Seven thousand hides’ worth, a hall and throne.
Each had inherited his land by birth, 2195
But the king’s was greater by royal right.
Time passed. In the strife-filled days
Of the Swedish wars when King Hygelac
Lay dead and the Geats lost many lives
In battle-clashes, when the savage Swedes, 2200
Those terrible warriors, hunted down Heardred,
Hygelac’s son, Hereric’s nephew,
And slew him bitterly behind the shield-guard,
Then the kingdom passed into Beowulf’s hands.
He ruled wisely for fifty winters, 2205
An old warrior, a respected king—
Until a dragon came in dark terror,
A savage worm who ruled the nights,
Who sat on treasure in a steep stone-barrow.
There was a hidden path under his cave, 2210
An entry-burrow unknown to men,
But a certain slave stole quietly in,
Crept up to the worm-hoard, seized a cup
Glazed with gold. It gained him nothing
But the dragon’s rage, the worm’s wrath. 2215
His shrewd stealing caught the serpent
Unaware, unready—but neighbors would know
His dread revenge, his swollen rage.
Not for himself did he disturb the dragon,
Not for his own gain. This desperate slave 2220
Robbed the dragon because he was homeless,
Outlawed from men, fleeing their feuds,
The judgment of their swords, guilty of sin.
When the unwelcome guest gazed at the hoard,
He saw bright terror, a sleeping dragon. 2225
He stole the cup, taking quick advantage
Of the worm’s rest. The cave was filled,
The old earth-house, with twisted treasures,
Ancestral gold, ancient heirlooms,
Hidden by the last of a lost race, 2230
The sole survivor of a fallen tribe.
Death took them all in the embrace of time,
Except for one, the last guardian
Who mourned his people, remained waking
For a stretch of years, walked alone, 2235
Expecting to enjoy the hall-gifts
By himself in his last brief days.
A barrow stood ready, an old earth-hall,
On the high headland near the surging sea,
Secure because of its secret entrances. 2240
The ring-guardian bore the hoard to the barrow,
Placed the ancient gold and gems
Back in the ground, speaking these words:
“Hold now, earth, what heroes cannot,
The treasures of men, the gifts they took 2245
From your mines and quarries. Battle-death
Has drawn them down. Savage strife,
The terror of time, and endless evil
Have seized all my people who knew the hall-joys,
Claiming their lives. I’ve no one left 2250
To carry the sword or polish the cup—
The tribe is gone. The hard helmet,
Plated with gold, has lost its edge,
Stripped of its skin. The polishers sleep
Who could make it shine, the bright war-mask. 2255
The mail-coat that endured blade-bites
Over the crash of shields decays like its wearer.
The corselet cannot ride to war with its rings,
Cannot sing its battle-song. No longer the harp-joy,
The song of the wood, no longer the good hawk 2260
Swinging through the hall, no longer the swift horse
Striking the court-stones. Savage death
Has sent forth the races of men on a dread road.”
Sad in spirit, the survivor mourned,
Moved like a lone wraith down life’s road, 2265
Keening day and night until death’s hunger
Devoured his heart.
Then the night-demon,
The old dragon, discovered the hoard-joy
Unguarded, unprotected, a worm’s want.
The serpent stole in, the furious flamer 2270
Who seeks barrows, the naked slayer
Who flies by night, sheathed in fire.
Earth-dwellers desperately dread this dragon,
Who guards heathen gold in earth for eons.
His unused gifts bring him no good. 2275
So the enemy of men, heirloom-crafty,
Guarded the hoard for three hundred winters,
Gold in the ground, until one angered him,
Enraging his heart. The thief carried
The cup to his lord, garnished with gold, 2280
Encrusted with gems. He asked his owner
For a peace-promise to heal their feud.
The hoard had been raided, its riches drained
By a precious cup. His lord relented,
Seeing the heirloom for the first time 2285
With longing eyes. The worm had awakened—
Strife was renewed. He sniffed along stones,
Sensing the man-spoor, his enemy’s tracks.
The thief had crept too near the dragon—
Yet an undoomed man may survive exile 2290
And suffering with good fate and God’s grace.
The hoard-guard sought eagerly along the ground
To greet the thief who had caught him napping,
Harmed his sleep. Fierce and flaming,
The savage worm searched near the barrow— 2295
No one skulked in that barren wasteland.
On the scent of battle, he was keen for killing.
Sometimes he crawled back in the barrow,
Searching for the cup. The dragon discovered
That a man had disturbed his beautiful treasure. 2300
He waited with hot patience until evening,
A barrow-guard swollen with fury.
He would trade death-fire for the drinking cup,
The taste of rage. The daylight dropped down
As the worm wanted—he would not wait long 2305
Near the cave-wall but would soar in the air
With savage fire. The onset was ominous
To Geats on the ground; the end would be agony
To their treasure-giver, their beloved lord.
