Beowulf

XXXIII

“THEN he goes to his chamber, a grief-song chants

alone for his lost. Too large all seems,

homestead and house. So the helmet-of-Weders

hid in his heart for Herebeald

waves of woe. No way could he take

to avenge on the slayer slaughter so foul;

nor e’en could he harass that hero at all

with loathing deed, though he loved him not.

And so for the sorrow his soul endured,

men’s gladness he gave up and God’s light chose.

Lands and cities he left his sons

(as the wealthy do) when he went from earth.

There was strife and struggle ’twixt Swede and Geat

o’er the width of waters; war arose,

hard battle-horror, when Hrethel died,

and Ongentheow’s offspring grew

strife-keen, bold, nor brooked o’er the seas

pact of peace, but pushed their hosts

to harass in hatred by Hreosnabeorh.

Men of my folk for that feud had vengeance,

for woful war (‘tis widely known),

though one of them bought it with blood of his heart,

a bargain hard: for Haethcyn proved

fatal that fray, for the first-of-Geats.

At morn, I heard, was the murderer killed

by kinsman for kinsman, [33a] with clash of sword,

when Ongentheow met Eofor there.

Wide split the war-helm: wan he fell,

hoary Scylfing; the hand that smote him

of feud was mindful, nor flinched from the death-blow.

— “For all that he [33b] gave me, my gleaming sword

repaid him at war, — such power I wielded, —

for lordly treasure: with land he entrusted me,

homestead and house. He had no need

from Swedish realm, or from Spear-Dane folk,

or from men of the Gifths, to get him help, —

some warrior worse for wage to buy!

Ever I fought in the front of all,

sole to the fore; and so shall I fight

while I bide in life and this blade shall last

that early and late hath loyal proved

since for my doughtiness Daeghrefn fell,

slain by my hand, the Hugas’ champion.

Nor fared he thence to the Frisian king

with the booty back, and breast-adornments;

but, slain in struggle, that standard-bearer

fell, atheling brave. Not with blade was he slain,

but his bones were broken by brawny gripe,

his heart-waves stilled. — The sword-edge now,

hard blade and my hand, for the hoard shall strive.”

Beowulf spake, and a battle-vow made

his last of all: “I have lived through many

wars in my youth; now once again,

old folk-defender, feud will I seek,

do doughty deeds, if the dark destroyer

forth from his cavern come to fight me!”

Then hailed he the helmeted heroes all,

for the last time greeting his liegemen dear,

comrades of war: “I should carry no weapon,

no sword to the serpent, if sure I knew

how, with such enemy, else my vows

I could gain as I did in Grendel’s day.

But fire in this fight I must fear me now,

and poisonous breath; so I bring with me

breastplate and board. [33c] From the barrow’s keeper

no footbreadth flee I. One fight shall end

our war by the wall, as Wyrd allots,

all mankind’s master. My mood is bold

but forbears to boast o’er this battling-flyer.

— Now abide by the barrow, ye breastplate-mailed,

ye heroes in harness, which of us twain

better from battle-rush bear his wounds.

Wait ye the finish. The fight is not yours,

nor meet for any but me alone

to measure might with this monster here

and play the hero. Hardily I

shall win that wealth, or war shall seize,

cruel killing, your king and lord!”

Up stood then with shield the sturdy champion,

stayed by the strength of his single manhood,

and hardy ’neath helmet his harness bore

under cleft of the cliffs: no coward’s path!

Soon spied by the wall that warrior chief,

survivor of many a victory-field

where foemen fought with furious clashings,

an arch of stone; and within, a stream

that broke from the barrow. The brooklet’s wave

was hot with fire. The hoard that way

he never could hope unharmed to near,

or endure those deeps, [33d] for the dragon’s flame.

Then let from his breast, for he burst with rage,

the Weder-Geat prince a word outgo;

stormed the stark-heart; stern went ringing

and clear his cry ’neath the cliff-rocks gray.

The hoard-guard heard a human voice;

his rage was enkindled. No respite now

for pact of peace! The poison-breath

of that foul worm first came forth from the cave,

hot reek-of-fight: the rocks resounded.

Stout by the stone-way his shield he raised,

lord of the Geats, against the loathed-one;

while with courage keen that coiled foe

came seeking strife. The sturdy king

had drawn his sword, not dull of edge,

heirloom old; and each of the two

felt fear of his foe, though fierce their mood.

Stoutly stood with his shield high-raised

the warrior king, as the worm now coiled

together amain: the mailed-one waited.

Now, spire by spire, fast sped and glided

that blazing serpent. The shield protected,

soul and body a shorter while

for the hero-king than his heart desired,

could his will have wielded the welcome respite

but once in his life! But Wyrd denied it,

and victory’s honors. — His arm he lifted

lord of the Geats, the grim foe smote

with atheling’s heirloom. Its edge was turned

brown blade, on the bone, and bit more feebly

than its noble master had need of then

in his baleful stress. — Then the barrow’s keeper

waxed full wild for that weighty blow,

cast deadly flames; wide drove and far

those vicious fires. No victor’s glory

the Geats’ lord boasted; his brand had failed,

naked in battle, as never it should,

excellent iron! — ’Twas no easy path

that Ecgtheow’s honored heir must tread

over the plain to the place of the foe;

for against his will he must win a home

elsewhere far, as must all men, leaving

this lapsing life! — Not long it was

ere those champions grimly closed again.

The hoard-guard was heartened; high heaved his breast

once more; and by peril was pressed again,

enfolded in flames, the folk-commander!

Nor yet about him his band of comrades,

sons of athelings, armed stood

with warlike front: to the woods they bent them,

their lives to save. But the soul of one

with care was cumbered. Kinship true

can never be marred in a noble mind!