IT was heavy hap for that hero young
on his lord beloved to look and find him
lying on earth with life at end
sorrowful sight. But the slayer too
awful earth-dragon, empty of breath
lay felled in fight, nor, fain of its treasure
could the writhing monster rule it more.
For edges of iron had ended its days
hard and battle-sharp, hammers’ leaving
and that flier-afar had fallen to ground
hushed by its hurt, its hoard all near
no longer lusty aloft to whirl
at midnight, making its merriment seen
proud of its prizes: prone it sank
by the handiwork of the hero-king.
Forsooth among folk but few achieve
though sturdy and strong, as stories tell me
and never so daring in deed of valor
the perilous breath of a poison-foe
to brave, and to rush on the ring-board hall
whenever his watch the warden keeps
bold in the barrow. Beowulf paid
the price of death for that precious hoard
and each of the foes had found the end
of this fleeting life.
Befell erelong
that the laggards in war the wood had left
trothbreakers, cowards, ten together
fearing before to flourish a spear
in the sore distress of their sovran lord.
Now in their shame their shields they carried
armor of fight, where the old man lay
and they gazed on Wiglaf. Wearied he sat
at his sovran’s shoulder, shieldsman good
to wake him with water. 107 Nowise it availed.
Though well he wished it, in world no more
could he barrier life for that leader-of-battles
nor baffle the will of all-wielding God.
Doom of the Lord was law o’er the deeds
of every man, as it is to-day.
Grim was the answer, easy to get
from the youth for those that had yielded to fear
Wiglaf spake, the son of Weohstan
mournful he looked on those men unloved
Who sooth will speak, can say indeed
that the ruler who gave you golden rings
and the harness of war in which ye stand
for he at ale-bench often-times
bestowed on hall-folk helm and breastplate
lord to liegemen, the likeliest gear
which near of far he could find to give
threw away and wasted these weeds of battle
on men who failed when the foemen came
Not at all could the king of his comrades-in-arms
venture to vaunt, though the Victory-Wielder
God, gave him grace that he got revenge
sole with his sword in stress and need.
To rescue his life, ’twas little that I
could serve him in struggle; yet shift I made
hopeless it seemed) to help my kinsman.
Its strength ever waned, when with weapon I struck
that fatal foe, and the fire less strongly
flowed from its head. — Too few the heroes
in throe of contest that thronged to our king
Now gift of treasure and girding of sword
joy of the house and home-delight
shall fail your folk; his freehold-land
every clansman within your kin
shall lose and leave, when lords high-born
hear afar of that flight of yours
a fameless deed. Yea, death is better
for liegemen all than a life of shame