Beowulf

XXIV

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, [24a] 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!