Then the earth-guest began to vomit fire, 2310
Scorching bright halls. The blaze spread
Like a burning light, a terror to men.
The spitfire left nothing living,
Nothing quick among the dead. The worm’s rage
Was alive in the dark, his cruel killing, 2315
His slaughter-flames, both near and far,
His feud of fire with the neighboring Geats.
Then he fled to his cave-hall—secret, secure—
Hiding at dawn. He had circled and slain,
Sheathing houses and men in a glaze of flame. 2320
He trusted his cave and his courage, his barrow
And battle-rage, but he was sorely deceived.
He holed up under stone. Then the terror was told
To Beowulf, the grim truth made known,
That the flames had feasted on his own hall, 2325
Devoured his home, the best of buildings,
The gift-throne of Geats. His heart burned
With rage and regret, the greatest of sorrows.
The wise king feared he’d offended God,
Maddened his Maker by breaking old laws. 2330
His heart was hot with some dark thought,
Some quiet despair—strange and unsettling.
The fire-worm had ravaged his ancient hall,
The heart of his people on the sea’s headland.
For that crime, the war-king devised a wrack 2335
Of misery for him—he would waste the worm.
He ordere
d a battle-shield made of iron,
Knowing wood was worthless against dragon-flame.
The old king was coming to the end of his days,
His last loan of life, just as the worm 2340
Was fated to die, though he grasped at gold,
Held desperately to goods, as dragons will do.
The prince of rings proudly scorned
To meet the dragon with his full troops,
Disdaining aid. The king feared no conflict 2345
With a cave-dragon, thought no worm’s courage,
Strength, or savvy worth worrying about,
Because he had survived battle-crash and fury,
Sustaining great victories in Hygelac’s army
Many times after crushing Grendel’s hand-grip 2350
And purging Heorot of his savage kin.
That was not the smallest of combats
When Hygelac was slain, lord of his people,
Greatest of Geats, son of Hrethel—
He died of sword-drinks, slain by blades 2355
Thirsty for blood, at the hands of the Frisians
In the battle-rush. Beowulf escaped the slaughter
Because of his swimming strength in the sea;
He carried in his arms the precious armor
Of thirty warriors while he rode the waves. 2360
The Frisians and Franks who bore war-shields
Had no need to boast of their battle with Beowulf—
Few came back from that grim meeting.
The son of Ecgtheow swam home to his people,
Sad and alone, a wanderer on the waves. 2365
There Queen Hygd offered him the kingdom,
Trust and treasures, gift-throne and gold.
She knew her young son could not sustain
The Geatish kingdom against its enemies
Or hold the throne now that Hygelac was dead. 2370
But the Queen and the counselors could not convince
Beowulf to take the kingdom from its rightful heir,
Heardred, son of Hygelac and Hygd—
He valued honor and friendship, not pride and power.
Beowulf served Heardred with wise counsel 2375
Until the boy grew into a good Geatish king.
Then Swedish outcasts came over the seas,
Eanmund and Eadgils, sons of Ohthere,
Seeking sanctuary in Heardred’s court.
They had rebelled against their uncle, 2380
King Onela, greatest of sea-kings,
A glorious prince and giver of gold.
For Heardred that was a hard stroke—
His sheltering those sons cost him his life
When Onela brought his hard war-troops 2385
To battle the Geats, killing Heardred
For high treason with a righteous blade
And installing Beowulf to rule the Geats
And guard the throne. That was a good king.
But Beowulf remembered Heardred’s killing: 2390
In later days he supported the outcast Eadgils,
Making a friend of the man in his misery.
He gave him the gift of warriors and weapons
To sail home to Sweden with an icy heart
To take his vengeance and kill the king. 2395
So Beowulf had survived each of his enemies,
His beastly battles, the family feuds,
The endless strife and slaughter of men,
Until the day he fought the dragon,
Until he waged war with the worm. 2400
Righteous with rage, the lord of the Geats
Sought the serpent with eleven of his warriors.
He knew of the dragon’s feud and fury,
Its malice meant for the race of men.
The cup had come to the king from the hand 2405
Of the thief, the thirteenth man in their band,
The sorrow-bound slave who began the feud.
He led them down to the dragon’s lair
Against his will—he walked to the earth-cave,
An old stone barrow near the sea-wall, 2410
Bulging with treasures, ornaments and rings.
The terror-guardian who held the hoard,
Ancient under earth, was bent on battle.
That gold was no man’s cheap bargain.
The battle-hard king, gift-lord of Geats, 2415
Sat on the headland, saluting his thanes,
Wishing them luck. His spirit was sad,
His mind restless, his heart ripe for death.
An old man’s fate was closing in,
When a grizzled king must seek his soul-hoard, 2420
Separate life from living, body from being.
