' faith\ndue to the Danes, or their during love\nand pact of peace. -- But I pass from that,\nturning to Grendel, O giver-of-treasure,\nand saying in full how the fight resulted,\nhand-fray of heroes. When heaven's jewel\nhad fled o'er far fields, that fierce sprite came,\nnight-foe savage, to seek us out\nwhere safe and sound we sentried the hall.\nTo Hondscio then was that harassing deadly,\nhis fall there was fated. He first was slain,\ngirded warrior. Grendel on him\nturned murderous mouth, on our mighty kinsman,\nand all of the brave man's body devoured.\nYet none the earlier, empty-handed,\nwould the bloody-toothed murderer, mindful of bale,\noutward go from the gold-decked hall:\nbut me he attacked in his terror of might,\nwith greedy hand grasped me. A glove hung by him \nwide and wondrous, wound with bands;\nand in artful wise it all was wrought,\nby devilish craft, of dragon-skins.\nMe therein, an innocent man,\nthe fiendish foe was fain to thrust\nwith many another. He might not so,\nwhen I all angrily upright stood.\n'Twere long to relate how that land-destroyer\nI paid in kind for his cruel deeds;\nyet there, my prince, this people of thine\ngot fame by my fighting. He fled away,\nand a little space his life preserved;\nbut there staid behind him his stronger hand\nleft in Heorot; heartsick thence\non the floor of the ocean that outcast fell.\nMe for this struggle the Scyldings'-friend\npaid in plenty with plates of gold,\nwith many a treasure, when morn had come\nand we all at the banquet-board sat down.\nThen was song and glee. The gray-haired Scylding,\nmuch tested, told of the times of yore.\nWhiles the hero his harp bestirred,\nwood-of-delight; now lays he chanted\nof sooth and sadness, or said aright\nlegends of wonder, the wide-hearted king;\nor for years of his youth he would yearn at times,\nfor strength of old struggles, now stricken with age,\nhoary hero:  his heart surged full\nwhen, wise with winters, he wailed their flight.\nThus in the hall the whole of that day\nat ease we feasted, till fell o'er earth\nanother night. Anon full ready\nin greed of vengeance, Grendel's mother\nset forth all doleful. Dead was her son\nthrough war-hate of Weders; now, woman monstrous\nwith fury fell a foeman she slew,\navenged her offspring. From Aeschere old,\nloyal councillor, life was gone;\nnor might they e'en, when morning broke,\nthose Danish people, their death-done comrade\nburn with brands, on balefire lay\nthe man they mourned. Under mountain stream\nshe had carried the corpse with cruel hands.\nFor Hrothgar that was the heaviest sorrow\nof all that had laden the lord of his folk.\nThe leader then, by thy life, besought me\n(sad was his soul) in the sea-waves' coil\nto play the hero and hazard my being\nfor glory of prowess:  my guerdon he pledged.\nI then in the waters -- 'tis widely known --\nthat sea-floor-guardian savage found.\nHand-to-hand there a while we struggled;\nbillows welled blood; in the briny hall\nher head I hewed with a hardy blade\nfrom Grendel's mother, -- and gained my life,\nthough not without danger. My doom was not yet.\nThen the haven-of-heroes, Healfdene's son,\ngave me in guerdon great gifts of price.\n\n\n\nXXIX\n\n\"So held this king to the customs old,\nthat I wanted for nought in the wage I gained,\nthe meed of my might; he made me gifts,\nHealfdene's heir, for my own disposal.\nNow to thee, my prince, I proffer them all,\ngladly give them. Thy grace alone\ncan find me favor. Few indeed\nhave I of kinsmen, save, Hygelac, thee!\"\nThen he bade them bear him the boar-head standard,\nthe battle-helm high, and breastplate gray,\nthe splendid sword; then spake in form:  --\n\"Me this war-gear the wise old prince,\nHrothgar, gave, and his hest he added,\nthat its story be straightway said to thee. --\nA while it was held by Heorogar king,\nfor long time lord of the land of Scyldings;\nyet not to his son the sovran left it,\nto daring Heoroweard, -- dear as he was to him,\nhis harness of battle. -- Well hold thou it all!\"\nAnd I heard that soon passed o'er the path of this treasure,\nall apple-fallow, four good steeds,\neach like the others, arms and horses\nhe gave to the king. So should kinsmen be,\nnot weave one another the net of wiles,\nor with deep-hid treachery death contrive\nfor neighbor and comrade. His nephew was ever\nby hardy Hygelac held full dear,\nand each kept watch o'er the other's weal.\nI heard, too, the necklace to Hygd he presented,\nwonder-wrought treasure, which Wealhtheow gave him\nsovran's daughter:  three steeds he added,\nslender and saddle-gay. Since such gift\nthe gem gleamed bright on the breast of the queen.\nThus showed his strain the son of Ecgtheow\nas a man remarked for mighty deeds\nand acts of honor. At ale he slew not\ncomrade or kin; nor cruel his mood,\nthough of sons of earth his strength was greatest,\na glorious gift that God had sent\nthe splendid leader. Long was he spurned,\nand worthless by Geatish warriors held;\nhim at mead the master-of-clans\nfailed full oft to favor at all.\nSlack and shiftless the strong men deemed him,\nprofitless prince; but payment came,\nto the warrior honored, for all his woes. --\nThen the bulwark-of-earls  bade bring within,\nhardy chieftain, Hrethel's heirloom\ngarnished with gold:  no Geat e'er knew\nin shape of a sword a statelier prize.\nThe brand he laid in Beowulf's lap;\nand of hides assigned him seven thousand, \nwith house and high-seat. They held in common\nland alike by their line of birth,\ninheritance, home:  but higher the king\nbecause of his rule o'er the realm itself.\n\nNow further it fell with the flight of years,\nwith harryings horrid, that Hygelac perished, \nand Heardred, too, by hewing of swords\nunder the shield-wall slaughtered lay,\nwhen him at the van of his victor-folk\nsought hardy heroes, Heatho-Scilfings,\nin arms o'erwhelming Hereric's nephew.