Beowulf - - (read me like a book TXT) 📗

strove in youth, mighty feuds; I mind them all.

I was seven years old when the sovran of rings, friend-of-his-folk, from my father took me, had me, and held me, Hrethel the king, with food and fee, faithful in kinship.

Ne’er, while I lived there, he loathlier found me, bairn in the burg, than his birthright sons, Herebeald and Haethcyn and Hygelac mine.

For the eldest of these, by unmeet chance, by kinsman’s deed, was the death-bed strewn, when Haethcyn killed him with horny bow, his own dear liege laid low with an arrow, missed the mark and his mate shot down, one brother the other, with bloody shaft.

A feeless fight, {32b} and a fearful sin, horror to Hrethel; yet, hard as it was, unavenged must the atheling die!

Too awful it is for an aged man

to bide and bear, that his bairn so young rides on the gallows. A rime he makes, sorrow-song for his son there hanging as rapture of ravens; no rescue now

can come from the old, disabled man!

Still is he minded, as morning breaks, of the heir gone elsewhere; {32c} another he hopes not he will bide to see his burg within

as ward for his wealth, now the one has found doom of death that the deed incurred.

Forlorn he looks on the lodge of his son, wine-hall waste and wind-swept chambers reft of revel. The rider sleepeth,

the hero, far-hidden; {32d} no harp resounds, in the courts no wassail, as once was heard.

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 hisbreast 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!

XXXIV

WIGLAF his name was, Weohstan’s son,

linden-thane loved, the lord of Scylfings, Aelfhere’s kinsman. His king he now saw with heat under helmet hard oppressed.

He minded the prizes his prince had given him, wealthy seat of the Waegmunding line, and folk-rights that his father owned Not long he lingered. The linden yellow, his shield, he seized; the old sword he drew: —

as heirloom of Eanmund earth-dwellers knew it, who was slain by the sword-edge, son of Ohtere, friendless exile, erst in fray

killed by Weohstan, who won for his kin brown-bright helmet, breastplate ringed, old sword of Eotens, Onela’s gift,

weeds of war of the warrior-thane,

battle-gear brave: though a brother’s child had been felled, the feud was unfelt by Onela. {34a}

For winters this war-gear Weohstan kept, breastplate and board, till his bairn had grown earlship to earn as the old sire did: then he gave him, mid Geats, the gear of battle, portion huge, when he passed from life, fared aged forth. For the first time now with his leader-lord the liegeman young was bidden to share the shock of battle.

Neither softened his soul, nor the sire’s bequest weakened in war. {34b} So the worm found out when once in fight the foes had met!

Wiglaf spake, — and his words were sage; sad in spirit, he said to his comrades: —

“I remember the time, when mead we took, what promise we made to this prince of ours in the banquet-hall, to our breaker-of-rings, for gear of combat to give him requital, for hard-sword and helmet, if hap should bring stress of this sort! Himself who chose us from all his army to aid him now,

urged us to glory, and gave these treasures, because he counted us keen with the spear and hardy ‘neath helm, though this hero-work our leader hoped unhelped and alone

to finish for us, — folk-defender

who hath got him glory greater than all men for daring deeds! Now the day is come that our noble master has need of the might of warriors stout. Let us stride along the hero to help while the heat is about him glowing and grim! For God is my witness I am far more fain the fire should seize along with my lord these limbs of mine! {34c}

Unsuiting it seems our shields to bear homeward hence, save here we essay

to fell the foe and defend the life

of the Weders’ lord. I wot ‘twere shame on the law of our land if alone the king out of Geatish warriors woe endured

and sank in the struggle! My sword and helmet, breastplate and board, for us both shall serve!”

Through slaughter-reek strode he to succor his chieftain, his battle-helm bore, and brief words spake: —

“Beowulf dearest, do all bravely,

as in youthful days of yore thou vowedst that while life should last thou wouldst let no wise thy glory droop! Now, great in deeds, atheling steadfast, with all thy strength shield thy life! I will stand to help thee.”

At the words the worm came once again, murderous monster mad with rage,

with fire-billows flaming, its foes to seek, the hated men. In heat-waves burned

that board {34d} to the boss, and the breastplate failed to shelter at all the spear-thane young.

Yet quickly under his kinsman’s shield went eager the earl, since his own was now all burned by the blaze. The bold king again had mind of his glory: with might his glaive was driven into the dragon’s head, —

blow nerved by hate. But Naegling {34e} was shivered, broken in battle was Beowulf’s sword, old and gray. ‘Twas granted him not

that ever the edge of iron at all

could help him at strife: too strong was his hand, so the tale is told, and he tried too far with strength of stroke all swords he wielded, though sturdy their steel: they steaded him nought.

Then for the third time thought on its feud that folk-destroyer, fire-dread dragon, and rushed on the hero,