Then heard I that swiftly the son of that Weohstan

After this word-say his lord the sore wounded,

Battle-sick, there obeyed, and bare forth his ring-net,

His battle-sark woven, in under the burg-roof;

Saw then victory-glad as by the seat went he,

The kindred-thane moody, sun-jewels a many,

Much glistering gold lying down on the ground,

Many wonders on wall, and the den of the Worm,

The old twilight-flier; there were flagons a-standing,

2760

The vats of men bygone, of brighteners bereft,

And maim'd of adornment; was many an helm

Rusty and old, and of arm-rings a many

Full cunningly twined. All lightly may treasure,

The gold in the ground, every one of mankind

Befool with o'erweening, hide it who will.

Likewise he saw standing a sign there all-golden

High over the hoard, the most of hand-wonders,

With limb-craft belocked, whence light a ray gleamed.

Whereby the den's ground-plain gat he to look on,

2770

The fair works scan throughly. Not of the Worm there

Was aught to be seen now, but the edge had undone him.

Heard I then that in howe of the hoard was bereaving,

The old work of the giants, but one man alone,

Into his barm laded beakers and dishes

At his very own doom; and the sign eke he took,

The brightest of beacons. But the bill of the old lord

(The edge was of iron) erewhile it scathed

Him who of that treasure hand-bearer was

A long while, and fared a-bearing the flame-dread

2780

Before the hoard hot, and welling of fierceness

In the midnights, until that by murder he died.

In haste was the messenger, eager of back-fare,

Further'd with fretted gems. Him longing fordid

To wot whether the bold man he quick there shall meet

In that mead-stead, e'en he the king of the Weders,

All sick of his might, whereas he erst Itft him.

He fetching the treasure then found the king mighty,

His own lord, yet there, and him ever all gory

At end of his life; and he yet once again

2790

Fell the water to warp o'er him, till the word's point

Brake through the breast-hoard, and Beowulf spake out.

The aged, in grief as he gaz'd on the gold:

Now I for these fretworks to the Lord of all thanking,

To the King of all glory, in words am yet saying,

To the Lord ever living, for that which I look on;

Whereas such I might for the people of mine,

Ere ever my death-day, get me to own.

Now that for the treasure-hoard here have I sold

My life and laid down the same, frame still then ever

2800

The folk-need, for here never longer I may be.

So bid ye the war-mighty work me a howe

Bright after the bale-fire at the sea's nose,

Which for a remembrance to the people of me

Aloft shall uplift him at Whale-ness for ever,

That it the sea-goers sithence may hote

Beowulf's Howe, e'en they that the high-ships

Over the flood-mists drive from afar.

Did off from his halse then a ring was all golden,

The king the great-hearted, and gave to his thane,

2810

To the spear-warrior young his war-helm gold-brindled,