\nThen Beowulf came as king this broad\nrealm to wield; and he ruled it well\nfifty winters,  a wise old prince,\nwarding his land, until One began\nin the dark of night, a Dragon, to rage.\nIn the grave on the hill a hoard it guarded,\nin the stone-barrow steep. A strait path reached it,\nunknown to mortals. Some man, however,\ncame by chance that cave within\nto the heathen hoard.  In hand he took\na golden goblet, nor gave he it back,\nstole with it away, while the watcher slept,\nby thievish wiles:  for the warden's wrath\nprince and people must pay betimes!\n\n\n\nXXX\n\nTHAT way he went with no will of his own,\nin danger of life, to the dragon's hoard,\nbut for pressure of peril, some prince's thane.\nHe fled in fear the fatal scourge,\nseeking shelter, a sinful man,\nand entered in. At the awful sight\ntottered that guest, and terror seized him;\nyet the wretched fugitive rallied anon\nfrom fright and fear ere he fled away,\nand took the cup from that treasure-hoard.\nOf such besides there was store enough,\nheirlooms old, the earth below,\nwhich some earl forgotten, in ancient years,\nleft the last of his lofty race,\nheedfully there had hidden away,\ndearest treasure. For death of yore\nhad hurried all hence; and he alone\nleft to live, the last of the clan,\nweeping his friends, yet wished to bide\nwarding the treasure, his one delight,\nthough brief his respite. The barrow, new-ready,\nto strand and sea-waves stood anear,\nhard by the headland, hidden and closed;\nthere laid within it his lordly heirlooms\nand heaped hoard of heavy gold\nthat warden of rings. Few words he spake:\n\"Now hold thou, earth, since heroes may not,\nwhat earls have owned! Lo, erst from thee\nbrave men brought it! But battle-death seized\nand cruel killing my clansmen all,\nrobbed them of life and a liegeman's joys.\nNone have I left to lift the sword,\nor to cleanse the carven cup of price,\nbeaker bright. My brave are gone.\nAnd the helmet hard, all haughty with gold,\nshall part from its plating. Polishers sleep\nwho could brighten and burnish the battle-mask;\nand those weeds of war that were wont to brave\nover bicker of shields the bite of steel\nrust with their bearer. The ringed mail\nfares not far with famous chieftain,\nat side of hero! No harp's delight,\nno glee-wood's gladness! No good hawk now\nflies through the hall! Nor horses fleet\nstamp in the burgstead! Battle and death\nthe flower of my race have reft away.\"\nMournful of mood, thus he moaned his woe,\nalone, for them all, and unblithe wept\nby day and by night, till death's fell wave\no'erwhelmed his heart. His hoard-of-bliss\nthat old ill-doer open found,\nwho, blazing at twilight the barrows haunteth,\nnaked foe-dragon flying by night\nfolded in fire:  the folk of earth\ndread him sore. 'Tis his doom to seek\nhoard in the graves, and heathen gold\nto watch, many-wintered:  nor wins he thereby!\nPowerful this plague-of-the-people thus\nheld the house of the hoard in earth\nthree hundred winters; till One aroused\nwrath in his breast, to the ruler bearing\nthat costly cup, and the king implored\nfor bond of peace. So the barrow was plundered,\nborne off was booty. His boon was granted\nthat wretched man; and his ruler saw\nfirst time what was fashioned in far-off days.\nWhen the dragon awoke, new woe was kindled.\nO'er the stone he snuffed. The stark-heart found\nfootprint of foe who so far had gone\nin his hidden craft by the creature's head. --\nSo may the undoomed easily flee\nevils and exile, if only he gain\nthe grace of The Wielder! -- That warden of gold\no'er the ground went seeking, greedy to find\nthe man who wrought him such wrong in sleep.\nSavage and burning, the barrow he circled\nall without; nor was any there,\nnone in the waste.... Yet war he desired,\nwas eager for battle. The barrow he entered,\nsought the cup, and discovered soon\nthat some one of mortals had searched his treasure,\nhis lordly gold. The guardian waited\nill-enduring till evening came;\nboiling with wrath was the barrow's keeper,\nand fain with flame the foe to pay\nfor the dear cup's loss. -- Now day was fled\nas the worm had wished. By its wall no more\nwas it glad to bide, but burning flew\nfolded in flame:  a fearful beginning\nfor sons of the soil; and soon it came,\nin the doom of their lord, to a dreadful end.\n\n\n\nXXXI\n\nTHEN the baleful fiend its fire belched out,\nand bright homes burned. The blaze stood high\nall landsfolk frighting. No living thing\nwould that loathly one leave as aloft it flew.\nWide was the dragon's warring seen,\nits fiendish fury far and near,\nas the grim destroyer those Geatish people\nhated and hounded. To hidden lair,\nto its hoard it hastened at hint of dawn.\nFolk of the land it had lapped in flame,\nwith bale and brand. In its barrow it trusted,\nits battling and bulwarks:  that boast was vain!\n\nTo Beowulf then the bale was told\nquickly and truly:  the king's own home,\nof buildings the best, in brand-waves melted,\nthat gift-throne of Geats. To the good old man\nsad in heart, 'twas heaviest sorrow.\nThe sage assumed that his sovran God\nhe had angered, breaking ancient law,\nand embittered the Lord. His breast within\nwith black thoughts welled, as his wont was never.\nThe folk's own fastness that fiery dragon\nwith flame had destroyed, and the stronghold all\nwashed by waves; but the warlike king,\nprince of the Weders, plotted vengeance.