THE bloody swath of Swedes and Geats
and the storm of their strife, were seen afar
how folk against folk the fight had wakened.
The ancient king with his atheling band
sought his citadel, sorrowing much
Ongentheow earl went up to his burg.
He had tested Hygelac’s hardihood
the proud one’s prowess, would prove it no longer
defied no more those fighting-wanderers
nor hoped from the seamen to save his hoard
his bairn and his bride: so he bent him again
old, to his earth-walls. Yet after him came
with slaughter for Swedes the standards of Hygelac
o’er peaceful plains in pride advancing
till Hrethelings fought in the fenced town.
Then Ongentheow with edge of sword
the hoary-bearded, was held at bay
and the folk-king there was forced to suffer
Eofor’s anger. In ire, at the king
Wulf Wonreding with weapon struck
and the chieftain’s blood, for that blow, in streams
flowed ’neath his hair. No fear felt he
stout old Scylfing, but straightway repaid
in better bargain that bitter stroke
and faced his foe with fell intent.
Nor swift enough was the son of Wonred
answer to render the aged chief
too soon on his head the helm was cloven
blood-bedecked he bowed to earth
and fell adown; not doomed was he yet
and well he waxed, though the wound was sore.
Then the hardy Hygelac-thane
when his brother fell, with broad brand smote
giants’ sword crashing through giants’-helm
across the shield-wall: sank the king
his folk’s old herdsman, fatally hurt.
There were many to bind the brother’s wounds
and lift him, fast as fate allowed
his people to wield the place-of-war.
But Eofor took from Ongentheow
earl from other, the iron-breastplate
hard sword hilted, and helmet too
and the hoar-chief’s harness to Hygelac carried
who took the trappings, and truly promised
rich fee ’mid folk, — and fulfilled it so.
For that grim strife gave the Geatish lord
Hrethel’s offspring, when home he came
to Eofor and Wulf a wealth of treasure
Each of them had a hundred thousand
in land and linked rings; nor at less price reckoned
mid-earth men such mighty deeds
And to Eofor he gave his only daughter
in pledge of grace, the pride of his home.
Such is the feud, the foeman’s rage
death-hate of men: so I deem it sure
that the Swedish folk will seek us home
for this fall of their friends, the fighting-Scylfings
when once they learn that our warrior leader
lifeless lies, who land and hoard
ever defended from all his foes
furthered his folk’s weal, finished his course
a hardy hero. — Now haste is best
that we go to gaze on our Geatish lord
and bear the bountiful breaker-of-rings
to the funeral pyre. No fragments merely
shall burn with the warrior. Wealth of jewels
gold untold and gained in terror
treasure at last with his life obtained
all of that booty the brands shall take
fire shall eat it. No earl must carry
memorial jewel. No maiden fair
shall wreathe her neck with noble ring
nay, sad in spirit and shorn of her gold
oft shall she pass o’er paths of exile
now our lord all laughter has laid aside
all mirth and revel. Many a spear
morning-cold shall be clasped amain
lifted aloft; nor shall lilt of harp
those warriors wake; but the wan-hued raven
fain o’er the fallen, his feast shall praise
and boast to the eagle how bravely he ate
when he and the wolf were wasting the slain.
So he told his sorrowful tidings
and little 117 he lied, the loyal man
of word or of work. The warriors rose
sad, they climbed to the Cliff-of-Eagles
went, welling with tears, the wonder to view.
Found on the sand there, stretched at rest
their lifeless lord, who had lavished rings
of old upon them. Ending-day
had dawned on the doughty-one; death had seized
in woful slaughter the Weders’ king.
There saw they, besides, the strangest being
loathsome, lying their leader near
prone on the field. The fiery dragon
fearful fiend, with flame was scorched.
Reckoned by feet, it was fifty measures
in length as it lay. Aloft erewhile
it had revelled by night, and anon come back
seeking its den; now in death’s sure clutch
it had come to the end of its earth-hall joys.
By it there stood the stoups and jars
dishes lay there, and dear-decked swords
eaten with rust, as, on earth’s lap resting
a thousand winters they waited there.
For all that heritage huge, that gold
of bygone men, was bound by a spell
so the treasure-hall could be touched by none
of human kind, — save that Heaven’s King
God himself, might give whom he would
Helper of Heroes, the hoard to open
even such a man as seemed to him meet.