quenched the hate-fire hot terror-breath
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of that lone mound-miser who measured the land
belching with flame-waves burning through the night
searing the darkness till he died of murder.
Wiglaf hurried then weighted with that bounty
trembling to learn if his beloved shield-king
was breathing life-breath as he last saw him
lord of the Weather-Geats waiting for treasures
sick with blood-bane bordered in darkness.
Wrapped in those riches he rushed to his lord
stricken bounty-king seared and wound-weary
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at the end of life. He laved him again
wakened him with water till words came pressing
broke through his breast. The battle-king spoke then
gazed at the goldworks that great treasure-pile:
“For these fine war-trophies I finally must say
thanks to the Wielder Wonder-King of all
our glorious Deemer for such dear gold-marvels
that I now may leave to my beloved Geatfolk
at this last death-moment darkening of light.
Now that I’ve bought this bright treasure-mound
2800
with my old lifeblood look to my kingdom
the needs of my Geats—I must now leave you.
Tell my battle-friends to build me a mound
high by the balefire on the headland’s point.
It will signal my name to sons of this nation
tower to the sky on tall Hronesnaes
so that sea-travelers in time will call it
Beowulf’s barrow as they beat through the swells
sail their prow-ships on the pounding waves.”
He removed from his throat a marvelous neck-ring
2810
gold-gleaming collar gave it to his thane,
young spear-warrior, yielded his armor
helmet and mailcoat hailed him farewell:
“You are the last of our beloved kinsmen
the Waegmunding clan. Wyrd has guided
all of my family to fate’s shadowland
my fine companions—I will follow them now.”
Those words were the last of that long-loved king
his final heart-thoughts for the hot balefire
bone-cracking flames—from his breast at last
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his soul went seeking safety in praise.
Young Wiglaf then yearned for his master
wept within his mind as he watched the old one
loved throne-warden lay down his earthyears
moments of his life. The monster sprawled there
uncoiled earthdragon cut down from flight
ended by swordswings. That old death-flyer
no longer wielded his wealthy ringhoard
but steel blade-edges stopped his life-fire
hard and battle-sharp smith-hammer’s leaving.
2830
That soaring night-flyer stilled by murder-wounds
fell to the earth near that fire-kept treasure.
No longer at sunset did he sail with hate-flames
roaming the night-dark raging for his cup
scorching the skyways but he sank at last
hushed by the swordwork of heartstrong warriors.
Few good battle-men bold though they be
strongest in warfare swordmen to be feared
reckless in life-dare ready for deathday
would stand against the blast of that searing heat-breath
2840
touch with their hands the tiniest of gems
if they found waiting there a waking moundguard
coiled in his barrow. Beowulf exchanged
those lordly treasures for his life’s boundary—
king and enemy earned the end there
of their loaned earth-days.
Not long from then
those safe war-watchers stole from the woods
cowardly trust-breakers ten sword-shirkers
who dared not earlier enter with their shields
in that hard moment of their manlord’s need.
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They came with their shields shamed war-weapons
aching with silence where the old one lay.
They looked then at Wiglaf who watched hopelessly,
one man alone by his lord’s shoulder,
bathed him with water—no breath came to him.
No way could he find no wishful begging
to lengthen the life of that loved gift-king
nor change the Measurer’s moment of release—
the judgment of God would guide the destiny
of every man-creature as it always does.
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Then grim welcome-words welled in the heart
of that young shieldman for those shameful wretches.
Wiglaf spoke then Weohstan’s offspring
grief-heavy warrior glared at unloved ones:
“That he may say who will speak the truth
that this good manlord who made you such gifts
rich war-trappings that you wear this moment,
by bright ale-benches bettered you with swords
burnished shield-boards byrnies and helmets
from lord to his thanes, lent you the finest
2870
of all steel-swords smith-wrought with care—
that he then utterly all that battle-gear
entirely wasted in the time of his need.
That lonesome folk-king could find no cause
to boast of his war-thanes but the broad Wielder
Worldshaper granted that our great manlord
alone with his sword served that monster.
Little of life-help could I lend him then
give him at battle but I gathered my courage
over my war-strength to aid my kinsman.
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Always the weaker was that old night-flyer
when I struck him below—slackened fire-breath
flamed from his head. Too few warriors
crowded around him courage was lacking.
Now shall treasure-gifts the taking of swords
all homeland joys in the halls of your kinsmen
all happiness cease. You will sorrowfully wander
stripped of landrights beloved homesteads
alone in your exile when other battle-thanes
learn of your failure your flight to the woods
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dragging your life-shields. Death will be better
for each one of you than a wasted life.”