\nWarriors'-bulwark, he bade them work\nall of iron -- the earl's commander --\na war-shield wondrous:  well he knew\nthat forest-wood against fire were worthless,\nlinden could aid not. -- Atheling brave,\nhe was fated to finish this fleeting life, \nhis days on earth, and the dragon with him,\nthough long it had watched o'er the wealth of the hoard! --\nShame he reckoned it, sharer-of-rings,\nto follow the flyer-afar with a host,\na broad-flung band; nor the battle feared he,\nnor deemed he dreadful the dragon's warring,\nits vigor and valor:  ventures desperate\nhe had passed a-plenty, and perils of war,\ncontest-crash, since, conqueror proud,\nHrothgar's hall he had wholly purged,\nand in grapple had killed the kin of Grendel,\nloathsome breed! Not least was that\nof hand-to-hand fights where Hygelac fell,\nwhen the ruler of Geats in rush of battle,\nlord of his folk, in the Frisian land,\nson of Hrethel, by sword-draughts died,\nby brands down-beaten. Thence Beowulf fled\nthrough strength of himself and his swimming power,\nthough alone, and his arms were laden with thirty\ncoats of mail, when he came to the sea!\nNor yet might Hetwaras  haughtily boast\ntheir craft of contest, who carried against him\nshields to the fight:  but few escaped\nfrom strife with the hero to seek their homes!\nThen swam over ocean Ecgtheow's son\nlonely and sorrowful, seeking his land,\nwhere Hygd made him offer of hoard and realm,\nrings and royal-seat, reckoning naught\nthe strength of her son to save their kingdom\nfrom hostile hordes, after Hygelac's death.\nNo sooner for this could the stricken ones\nin any wise move that atheling's mind\nover young Heardred's head as lord\nand ruler of all the realm to be:\nyet the hero upheld him with helpful words,\naided in honor, till, older grown,\nhe wielded the Weder-Geats. -- Wandering exiles\nsought him o'er seas, the sons of Ohtere,\nwho had spurned the sway of the Scylfings'-helmet,\nthe bravest and best that broke the rings,\nin Swedish land, of the sea-kings' line,\nhaughty hero.  Hence Heardred's end.\nFor shelter he gave them, sword-death came,\nthe blade's fell blow, to bairn of Hygelac;\nbut the son of Ongentheow sought again\nhouse and home when Heardred fell,\nleaving Beowulf lord of Geats\nand gift-seat's master. -- A good king he!\n\n\n\nXXXII\n\nTHE fall of his lord he was fain to requite\nin after days; and to Eadgils he proved\nfriend to the friendless, and forces sent\nover the sea to the son of Ohtere,\nweapons and warriors:  well repaid he\nthose care-paths cold when the king he slew. \nThus safe through struggles the son of Ecgtheow\nhad passed a plenty, through perils dire,\nwith daring deeds, till this day was come\nthat doomed him now with the dragon to strive.\nWith comrades eleven the lord of Geats\nswollen in rage went seeking the dragon.\nHe had heard whence all the harm arose\nand the killing of clansmen; that cup of price\non the lap of the lord had been laid by the finder.\nIn the throng was this one thirteenth man,\nstarter of all the strife and ill,\ncare-laden captive; cringing thence\nforced and reluctant, he led them on\ntill he came in ken of that cavern-hall,\nthe barrow delved near billowy surges,\nflood of ocean. Within 'twas full\nof wire-gold and jewels; a jealous warden,\nwarrior trusty, the treasures held,\nlurked in his lair. Not light the task\nof entrance for any of earth-born men!\nSat on the headland the hero king,\nspake words of hail to his hearth-companions,\ngold-friend of Geats. All gloomy his soul,\nwavering, death-bound. Wyrd full nigh\nstood ready to greet the gray-haired man,\nto seize his soul-hoard, sunder apart\nlife and body. Not long would be\nthe warrior's spirit enwound with flesh.\nBeowulf spake, the bairn of Ecgtheow:  --\n\"Through store of struggles I strove in youth,\nmighty feuds; I mind them all.\nI was seven years old when the sovran of rings,\nfriend-of-his-folk, from my father took me,\nhad me, and held me, Hrethel the king,\nwith food and fee, faithful in kinship.\nNe'er, while I lived there, he loathlier found me,\nbairn in the burg, than his birthright sons,\nHerebeald and Haethcyn and Hygelac mine.\nFor the eldest of these, by unmeet chance,\nby kinsman's deed, was the death-bed strewn,\nwhen Haethcyn killed him with horny bow,\nhis own dear liege laid low with an arrow,\nmissed the mark and his mate shot down,\none brother the other, with bloody shaft.\nA feeless fight,  and a fearful sin,\nhorror to Hrethel; yet, hard as it was,\nunavenged must the atheling die!\nToo awful it is for an aged man\nto bide and bear, that his bairn so young\nrides on the gallows. A rime he makes,\nsorrow-song for his son there hanging\nas rapture of ravens; no rescue now\ncan come from the old, disabled man!\nStill is he minded, as morning breaks,\nof the heir gone elsewhere;  another he hopes not\nhe will bide to see his burg within\nas ward for his wealth, now the one has found\ndoom of death that the deed incurred.\nForlorn he looks on the lodge of his son,\nwine-hall waste and wind-swept chambers\nreft of revel. The rider sleepeth,\nthe hero, far-hidden;  no harp resounds,\nin the courts no wassail, as once was heard.\n\n\n\nXXXIII\n\n\"THEN he goes to his chamber, a grief-song chants\nalone for his lost. Too large all seems,\nhomestead and house. So the helmet-of-Weders\nhid in his heart for Herebeald\nwaves of woe. No way could he take\nto avenge on the slayer slaughter so foul;\nnor e'en could he harass that hero at all\nwith loathing deed, though he loved him not.\nAnd so for the sorrow his soul endured,\nmen's gladness he gave up and God's light chose.\nLands and cities he left his sons\n(as the wealthy do) when he went from earth.\nThere was strife and struggle 'twixt Swede and Geat\no'er the width of waters; war arose,\nhard battle-horror, when Hrethel died,\nand Ongentheow's offspring grew\nstrife-keen, bold, nor brooked o'er the seas\npact of peace, but pushed their hosts\nto harass in hatred by Hreosnabeorh.\nMen of my folk for that feud had vengeance,\nfor woful war ('tis widely known),\nthough one of them bought it with blood of his heart,\na bargain hard:  for Haethcyn proved\nfatal that fray, for the first-of-Geats.\nAt morn, I heard, was the murderer killed\nby kinsman for kinsman,  with clash of sword,\nwhen Ongentheow met Eofor there.