Beowulf

XXXVI

I HAVE heard that swiftly the son of Weohstan

at wish and word of his wounded king, —

war-sick warrior, — woven mail-coat,

battle-sark, bore ’neath the barrow’s roof.

Then the clansman keen, of conquest proud,

passing the seat, [36a] saw store of jewels

and glistening gold the ground along;

by the wall were marvels, and many a vessel

in the den of the dragon, the dawn-flier old:

unburnished bowls of bygone men

reft of richness; rusty helms

of the olden age; and arm-rings many

wondrously woven. — Such wealth of gold,

booty from barrow, can burden with pride

each human wight: let him hide it who will! —

His glance too fell on a gold-wove banner

high o’er the hoard, of handiwork noblest,

brilliantly broidered; so bright its gleam,

all the earth-floor he easily saw

and viewed all these vessels. No vestige now

was seen of the serpent: the sword had ta’en him.

Then, I heard, the hill of its hoard was reft,

old work of giants, by one alone;

he burdened his bosom with beakers and plate

at his own good will, and the ensign took,

brightest of beacons. — The blade of his lord

— its edge was iron — had injured deep

one that guarded the golden hoard

many a year and its murder-fire

spread hot round the barrow in horror-billows

at midnight hour, till it met its doom.

Hasted the herald, the hoard so spurred him

his track to retrace; he was troubled by doubt,

high-souled hero, if haply he’d find

alive, where he left him, the lord of Weders,

weakening fast by the wall of the cave.

So he carried the load. His lord and king

he found all bleeding, famous chief

at the lapse of life. The liegeman again

plashed him with water, till point of word

broke through the breast-hoard. Beowulf spake,

sage and sad, as he stared at the gold. —

“For the gold and treasure, to God my thanks,

to the Wielder-of-Wonders, with words I say,

for what I behold, to Heaven’s Lord,

for the grace that I give such gifts to my folk

or ever the day of my death be run!

Now I’ve bartered here for booty of treasure

the last of my life, so look ye well

to the needs of my land! No longer I tarry.

A barrow bid ye the battle-fanned raise

for my ashes. ’Twill shine by the shore of the flood,

to folk of mine memorial fair

on Hrones Headland high uplifted,

that ocean-wanderers oft may hail

Beowulf’s Barrow, as back from far

they drive their keels o’er the darkling wave.”

From his neck he unclasped the collar of gold,

valorous king, to his vassal gave it

with bright-gold helmet, breastplate, and ring,

to the youthful thane: bade him use them in joy.

“Thou art end and remnant of all our race

the Waegmunding name. For Wyrd hath swept them,

all my line, to the land of doom,

earls in their glory: I after them go.”

This word was the last which the wise old man

harbored in heart ere hot death-waves

of balefire he chose. From his bosom fled

his soul to seek the saints’ reward.