He sent the news then a solemn messenger
up by the cliff-edge where the curious Geats
all morning-long mourningly waited
shrouded in fear of the Shaper’s will—
the end of his life or unlikely return
of their loved hall-king. He lacked no doom-words
that ready news-speaker who rode to the headland
but called out clearly to the crowd waiting there:
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“Now is the goldking of the Geatish landfolk
friendlord to us all fast in his death-sleep
dwelling in peace now through that serpent’s teeth.
Unflaming lies now that lone night-scorcher
sickened by shortsword. With sharp Naegling
our war-crafty leader could work no life-wound
on that venomous head. Hard by Beowulf
Wiglaf waits for us Weohstan’s blood-son
young war-champion watching over death
holds with sorrow a silent head-guard
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by monster and lord. We will live to see
dark slaughter-days when the death of our king
is widely heralded over wave-rolling seas
to Franks and Frisians. That feud was started
hard against
Hugas when Hygelac went forth
sailing with float-troops to Frisian territory
where the swordstrong Hetware humbled him in battle
gained victory there with greater force-fighting
till that best of spear-kings bent down to death
fell among foot-troops—no fine gold-plunder
2920
he brought to our hall. Since that heavy slaughter-day
no stern Merovingians have sent us peace-tokens.
Nor will Battle-Swedes bear us good tidings
wish us good will but it’s widely known
that stout Ongentheow struck to the life-core
of Haethcyn Hrethling at Hrefnawudu’s edge
when eager for power the proud Geat-force
went seeking with spears the Swedish thane-warriors.
Soon the old one Ohthere’s father
taught them battle-lore turned back their forces
2930
cut down their leader recaptured his wife
grand throne-lady of her gold bereft
Onela’s and Ohthere’s old queen-mother—
followed them then fugitive invaders
till they sheltered at last that sorrowful evening
in dark Hrefnesholt heavy with life-loss.
He laughed at that army the leavings of swords
wearied by their wounds. Great woes he promised
those wretched survivors right through the night
said that at dawning with swords’ edges
2940
he would hew them down hang them on gallows-trees
for the pleasure of birds. At breaking of day
the sorrowful Geatmen were consoled once more
when they heard Hygelac’s horn-song of challenge
heartlift for survivors when revenge came calling,
a band of sword-thanes bearing through the woods.
Great were the bloodtracks of Geats and Swedes there
loud shield-clashing leapt through the trees
as two great armies tried for victory.
Then the old warrior wise in spearways
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turned back his people took them to shelter,
lord Ongentheow leading them away—
he had learned of Hygelac’s hard warrior-ways
that proud one’s swordcraft—he put no trust
in open battle-play with the best of Geats
guarded his hoardwealth held there in safety
his wife and children—he went to ground then
shielded by earthwall. Then the old Swede-lord
was hounded once more—Hygelac’s boar-banner
sailed above them streamed through the morning
2960
when Geats came running rushed the shieldwall.
Then brave Ongentheow old warrior-king
was brought down to earth by edges of swords—
at last he consented to live or die there
by Eofor’s judgment. In earlier fighting
Wulf Wonreding wielded his sword
with such blade-strength that blood sprang in streams
from that gray hairline. Still game for fighting
the old Swede-lord swung back at him
repaid that wound with a worse exchange
2970
when that proud folk-king fought for his life.
Nor could that warrior Wonred’s young son
give the old one a good counterblow
for the Swedish war-king slashed through his helmet
stained him with blood till he bowed at last
fell down to earth. Yet fate was not ready—
Wulf soon recovered though cut to the bone.
Then his helpful blood-brother Hygelac’s thane
struck with his sword to save his kinsman
swung his treasure-blade sliced to the grayhead
2980
through the king’s helmet—he crumbled then
Swedefolk’s guardian slipped down from life.
No lack of blade-friends broke through the shieldwall
bound Wulf in wrappings when warfare allowed them
when they ruled the field in the falling of light.
Then Eofor stripped there the slain warrior-king
took from Ongentheow his iron corselet
hilted treasure-sword tall mask-helmet
bright war-trappings bore them to Hygelac
who kept all of it clearly promised him
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ample rewards then afterwards gave them.
The lord of the Geats great Hrethel’s son
called to the gift-throne those good thane-brothers
gave Wulf and Eofor wondrous treasure-gifts
gave each to hold a hundred thousand
Beowulf Page 16