\nWide split the war-helm:  wan he fell,\nhoary Scylfing; the hand that smote him\nof feud was mindful, nor flinched from the death-blow.\n-- \"For all that he  gave me, my gleaming sword\nrepaid him at war, -- such power I wielded, --\nfor lordly treasure:  with land he entrusted me,\nhomestead and house. He had no need\nfrom Swedish realm, or from Spear-Dane folk,\nor from men of the Gifths, to get him help, --\nsome warrior worse for wage to buy!\nEver I fought in the front of all,\nsole to the fore; and so shall I fight\nwhile I bide in life and this blade shall last\nthat early and late hath loyal proved\nsince for my doughtiness Daeghrefn fell,\nslain by my hand, the Hugas' champion.\nNor fared he thence to the Frisian king\nwith the booty back, and breast-adornments;\nbut, slain in struggle, that standard-bearer\nfell, atheling brave. Not with blade was he slain,\nbut his bones were broken by brawny gripe,\nhis heart-waves stilled. -- The sword-edge now,\nhard blade and my hand, for the hoard shall strive.\"\nBeowulf spake, and a battle-vow made\nhis last of all:  \"I have lived through many\nwars in my youth; now once again,\nold folk-defender, feud will I seek,\ndo doughty deeds, if the dark destroyer\nforth from his cavern come to fight me!\"\nThen hailed he the helmeted heroes all,\nfor the last time greeting his liegemen dear,\ncomrades of war:  \"I should carry no weapon,\nno sword to the serpent, if sure I knew\nhow, with such enemy, else my vows\nI could gain as I did in Grendel's day.\nBut fire in this fight I must fear me now,\nand poisonous breath; so I bring with me\nbreastplate and board.  From the barrow's keeper\nno footbreadth flee I. One fight shall end\nour war by the wall, as Wyrd allots,\nall mankind's master. My mood is bold\nbut forbears to boast o'er this battling-flyer.\n-- Now abide by the barrow, ye breastplate-mailed,\nye heroes in harness, which of us twain\nbetter from battle-rush bear his wounds.\nWait ye the finish. The fight is not yours,\nnor meet for any but me alone\nto measure might with this monster here\nand play the hero. Hardily I\nshall win that wealth, or war shall seize,\ncruel killing, your king and lord!\"\nUp stood then with shield the sturdy champion,\nstayed by the strength of his single manhood,\nand hardy 'neath helmet his harness bore\nunder cleft of the cliffs:  no coward's path!\nSoon spied by the wall that warrior chief,\nsurvivor of many a victory-field\nwhere foemen fought with furious clashings,\nan arch of stone; and within, a stream\nthat broke from the barrow. The brooklet's wave\nwas hot with fire. The hoard that way\nhe never could hope unharmed to near,\nor endure those deeps,  for the dragon's flame.\nThen let from his breast, for he burst with rage,\nthe Weder-Geat prince a word outgo;\nstormed the stark-heart; stern went ringing\nand clear his cry 'neath the cliff-rocks gray.\nThe hoard-guard heard a human voice;\nhis rage was enkindled. No respite now\nfor pact of peace! The poison-breath\nof that foul worm first came forth from the cave,\nhot reek-of-fight:  the rocks resounded.\nStout by the stone-way his shield he raised,\nlord of the Geats, against the loathed-one;\nwhile with courage keen that coiled foe\ncame seeking strife. The sturdy king\nhad drawn his sword, not dull of edge,\nheirloom old; and each of the two\nfelt fear of his foe, though fierce their mood.\nStoutly stood with his shield high-raised\nthe warrior king, as the worm now coiled\ntogether amain:  the mailed-one waited.\nNow, spire by spire, fast sped and glided\nthat blazing serpent. The shield protected,\nsoul and body a shorter while\nfor the hero-king than his heart desired,\ncould his will have wielded the welcome respite\nbut once in his life! But Wyrd denied it,\nand victory's honors. -- His arm he lifted\nlord of the Geats, the grim foe smote\nwith atheling's heirloom. Its edge was turned\nbrown blade, on the bone, and bit more feebly\nthan its noble master had need of then\nin his baleful stress. -- Then the barrow's keeper\nwaxed full wild for that weighty blow,\ncast deadly flames; wide drove and far\nthose vicious fires. No victor's glory\nthe Geats' lord boasted; his brand had failed,\nnaked in battle, as never it should,\nexcellent iron! -- 'Twas no easy path\nthat Ecgtheow's honored heir must tread\nover the plain to the place of the foe;\nfor against his will he must win a home\nelsewhere far, as must all men, leaving\nthis lapsing life! -- Not long it was\nere those champions grimly closed again.\nThe hoard-guard was heartened; high heaved his breast\nonce more; and by peril was pressed again,\nenfolded in flames, the folk-commander!\nNor yet about him his band of comrades,\nsons of athelings, armed stood\nwith warlike front:  to the woods they bent them,\ntheir lives to save. But the soul of one\nwith care was cumbered. Kinship true\ncan never be marred in a noble mind!\n\n\n\nXXXIV\n\nWIGLAF his name was, Weohstan's son,\nlinden-thane loved, the lord of Scylfings,\nAelfhere's kinsman. His king he now saw\nwith heat under helmet hard oppressed.\nHe minded the prizes his prince had given him,\nwealthy seat of the Waegmunding line,\nand folk-rights that his father owned\nNot long he lingered. The linden yellow,\nhis shield, he seized; the old sword he drew:  --\nas heirloom of Eanmund earth-dwellers knew it,\nwho was slain by the sword-edge, son of Ohtere,\nfriendless exile, erst in fray\nkilled by Weohstan, who won for his kin\nbrown-bright helmet, breastplate ringed,\nold sword of Eotens, Onela's gift,\nweeds of war of the warrior-thane,\nbattle-gear brave:  though a brother's child\nhad been felled, the feud was unfelt by Onela. \nFor winters this war-gear Weohstan kept,\nbreastplate and board, till his bairn had grown\nearlship to earn as the old sire did:\nthen he gave him, mid Geats, the gear of battle,\nportion huge, when he passed from life,\nfared aged forth. For the first time now\nwith his leader-lord the liegeman young\nwas bidden to share the shock of battle.