He had not long to linger in flesh—
His soul was ready to leave the bone-hall.
Beowulf spoke, son of Ecgtheow:
“In youth I endured battle-storm, war-clash, 2425
Many warriors’ meetings—I remember them all.
I was only seven when King Hrethel of the Geats,
The guardian and giver of treasure took me in,
Received me gladly from my father’s hand,
Fostered me with treasure and feast-hall joy, 2430
Mindful of caring for kith and kin.
I was no less loved than his own three sons,
Herebeald and Hæthcyn, and my dear Hygelac.
For Herebeald the eldest, heir to the throne,
A death-bed was savagely spread by Hæthcyn, 2435
Who killed his brother with his horn-tipped bow,
Shot him dead with an accidental arrow
That missed its mark, a bloody point,
Killing his own kin with a slip of the hand.
That feud could not be fixed with vengeance 2440
Or wergild, grim swordplay or life-gold.
That bloody deed baffled his father’s heart—
One son unavenged, the other his slayer.
In the same way it’s sad for an old man
To see his son riding the gallows, 2445
A boy on a bitter tree. He sings a song
Of sorrow, seeing his son hanging high,
A hungry raven’s ravenous joy,
And he knows of no help for the hanged man,
Wise as he is. Each morning he remembers 2450
That his son is gone—he mourns the dawn.
He has no care for another heir in the hall,
No joy in the next son when his dear first one
Has discovered death. He sees his son’s
Empty room, deserted hall, joyless bed, 2455
A home for the winds. The gallows-rider
Sleeps in his grave—no joy of the harp,
No song or storied life for him.
The old man mourns, slips into sorrow’s bed,
Rests his grizzled head on a painful pillow, 2460
Thinks everything is empty, hall and homeland.
Likewise the guardian of Geats, King Hrethel,
Bore heart-sorrow for his own son Herebeald.
He could not find vengeance or settle the feud
With his younger son, his brother’s life-slayer. 2465
He had no revenge, no remedy for murder.
He couldn’t kill his own unloved son.
That sorrow was too great—he gave up his life,
Left the joys of men and chose God’s light.
To his sons he rightly left hall and land, 2470
His kingdom a gift to his living kin.
Then there was grim savagery and strife
Between Swedes and Geats over the seas.
When Hrethel died, old feuds flared up.
The sons of Ongentheow, Onela and Ohthere, 2475
Were battle-hungry; they attacked at Hreosnabeorh,
Brought slaughter not friendship to the Geats.
We pursued the Swedes at great price
As Hæthcyn our king was killed in bat
tle,
But the next morning his brother Hygelac 2480
And all of our warriors avenged that crime.
When Ongentheow attacked Eofor the Geat,
The boar-warrior answered back with his blade,
The revenge of kinship on a cold morning—
The Swede dropped down from the sword’s swath, 2485
His war-helmet split. Eofor’s hand withheld nothing
From the sword’s fury, spared no strength
In the death-swing. He remembered that feud.
I’ve repaid Hygelac for his trust and treasure
With my bright blade, my loyal sword. 2490
I gave him my battle-strength for those gifts.
He granted me land, both hearth and home.
He never had reason to hire mercenaries,
To seek with gifts among Swedes, Danes,
Or East-Germanic tribes for a weaker warrior. 2495
I was always his leader on the front line,
Greeting his enemies, guarding his life.
While my sword and strength endure, I’ll always
Protect my people in the crush of battle
As I did slaying Dæghrefn, champion of the Franks 2500
With my bare hands. He brought no booty home,
No bright neck-ring back from the battle,
But fell with his standard, a proud prince.
My blade was no slayer—I crushed and killed him
With my hard hand-grip, broke his bone-house, 2505
Shattered his heart. Now must sword-edge,
Hard hand and blade, again seek battle,
Bringing the gift of a fist to the dragon’s hoard.”
The prince proclaimed his battle-boast,
His last promise to the Geatish people: 2510
“In my youth I have fought many battles,
Surviving by strength. In my old age
I will slay this serpent, seek out glory,
If the worm will come out of his earth-hall.”
Then he turned to his dear companions, 2515
Bold shield-warriors and helmet-wearers,
Spoke for the last time to his own troops:
“I would not bear my sword against the serpent,
Wield a weapon against the awesome worm,
But meet the dragon as I greeted Grendel, 2520
Alone with my arm-strength, my death-grip—
But who knows how to grab a dragon
Or fend off fire with his bare hands.
Here I expect bitter breath, spit-flame,
Deadly venom, so I must wear a mail-coat, 2525
Carry an iron shield. I will not back off
One foot from the barrow, but trust to the Lord
Of fates among men. I will forego boasting
And beat old battle-wing. Wait here at the barrow-door,
Protected by armor, to see which of us survives 2530
The slaughter-rush, weathers his wounds.
The Complete Old English Poems Page 77
