Anon — The Tale of Beowulf, Sometime King of the Folk of the Weder Geats — XXXV. BEOWULF TELLS OF PAST FEUDS, AND BIDS FAREWELL TO HIS FELLOWS: HE FALLS ON THE WORM, AND THE BATTLE OF THEM BEGINS.

XXXV. BEOWULF TELLS OF PAST FEUDS, AND BIDS FAREWELL TO HIS FELLOWS: HE FALLS ON THE WORM, AND THE BATTLE OF THEM BEGINS.

Then to sleeping-stead wendeth he, singeth he sorrow,

2460 The one for the other; o'er-roomy all seem'd him

The meads and the wick-stead. So the helm of the Weders

For Herebeald's sake the sorrow of heart

All welling yet bore, and in nowise might he

On the banesman of that life the feud be a-booting;

Nor ever the sooner that warrior might hate

With deeds loathly, though he to him nothing was lief.

He then with the sorrow wherewith that sore beset him

Man's joy-tide gave up, and chose him God's light.

To his offspring he left, e'en as wealthy man doeth,

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His land and his folk-burgs when he from life wended.

Then sin was and striving of Swedes and of Geats,

Over the wide water war-tide in common,

The hard horde-hate to wit sithence Hrethel perish'd;

And to them ever were the Ongentheow's sons

Doughty and host-whetting, nowise then would friendship

Hold over the waters; but round about Hreosnaburgh

The fierce fray of foeman was oftentimes fram'd.

Kin of friends that mine were, there they awreaked

The feud and the evil deed, e'en as was famed;

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Although he, the other, with his own life he bought it,

A cheaping full hard: unto Hæthcyn it was,

To the lord of the Geat-folk, a life-fateful war.

Learned I that the morrow one brother the other

With the bills' edges wreaked the death on the banesman,

Whereas Ongentheow is a-seeking of Eofor:

Glode the war-helm asunder, the aged of Scylfings

Fell, sword-bleak; e'en so remember'd the hand

Feud enough; nor e'en then did the life-stroke withhold.

I to him for the treasure which erewhile he gave me

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Repaid it in warring, as was to me granted,

With my light-gleaming sword. To me gave he land,

The hearth and the home-bliss: unto him was no need

That unto the Gifthas or unto the Spear-Danes

Or into the Swede-realm he needs must go seeking

A worse wolf of war for a worth to be cheaping;

For in the host ever would I be before him

Alone in the fore-front, and so life-long shall I

Be a-framing of strife, whileas tholeth the sword,

Which early and late hath bestead me full often,

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Sithence was I by doughtiness unto Day-raven

The hand-bane erst waxen, to the champion of Hug-folk;

He nowise the fretwork to the king of the Frisians,

The breast-worship to wit, might bring any more,

But cringed in battle that herd of the banner,

The Atheling in might: the edge naught was his bane,

But for him did the war-grip the heart-wellings of him

Break, the house of the bones. Now shall the bill's edge,

The hand and hard sword, about the hoard battle.

So word uttered Beowulf, spake out the boast word

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For the last while as now: Many wars dared I

In the days of my youth, and now will I yet,

The old warder of folk, seek to the feud,

Full gloriously frame, if the scather of foul-deed

From the hall of the earth me out shall be seeking.

Greeted he then each one of the grooms,

The keen wearers of helms, for the last while of whiles,

His own fellows the dear: No sword would I fare with,

No weapon against the Worm, wist I but how

'Gainst the monster of evil in otherwise might I

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Uphold me my boast, as erst did I with Grendel;

But there fire of the war-tide full hot do I ween me,

And the breath, and the venom; I shall bear on me therefore

Both the board and the byrny; nor the burg's warden shall I

Overflee for a foot's-breadth, but unto us twain

It shall be at the wall as to us twain Weird willeth,

The Maker of each man. Of mood am I eager;

So that 'gainst that war-flier from boast I withhold me.

Abide ye upon burg with your byrnies bewarded,

Ye men in your battle-gear, which may the better

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After the slaughter-race save us from wounding

Of the twain of us. Naught is it yours to take over,

Nor the measure of any man save alone me,

That he on the monster should mete out his might,

Or work out the earlship: but I with my main might

Shall gain me the gold, or else gets me the battle,

The perilous life-bale, e'en me your own lord.

Arose then by war-round the warrior renowned

Hard under helm, and the sword-sark he bare

Under the stone-cliffs: in the strength then he trowed

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Of one man alone; no dastard's way such is.

Then he saw by the wall (e'en he, who so many,

The good of man-bounties, of battles had out-liv'd,

Of crashes of battle whenas hosts were blended)

A stone-bow a-standing, and from out thence a stream

Breaking forth from the burg; was that burn's outwelling

All hot with the war-fire; and none nigh to the hoard then

Might ever unburning any while bide,

Live out through the deep for the flame of the drake.

Out then from his breast, for as bollen as was he,

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Let the Weder-Geats' chief the words be out faring;

The stout-hearted storm'd and the stave of him enter'd

Battle-bright sounding in under the hoar stone.

Then uproused was hate, and the hoard-warden wotted

The speech of man's word, and no more while there was

Friendship to fetch. Then forth came there first

The breath of the evil beast out from the stone,

The hot sweat of battle, and dinn'd then the earth.

The warrior beneath the burg swung up his war-round

Against that grisly guest, the lord of the Geats;

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Then the heart of the ring-bow'd grew eager therewith

To seek to the strife. His sword ere had he drawn,

That good lord of the battle, the leaving of old,

The undull of edges: there was unto either

Of the bale-minded ones the fear of the other.

All steadfast of mind stood against his steep shield

The lord of the friends, when the Worm was a-bowing

Together all swiftly, in war-gear he bided;

Then boune was the burning one, bow'd in his going,

To the fate of him faring. The shield was well warding

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The life and the lyke of the mighty lord king

For a lesser of whiles than his will would have had it,

If he at that frist on the first of the day

Was to wield him, as weird for him never will'd it,

The high-day of battle. His hand he up braided,

The lord of the Geats, and the grisly-fleck'd smote he

With the leaving of Ing, in such wise that the edge fail'd,

The brown blade on the bone, and less mightily bit

Than the king of the nation had need in that stour,

With troubles beset. But then the burg-warden

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After the war-swing all wood of his mood

Cast forth the slaughter-flame, sprung thereon widely

The battle-gleams: nowise of victory he boasted,

The gold-friend of the Geats; his war-bill had falter'd,

All naked in war, in such wise as it should not,

The iron exceeding good. Naught was it easy

For him there, the mighty-great offspring of Ecgtheow,

That he now that earth-plain should give up for ever;

But against his will needs must he dwell in the wick

Of the otherwhere country; as ever must each man

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Let go of his loan-days. Not long was it thenceforth

Ere the fell ones of fight fell together again.

The hoard-warden up-hearten'd him, welled his breast

With breathing anew. Then narrow need bore he,

Encompass'd with fire, who erst the folk wielded;

Nowise in a heap his hand-fellows there,

The bairns of the athelings, stood all about him

In valour of battle; but they to holt bow'd them;

Their dear life they warded; but in one of them welled

His soul with all sorrow. So sib-ship may never

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Turn aside any whit to the one that well thinketh.