\nNeither softened his soul, nor the sire's bequest\nweakened in war.  So the worm found out\nwhen once in fight the foes had met!\nWiglaf spake, -- and his words were sage;\nsad in spirit, he said to his comrades:  --\n\"I remember the time, when mead we took,\nwhat promise we made to this prince of ours\nin the banquet-hall, to our breaker-of-rings,\nfor gear of combat to give him requital,\nfor hard-sword and helmet, if hap should bring\nstress of this sort! Himself who chose us\nfrom all his army to aid him now,\nurged us to glory, and gave these treasures,\nbecause he counted us keen with the spear\nand hardy 'neath helm, though this hero-work\nour leader hoped unhelped and alone\nto finish for us, -- folk-defender\nwho hath got him glory greater than all men\nfor daring deeds! Now the day is come\nthat our noble master has need of the might\nof warriors stout. Let us stride along\nthe hero to help while the heat is about him\nglowing and grim! For God is my witness\nI am far more fain the fire should seize\nalong with my lord these limbs of mine! \nUnsuiting it seems our shields to bear\nhomeward hence, save here we essay\nto fell the foe and defend the life\nof the Weders' lord. I wot 'twere shame\non the law of our land if alone the king\nout of Geatish warriors woe endured\nand sank in the struggle! My sword and helmet,\nbreastplate and board, for us both shall serve!\"\nThrough slaughter-reek strode he to succor his chieftain,\nhis battle-helm bore, and brief words spake:  --\n\"Beowulf dearest, do all bravely,\nas in youthful days of yore thou vowedst\nthat while life should last thou wouldst let no wise\nthy glory droop! Now, great in deeds,\natheling steadfast, with all thy strength\nshield thy life! I will stand to help thee.\"\nAt the words the worm came once again,\nmurderous monster mad with rage,\nwith fire-billows flaming, its foes to seek,\nthe hated men. In heat-waves burned\nthat board  to the boss, and the breastplate failed\nto shelter at all the spear-thane young.\nYet quickly under his kinsman's shield\nwent eager the earl, since his own was now\nall burned by the blaze. The bold king again\nhad mind of his glory:  with might his glaive\nwas driven into the dragon's head, --\nblow nerved by hate. But Naegling  was shivered,\nbroken in battle was Beowulf's sword,\nold and gray. 'Twas granted him not\nthat ever the edge of iron at all\ncould help him at strife:  too strong was his hand,\nso the tale is told, and he tried too far\nwith strength of stroke all swords he wielded,\nthough sturdy their steel:  they steaded him nought.\nThen for the third time thought on its feud\nthat folk-destroyer, fire-dread dragon,\nand rushed on the hero, where room allowed,\nbattle-grim, burning; its bitter teeth\nclosed on his neck, and covered him\nwith waves of blood from his breast that welled.\n\n\n\nXXXV\n\n'TWAS now, men say, in his sovran's need\nthat the earl made known his noble strain,\ncraft and keenness and courage enduring.\nHeedless of harm, though his hand was burned,\nhardy-hearted, he helped his kinsman.\nA little lower the loathsome beast\nhe smote with sword; his steel drove in\nbright and burnished; that blaze began\nto lose and lessen. At last the king\nwielded his wits again, war-knife drew,\na biting blade by his breastplate hanging,\nand the Weders'-helm smote that worm asunder,\nfelled the foe, flung forth its life.\nSo had they killed it, kinsmen both,\nathelings twain:  thus an earl should be\nin danger's day! -- Of deeds of valor\nthis conqueror's-hour of the king was last,\nof his work in the world. The wound began,\nwhich that dragon-of-earth had erst inflicted,\nto swell and smart; and soon he found\nin his breast was boiling, baleful and deep,\npain of poison. The prince walked on,\nwise in his thought, to the wall of rock;\nthen sat, and stared at the structure of giants,\nwhere arch of stone and steadfast column\nupheld forever that hall in earth.\nYet here must the hand of the henchman peerless\nlave with water his winsome lord,\nthe king and conqueror covered with blood,\nwith struggle spent, and unspan his helmet.\nBeowulf spake in spite of his hurt,\nhis mortal wound; full well he knew\nhis portion now was past and gone\nof earthly bliss, and all had fled\nof his file of days, and death was near:\n\"I would fain bestow on son of mine\nthis gear of war, were given me now\nthat any heir should after me come\nof my proper blood. This people I ruled\nfifty winters. No folk-king was there,\nnone at all, of the neighboring clans\nwho war would wage me with 'warriors'-friends' \nand threat me with horrors. At home I bided\nwhat fate might come, and I cared for mine own;\nfeuds I sought not, nor falsely swore\never on oath. For all these things,\nthough fatally wounded, fain am I!\nFrom the Ruler-of-Man no wrath shall seize me,\nwhen life from my frame must flee away,\nfor killing of kinsmen! Now quickly go\nand gaze on that hoard 'neath the hoary rock,\nWiglaf loved, now the worm lies low,\nsleeps, heart-sore, of his spoil bereaved.\nAnd fare in haste. I would fain behold\nthe gorgeous heirlooms, golden store,\nhave joy in the jewels and gems, lay down\nsoftlier for sight of this splendid hoard\nmy life and the lordship I long have held.\"\n\n\n\nXXXVI\n\nI HAVE heard that swiftly the son of Weohstan\nat wish and word of his wounded king, --\nwar-sick warrior, -- woven mail-coat,\nbattle-sark, bore 'neath the barrow's roof.