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

where room allowed, battle-grim, burning; its bitter teeth closed on his neck, and covered him

with waves of blood from his breast that welled.

XXXV

‘TWAS now, men say, in his sovran’s need that the earl made known his noble strain, craft and keenness and courage enduring.

Heedless of harm, though his hand was burned, hardy-hearted, he helped his kinsman.

A little lower the loathsome beast

he smote with sword; his steel drove in bright and burnished; that blaze began to lose and lessen. At last the king

wielded his wits again, war-knife drew, a biting blade by his breastplate hanging, and the Weders’-helm smote that worm asunder, felled the foe, flung forth its life.

So had they killed it, kinsmen both,

athelings twain: thus an earl should be in danger’s day! — Of deeds of valor this conqueror’s-hour of the king was last, of his work in the world. The wound began, which that dragon-of-earth had erst inflicted, to swell and smart; and soon he found in his breast was boiling, baleful and deep, pain of poison. The prince walked on, wise in his thought, to the wall of rock; then sat, and stared at the structure of giants, where arch of stone and steadfast column upheld forever that hall in earth.

Yet here must the hand of the henchman peerless lave with water his winsome lord,

the king and conqueror covered with blood, with struggle spent, and unspan his helmet.

Beowulf spake in spite of his hurt,

his mortal wound; full well he knew

his portion now was past and gone

of earthly bliss, and all had fled

of his file of days, and death was near: “I would fain bestow on son of mine

this gear of war, were given me now

that any heir should after me come

of my proper blood. This people I ruled fifty winters. No folk-king was there, none at all, of the neighboring clans who war would wage me with ‘warriors’-friends’ {35a}

and threat me with horrors. At home I bided what fate might come, and I cared for mine own; feuds I sought not, nor falsely swore ever on oath. For all these things,

though fatally wounded, fain am I!

From the Ruler-of-Man no wrath shall seize me, when life from my frame must flee away, for killing of kinsmen! Now quickly go and gaze on that hoard ‘neath the hoary rock, Wiglaf loved, now the worm lies low,

sleeps, heart-sore, of his spoil bereaved.

And fare in haste. I would fain behold the gorgeous heirlooms, golden store, have joy in the jewels and gems, lay down softlier for sight of this splendid hoard my life and the lordship I long have held.”

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.

XXXVII

IT was heavy hap for that hero young

on his lord beloved to look and find him lying on earth with life at end,

sorrowful sight. But the slayer too,

awful earth-dragon, empty of breath,

lay felled in fight, nor, fain of its treasure, could the writhing monster rule it more.

For edges of iron had ended its days, hard and battle-sharp, hammers’ leaving; {37a}

and that flier-afar had fallen to ground hushed by its hurt, its hoard all near, no longer lusty aloft to whirl

at midnight, making its merriment seen, proud of its prizes: prone it sank

by the handiwork of the hero-king.

Forsooth among folk but few achieve,

— though sturdy and strong, as stories tell me, and never so daring in deed of valor, —

the perilous breath of a poison-foe

to brave, and to rush on the ring-board hall, whenever his watch the warden keeps

bold in the barrow. Beowulf paid

the price of death for that precious hoard; and each of the foes had found the end of this fleeting life.

Befell erelong

that the laggards in war the wood had left, trothbreakers, cowards, ten together, fearing before to flourish a spear

in the sore distress of their sovran lord.

Now in their shame their shields they carried, armor of fight, where the old man lay; and they gazed on Wiglaf. Wearied he sat at his sovran’s shoulder, shieldsman good, to wake him with water. {37b} Nowise it availed.

Though well he wished it, in world no more could he barrier life for that leader-of-battles nor baffle the will of all-wielding God.

Doom of the Lord was law o’er the deeds of every man, as it is to-day.

Grim was the answer, easy to get,

from the youth for those that had yielded to fear!

Wiglaf spake, the son of Weohstan, —

mournful he looked on those men unloved: —

“Who sooth will speak, can say indeed that the ruler who gave you golden rings and the harness of war in which ye stand — for he at ale-bench often-times

bestowed on hall-folk helm and breastplate, lord to liegemen, the likeliest gear

which near of far he could find to give, —

threw away and wasted these weeds of battle, on men who failed when the foemen came!

Not at all could the king of his comrades-in-arms venture to vaunt, though the Victory-Wielder, God, gave him grace that he got revenge sole with his sword in stress and need.

To rescue his life, ‘twas little that I could serve him in struggle; yet shift I made (hopeless it seemed) to help my kinsman.

Its strength ever waned, when with weapon I struck that fatal foe, and the fire less strongly flowed from its head. — Too few the heroes in throe of contest that thronged to our king!

Now gift of treasure and girding of sword, joy of the house and home-delight

shall fail your folk; his freehold-land every clansman within your kin

shall lose and leave, when lords high-born hear afar of that flight of yours,

a fameless deed. Yea, death is better for liegemen all than a life of shame!”

XXXVIII

THAT battle-toil bade he at burg to announce, at the fort on the cliff, where, full of sorrow, all the morning earls had sat,

daring shieldsmen, in doubt of twain: would they wail as dead, or welcome home, their lord beloved? Little {38a} kept back of the tidings new, but told them all, the herald that up the headland rode. —

“Now the willing-giver to Weder folk

in death-bed lies; the Lord of Geats

on the slaughter-bed sleeps by the serpent’s deed!

And beside him is stretched that slayer-of-men with knife-wounds sick: {38b} no sword availed on the awesome thing in any wise

to work a wound. There Wiglaf sitteth, Weohstan’s bairn, by Beowulf’s side,

the living earl by the other dead,

and heavy of heart a head-watch {38c} keeps o’er friend and foe. — Now our folk may look for waging of war when once unhidden

to Frisian and Frank the fall of the king is spread afar. — The strife began

when hot on the Hugas {38d} Hygelac fell and fared with his fleet to the Frisian land.

Him there the Hetwaras humbled in war, plied with such prowess their power o’erwhelming that the bold-in-battle bowed beneath it and fell in fight. To his friends no wise could that earl give treasure! And ever since the Merowings’ favor has failed us wholly.

Nor aught expect I of peace and faith from Swedish folk. ‘Twas spread afar

how Ongentheow reft at Ravenswood

Haethcyn Hrethling of hope and life,

when the folk of Geats for the first time sought in wanton pride the Warlike-Scylfings.

Soon the sage old sire {38e} of Ohtere, ancient and awful, gave answering blow; the sea-king {38f} he slew, and his spouse redeemed, his good wife rescued, though robbed of her gold, mother of Ohtere and Onela.

Then he followed his foes, who fled before him sore beset and stole their way,

bereft of a ruler, to Ravenswood.

 

With his host he besieged there what swords had left, the weary and wounded; woes he threatened the whole night through to that hard-pressed throng: some with the morrow his sword should kill, some should go to the gallows-tree

for rapture of ravens. But rescue came with dawn of day for those desperate men when they heard the horn of Hygelac sound, tones of his trumpet; the trusty king had followed their trail with faithful band.

XXXIX

“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