BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow
Lo, now, this sea-booty, son of Healfdene
Lord of Scyldings, we’ve lustily brought thee
sign of glory; thou seest it here.
Not lightly did I with my life escape
In war under water this work I essayed
with endless effort; and even so
my strength had been lost had the Lord not shielded me.
Not a whit could I with Hrunting do
in work of war, though the weapon is good
yet a sword the Sovran of Men vouchsafed me
to spy on the wall there, in splendor hanging
old, gigantic, — how oft He guides
the friendless wight! — and I fought with that brand
felling in fight, since fate was with me
the house’s wardens. That war-sword then
all burned, bright blade, when the blood gushed o’er it
battle-sweat hot; but the hilt I brought back
from my foes. So avenged I their fiendish deeds
death-fall of Danes, as was due and right.
And this is my hest, that in Heorot now
safe thou canst sleep with thy soldier band
and every thane of all thy folk
both old and young; no evil fear
Scyldings’ lord, from that side again
aught ill for thy earls, as erst thou must
Then the golden hilt, for that gray-haired leader
hoary hero, in hand was laid
giant-wrought, old. So owned and enjoyed it
after downfall of devils, the Danish lord
wonder-smiths’ work, since the world was rid
of that grim-souled fiend, the foe of God
murder-marked, and his mother as well.
Now it passed into power of the people’s king
best of all that the oceans bound
who have scattered their gold o’er Scandia’s isle.
Hrothgar spake — the hilt he viewed
heirloom old, where was etched the rise
of that far-off fight when the floods o’erwhelmed
raging waves, the race of giants
fearful their fate!), a folk estranged
from God Eternal: whence guerdon due
in that waste of waters the Wielder paid them.
So on the guard of shining gold
in runic staves it was rightly said
for whom the serpent-traced sword was wrought
best of blades, in bygone days
and the hilt well wound. — The wise-one spake
son of Healfdene; silent were all
Lo, so may he say who sooth and right
follows ’mid folk, of far times mindful
a land-warden old, 70 that this earl belongs
to the better breed! So, borne aloft
thy fame must fly, O friend my Beowulf
far and wide o’er folksteads many. Firmly thou
shalt all maintain
mighty strength with mood of wisdom. Love of
mine will I assure thee
as, awhile ago, I promised; thou shalt prove a stay
in future
in far-off years, to folk of thine
to the heroes a help. Was not Heremod thus
to offspring of Ecgwela, Honor-Scyldings
nor grew for their grace, but for grisly slaughter
for doom of death to the Danishmen.
He slew, wrath-swollen, his shoulder-comrades
companions at board! So he passed alone
chieftain haughty, from human cheer.
Though him the Maker with might endowed
delights of power, and uplifted high
above all men, yet blood-fierce his mind
his breast-hoard, grew, no bracelets gave he
to Danes as was due; he endured all joyless
strain of struggle and stress of woe
long feud with his folk. Here find thy lesson
Of virtue advise thee! This verse I have said for thee
wise from lapsed winters. Wondrous seems
how to sons of men Almighty God
in the strength of His spirit sendeth wisdom
estate, high station: He swayeth all things.
Whiles He letteth right lustily fare
the heart of the hero of high-born race
in seat ancestral assigns him bliss
his folk’s sure fortress in fee to hold
puts in his power great parts of the earth
empire so ample, that end of it
this wanter-of-wisdom weeneth none.
So he waxes in wealth, nowise can harm him
illness or age; no evil cares
shadow his spirit; no sword-hate threatens
from ever an enemy: all the world
wends at his will, no worse he knoweth
till all within him obstinate pride
waxes and wakes while the warden slumbers
the spirit’s sentry; sleep is too fast
which masters his might, and the murderer nears
stealthily shooting the shafts from his bow