\nThen the clansman keen, of conquest proud,\npassing the seat,  saw store of jewels\nand glistening gold the ground along;\nby the wall were marvels, and many a vessel\nin the den of the dragon, the dawn-flier old:\nunburnished bowls of bygone men\nreft of richness; rusty helms\nof the olden age; and arm-rings many\nwondrously woven. -- Such wealth of gold,\nbooty from barrow, can burden with pride\neach human wight:  let him hide it who will! --\nHis glance too fell on a gold-wove banner\nhigh o'er the hoard, of handiwork noblest,\nbrilliantly broidered; so bright its gleam,\nall the earth-floor he easily saw\nand viewed all these vessels. No vestige now\nwas seen of the serpent:  the sword had ta'en him.\nThen, I heard, the hill of its hoard was reft,\nold work of giants, by one alone;\nhe burdened his bosom with beakers and plate\nat his own good will, and the ensign took,\nbrightest of beacons. -- The blade of his lord\n-- its edge was iron -- had injured deep\none that guarded the golden hoard\nmany a year and its murder-fire\nspread hot round the barrow in horror-billows\nat midnight hour, till it met its doom.\nHasted the herald, the hoard so spurred him\nhis track to retrace; he was troubled by doubt,\nhigh-souled hero, if haply he'd find\nalive, where he left him, the lord of Weders,\nweakening fast by the wall of the cave.\nSo he carried the load. His lord and king\nhe found all bleeding, famous chief\nat the lapse of life. The liegeman again\nplashed him with water, till point of word\nbroke through the breast-hoard. Beowulf spake,\nsage and sad, as he stared at the gold. --\n\"For the gold and treasure, to God my thanks,\nto the Wielder-of-Wonders, with words I say,\nfor what I behold, to Heaven's Lord,\nfor the grace that I give such gifts to my folk\nor ever the day of my death be run!\nNow I've bartered here for booty of treasure\nthe last of my life, so look ye well\nto the needs of my land! No longer I tarry.\nA barrow bid ye the battle-fanned raise\nfor my ashes. 'Twill shine by the shore of the flood,\nto folk of mine memorial fair\non Hrones Headland high uplifted,\nthat ocean-wanderers oft may hail\nBeowulf's Barrow, as back from far\nthey drive their keels o'er the darkling wave.\"\nFrom his neck he unclasped the collar of gold,\nvalorous king, to his vassal gave it\nwith bright-gold helmet, breastplate, and ring,\nto the youthful thane:  bade him use them in joy.\n\"Thou art end and remnant of all our race\nthe Waegmunding name. For Wyrd hath swept them,\nall my line, to the land of doom,\nearls in their glory:  I after them go.\"\nThis word was the last which the wise old man\nharbored in heart ere hot death-waves\nof balefire he chose. From his bosom fled\nhis soul to seek the saints' reward.\n\n\n\nXXXVII\n\nIT was heavy hap for that hero young\non his lord beloved to look and find him\nlying on earth with life at end,\nsorrowful sight. But the slayer too,\nawful earth-dragon, empty of breath,\nlay felled in fight, nor, fain of its treasure,\ncould the writhing monster rule it more.\nFor edges of iron had ended its days,\nhard and battle-sharp, hammers' leaving; \nand that flier-afar had fallen to ground\nhushed by its hurt, its hoard all near,\nno longer lusty aloft to whirl\nat midnight, making its merriment seen,\nproud of its prizes:  prone it sank\nby the handiwork of the hero-king.\nForsooth among folk but few achieve,\n-- though sturdy and strong, as stories tell me,\nand never so daring in deed of valor, --\nthe perilous breath of a poison-foe\nto brave, and to rush on the ring-board hall,\nwhenever his watch the warden keeps\nbold in the barrow. Beowulf paid\nthe price of death for that precious hoard;\nand each of the foes had found the end\nof this fleeting life.\nBefell erelong\nthat the laggards in war the wood had left,\ntrothbreakers, cowards, ten together,\nfearing before to flourish a spear\nin the sore distress of their sovran lord.\nNow in their shame their shields they carried,\narmor of fight, where the old man lay;\nand they gazed on Wiglaf. Wearied he sat\nat his sovran's shoulder, shieldsman good,\nto wake him with water.  Nowise it availed.\nThough well he wished it, in world no more\ncould he barrier life for that leader-of-battles\nnor baffle the will of all-wielding God.\nDoom of the Lord was law o'er the deeds\nof every man, as it is to-day.\nGrim was the answer, easy to get,\nfrom the youth for those that had yielded to fear!\nWiglaf spake, the son of Weohstan, --\nmournful he looked on those men unloved:  --\n\"Who sooth will speak, can say indeed\nthat the ruler who gave you golden rings\nand the harness of war in which ye stand\n-- for he at ale-bench often-times\nbestowed on hall-folk helm and breastplate,\nlord to liegemen, the likeliest gear\nwhich near of far he could find to give, --\nthrew away and wasted these weeds of battle,\non men who failed when the foemen came!\nNot at all could the king of his comrades-in-arms\nventure to vaunt, though the Victory-Wielder,\nGod, gave him grace that he got revenge\nsole with his sword in stress and need.\nTo rescue his life, 'twas little that I\ncould serve him in struggle; yet shift I made\n(hopeless it seemed) to help my kinsman.\nIts strength ever waned, when with weapon I struck\nthat fatal foe, and the fire less strongly\nflowed from its head. -- Too few the heroes\nin throe of contest that thronged to our king!\nNow gift of treasure and girding of sword,\njoy of the house and home-delight\nshall fail your folk; his freehold-land\nevery clansman within your kin\nshall lose and leave, when lords high-born\nhear afar of that flight of yours,\na fameless deed. Yea, death is better\nfor liegemen all than a life of shame!\"\n\n\n\nXXXVIII\n\nTHAT battle-toil bade he at burg to announce,\nat the fort on the cliff, where, full of sorrow,\nall the morning earls had sat,\ndaring shieldsmen, in doubt of twain:\nwould they wail as dead, or welcome home,\ntheir lord beloved? Little  kept back\nof the tidings new, but told them all,\nthe herald that up the headland rode. --\n\"Now the willing-giver to Weder folk\nin death-bed lies; the Lord of Geats\non the slaughter-bed sleeps by the serpent's deed!\nAnd beside him is stretched that slayer-of-men\nwith knife-wounds sick:   no sword availed\non the awesome thing in any wise\nto work a wound. There Wiglaf sitteth,\nWeohstan's bairn, by Beowulf's side,\nthe living earl by the other dead,\nand heavy of heart a head-watch  keeps\no'er friend and foe. -- Now our folk may look\nfor waging of war when once unhidden\nto Frisian and Frank the fall of the king\nis spread afar. -- The strife began\nwhen hot on the Hugas  Hygelac fell\nand fared with his fleet to the Frisian land.\nHim there the Hetwaras humbled in war,\nplied with such prowess their power o'erwhelming\nthat the bold-in-battle bowed beneath it\nand fell in fight. To his friends no wise\ncould that earl give treasure! And ever since\nthe Merowings' favor has failed us wholly.\nNor aught expect I of peace and faith\nfrom Swedish folk. 'Twas spread afar\nhow Ongentheow reft at Ravenswood\nHaethcyn Hrethling of hope and life,\nwhen the folk of Geats for the first time sought\nin wanton pride the Warlike-Scylfings.\nSoon the sage old sire  of Ohtere,\nancient and awful, gave answering blow;\nthe sea-king  he slew, and his spouse redeemed,\nhis good wife rescued, though robbed of her gold,\nmother of Ohtere and Onela.\nThen he followed his foes, who fled before him\nsore beset and stole their way,\nbereft of a ruler, to Ravenswood.\n\nWith his host he besieged there what swords had left,\nthe weary and wounded; woes he threatened\nthe whole night through to that hard-pressed throng:\nsome with the morrow his sword should kill,\nsome should go to the gallows-tree\nfor rapture of ravens. But rescue came\nwith dawn of day for those desperate men\nwhen they heard the horn of Hygelac sound,\ntones of his trumpet; the trusty king\nhad followed their trail with faithful band.\n\n\n\nXXXIX\n\n\"THE bloody swath of Swedes and Geats\nand the storm of their strife, were seen afar,\nhow folk against folk the fight had wakened.\nThe ancient king with his atheling band\nsought his citadel, sorrowing much:\nOngentheow earl went up to his burg.\nHe had tested Hygelac's hardihood,\nthe proud one's prowess, would prove it no longer,\ndefied no more those fighting-wanderers\nnor hoped from the seamen to save his hoard,\nhis bairn and his bride:  so he bent him again,\nold, to his earth-walls. Yet after him came\nwith slaughter for Swedes the standards of Hygelac\no'er peaceful plains in pride advancing,\ntill Hrethelings fought in the fenced town. \nThen Ongentheow with edge of sword,\nthe hoary-bearded, was held at bay,\nand the folk-king there was forced to suffer\nEofor's anger. In ire, at the king\nWulf Wonreding with weapon struck;\nand the chieftain's blood, for that blow, in streams\nflowed 'neath his hair. No fear felt he,\nstout old Scylfing, but straightway repaid\nin better bargain that bitter stroke\nand faced his foe with fell intent.\nNor swift enough was the son of Wonred\nanswer to render the aged chief;\ntoo soon on his head the helm was cloven;\nblood-bedecked he bowed to earth,\nand fell adown; not doomed was he yet,\nand well he waxed, though the wound was sore.\nThen the hardy Hygelac-thane, \nwhen his brother fell, with broad brand smote,\ngiants' sword crashing through giants'-helm\nacross the shield-wall:  sank the king,\nhis folk's old herdsman, fatally hurt.\nThere were many to bind the brother's wounds\nand lift him, fast as fate allowed\nhis people to wield the place-of-war.\nBut Eofor took from Ongentheow,\nearl from other, the iron-breastplate,\nhard sword hilted, and helmet too,\nand the hoar-chief's harness to Hygelac carried,\nwho took the trappings, and truly promised\nrich fee 'mid folk, -- and fulfilled it so.\nFor that grim strife gave the Geatish lord,\nHrethel's offspring, when home he came,\nto Eofor and Wulf a wealth of treasure,\nEach of them had a hundred thousand \nin land and linked rings; nor at less price reckoned\nmid-earth men such mighty deeds!\nAnd to Eofor he gave his only daughter\nin pledge of grace, the pride of his home.\n\n\"Such is the feud, the foeman's rage,\ndeath-hate of men:  so I deem it sure\nthat the Swedish folk will seek us home\nfor this fall of their friends, the fighting-Scylfings,\nwhen once they learn that our warrior leader\nlifeless lies, who land and hoard\never defended from all his foes,\nfurthered his folk's weal, finished his course\na hardy hero. -- Now haste is best,\nthat we go to gaze on our Geatish lord,\nand bear the bountiful breaker-of-rings\nto the funeral pyre. No fragments merely\nshall burn with the warrior. Wealth of jewels,\ngold untold and gained in terror,\ntreasure at last with his life obtained,\nall of that booty the brands shall take,\nfire shall eat it. No earl must carry\nmemorial jewel. No maiden fair\nshall wreathe her neck with noble ring:\nnay, sad in spirit and shorn of her gold,\noft shall she pass o'er paths of exile\nnow our lord all laughter has laid aside,\nall mirth and revel. Many a spear\nmorning-cold shall be clasped amain,\nlifted aloft; nor shall lilt of harp\nthose warriors wake; but the wan-hued raven,\nfain o'er the fallen, his feast shall praise\nand boast to the eagle how bravely he ate\nwhen he and the wolf were wasting the slain.\"\n\nSo he told his sorrowful tidings,\nand little  he lied, the loyal man\nof word or of work. The warriors rose;\nsad, they climbed to the Cliff-of-Eagles,\nwent, welling with tears, the wonder to view.\nFound on the sand there, stretched at rest,\ntheir lifeless lord, who had lavished rings\nof old upon them. Ending-day\nhad dawned on the doughty-one; death had seized\nin woful slaughter the Weders' king.\nThere saw they, besides, the strangest being,\nloathsome, lying their leader near,\nprone on the field. The fiery dragon,\nfearful fiend, with flame was scorched.\nReckoned by feet, it was fifty measures\nin length as it lay. Aloft erewhile\nit had revelled by night, and anon come back,\nseeking its den; now in death's sure clutch\nit had come to the end of its earth-hall joys.\nBy it there stood the stoups and jars;\ndishes lay there, and dear-decked swords\neaten with rust, as, on earth's lap resting,\na thousand winters they waited there.\nFor all that heritage huge, that gold\nof bygone men, was bound by a spell, \nso the treasure-hall could be touched by none\nof human kind, -- save that Heaven's King,\nGod himself, might give whom he would,\nHelper of Heroes, the hoard to open, --\neven such a man as seemed to him meet.\n\n\n\nXL\n\nA PERILOUS path, it proved, he  trod\nwho heinously hid, that hall within,\nwealth under wall! Its watcher had killed\none of a few,  and the feud was avenged\nin woful fashion. Wondrous seems it,\nwhat manner a man of might and valor\noft ends his life, when the earl no longer\nin mead-hall may live with loving friends.\nSo Beowulf, when that barrow's warden\nhe sought, and the struggle; himself knew not\nin what wise he should wend from the world at last.\nFor  princes potent, who placed the gold,\nwith a curse to doomsday covered it deep,\nso that marked with sin the man should be,\nhedged with horrors, in hell-bonds fast,\nracked with plagues, who should rob their hoard.\nYet no greed for gold, but the grace of heaven,\never the king had kept in view. \nWiglaf spake, the son of Weohstan:  --\n\"At the mandate of one, oft warriors many\nsorrow must suffer; and so must we.\nThe people's-shepherd showed not aught\nof care for our counsel, king beloved!\nThat guardian of gold he should grapple not, urged we,\nbut let him lie where he long had been\nin his earth-hall waiting the end of the world,\nthe hest of heaven. -- This hoard is ours\nbut grievously gotten; too grim the fate\nwhich thither carried our king and lord.\nI was within there, and all I viewed,\nthe chambered treasure, when chance allowed me\n(and my path was made in no pleasant wise)\nunder the earth-wall. Eager, I seized\nsuch heap from the hoard as hands could bear\nand hurriedly carried it hither back\nto my liege and lord. Alive was he still,\nstill wielding his wits. The wise old man\nspake much in his sorrow, and sent you greetings\nand bade that ye build, when he breathed no more,\non the place of his balefire a barrow high,\nmemorial mighty. Of men was he\nworthiest warrior wide earth o'er\nthe while he had joy of his jewels and burg.\nLet us set out in haste now, the second time\nto see and search this store of treasure,\nthese wall-hid wonders, -- the way I show you, --\nwhere, gathered near, ye may gaze your fill\nat broad-gold and rings. Let the bier, soon made,\nbe all in order when out we come,\nour king and captain to carry thither\n-- man beloved -- where long he shall bide\nsafe in the shelter of sovran God.\"\nThen the bairn of Weohstan bade command,\nhardy chief, to heroes many\nthat owned their homesteads, hither to bring\nfirewood from far -- o'er the folk they ruled --\nfor the famed-one's funeral. \" Fire shall devour\nand wan flames feed on the fearless warrior\nwho oft stood stout in the iron-shower,\nwhen, sped from the string, a storm of arrows\nshot o'er the shield-wall:  the shaft held firm,\nfeatly feathered, followed the barb.\"\nAnd now the sage young son of Weohstan\nseven chose of the chieftain's thanes,\nthe best he found that band within,\nand went with these warriors, one of eight,\nunder hostile roof. In hand one bore\na lighted torch and led the way.\nNo lots they cast for keeping the hoard\nwhen once the warriors saw it in hall,\naltogether without a guardian,\nlying there lost. And little they mourned\nwhen they had hastily haled it out,\ndear-bought treasure! The dragon they cast,\nthe worm, o'er the wall for the wave to take,\nand surges swallowed that shepherd of gems.\nThen the woven gold on a wain was laden --\ncountless quite! -- and the king was borne,\nhoary hero, to Hrones-Ness.\n\n\n\nXLI\n\nTHEN fashioned for him the folk of Geats\nfirm on the earth a funeral-pile,\nand hung it with helmets and harness of war\nand breastplates bright, as the boon he asked;\nand they laid amid it the mighty chieftain,\nheroes mourning their master dear.\nThen on the hill that hugest of balefires\nthe warriors wakened. Wood-smoke rose\nblack over blaze, and blent was the roar\nof flame with weeping (the wind was still),\ntill the fire had broken the frame of bones,\nhot at the heart. In heavy mood\ntheir misery moaned they, their master's death.\nWailing her woe, the widow  old,\nher hair upbound, for Beowulf's death\nsung in her sorrow, and said full oft\nshe dreaded the doleful days to come,\ndeaths enow, and doom of battle,\nand shame. -- The smoke by the sky was devoured.\nThe folk of the Weders fashioned there\non the headland a barrow broad and high,\nby ocean-farers far descried:\nin ten days' time their toil had raised it,\nthe battle-brave's beacon. Round brands of the pyre\na wall they built, the worthiest ever\nthat wit could prompt in their wisest men.\nThey placed in the barrow that precious booty,\nthe rounds and the rings they had reft erewhile,\nhardy heroes, from hoard in cave, --\ntrusting the ground with treasure of earls,\ngold in the earth, where ever it lies\nuseless to men as of yore it was.\nThen about that barrow the battle-keen rode,\natheling-born, a band of twelve,\nlament to make, to mourn their king,\nchant their dirge, and their chieftain honor.\nThey praised his earlship, his acts of prowess\nworthily witnessed:  and well it is\nthat men their master-friend mightily laud,\nheartily love, when hence he goes\nfrom life in the body forlorn away.\n\nThus made their mourning the men of Geatland,\nfor their hero's passing his hearth-companions:\nquoth that of all the kings of earth,\nof men he was mildest and most beloved,\nto his kin the kindest, keenest for praise."