The Complete Old English Poems
Page 78
This is not your battle—I’m the only warrior
Who can test his strength, share this strife,
Do manly deeds against this death-dragon.
With courage I will kill the evil worm, 2535
Gather his gold and ancient heirlooms,
Take his life, or his hatred will haul me down—
That life-bane breaking your lord’s bones.”
Then he rose up, hard under helmet,
With battle-coat and shield, went to the worm 2540
Under the stone walls, in no way a coward.
There by the cave-wall, the man who had conquered
Many monsters, coming through battle-clashes
With his great heart and warlike will,
Saw a stone arch standing with bitter steam 2545
Bursting out of the barrow. What he saw
Was a stream of fire, a blaze of hatred
Like burning bile—he could not reach the heart
Of the hoard, unscathed by dragon-fire.
Then the king of the Geats, swollen with fury, 2550
Sounded a challenge with fierce words,
Daring the dragon—his war-cry resounding
Under gray stone. Hate was renewed—
The hoard-guard recognized in a man’s cry
The voice of vengeance. That was no peace-promise. 2555
First came a fierce breath out of the cave—
The serpent’s fire shot out from the stone,
A raging steam. The earth screeched.
The lord of the Geats, bold man in the barrow,
Swung his shield against that fiery terror, 2560
That alien awe. The coiled creature
Heaved its hot heart into the battle.
Beowulf brandished his sharp sword,
An ancient heirloom, an undull blade.
Each killer saw cold terror in the other. 2565
The strong-hearted man stood with his shield
And war-corselet while the serpent coiled
In flaming fury. The cave-snake
Came gliding, a fire-worm toward its fate.
The shield protected Beowulf’s life 2570
For a short time, but less than he needed,
And he feared there for the first time
Since wielding weapons—uncertain, unsure
If fate would offer him a share of glory.
The lord of the Geats raised his hand, 2575
Slashed with his sword through scales and skin—
The blade bit bone, the edge broke,
The cut less keen than the king needed.
After that savage stroke, the serpent fumed.
The barrow-guard’s heart was kindled for killing— 2580
He spit forth fire. The battle-flames flew—
Fire leapt in air. The gold-friend of the Geats
Could claim no victory. The bare blade failed.
That was no easy journey to give up ground,
To find a home in another place, no painless road 2585
For brave-hearted Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow.
So each man must travel when his days are spent,
Winding a long road beyond walking,
Learning the hard way that his life is lent.
Not long after, the fierce fighters, 2590
Awesome creatures, clashed again.
The hoard-guard took heart—his breast heaved,
His breath steaming. The guardian of Geats
Was sheathed in fire, engulfed in pain.
His noble companions did not keep courage— 2595
They crept from the cave, fled to the wood,
Deserting their prince, protecting their lives.
Only one stayed—his heart was true,
Surging with sorrow. Nothing can undermine
The claim of kinship in a moral man. 2600
Only Wiglaf stayed, son of Weohstan,
A worthy shield-warrior and beloved retainer,
A proud prince who came from the Swedes
From the Wægmunding tribe, Beowulf’s clan.
He saw his lord sweltering under his helmet, 2605
Tormented by fire, and remembered the rights
And rich homestead given to his father by the Geats.
He could not hold back, but seized his shield,
The yellow linden-wood, unsheathed his sword,
An ancient heirloom, the death-gift of Eanmund, 2610
Son of Ohthere, when Wiglaf’s father Weohstan
Was Eanmund’s slayer with his deadly blade,
His bane in battle. The sword changed hands,
And Weohstan was a wanderer, exile and outcast—
He killed his kin. He took the spoils 2615
To Eanmund’s uncle, the fierce Onela—
The burnished helmet, ring-bound corselet,
And ancient sword crafted by giants.
Onela gave the booty back to Weohstan
As gifts for vengeance. There was no feud 2620
For killing his nephew—he condoned that crime.
Weohstan passed the sword and corselet on to Wiglaf
So his son could do great deeds like his father.
They lived with the Geats; then Weohstan died.
This worm-strife was young Wiglaf’s first battle 2625
Beside his lord. His heart did not melt—
He kept courage. The sword of his kin
Was undaunted, as the dragon would discover!
Wiglaf reflected, said the right words
To the Geats who’d fled, his heart sad: 2630
“I remember well when we all drank mead
In the beer-hall, promising Beowulf,
Our beloved lord, who gave us arm-rings,
That we would honor his gifts of armor,
Helmets and hard swords, if his need came. 2635
We were hand-chosen from his host of troops
To follow him into battle. He believed in us,
Thought us battle-worthy, bound to glory.
He gave me treasures, tokens of his trust.
He counted on us to be good spear-warriors, 2640
Bold helmet-bearers, the best of Geats,
Even though our lord intended as leader
To meet that creature alone with his courage
Because he’s achieved such daring glory,
Such audacious fame. Now the day has come 2645
When our lord needs the might of warriors,
The strength of arms. Let’s help our battle-hero
Through this heat, this grim terror.
God knows I would welcome the flame’s embrace
To battle beside Beowulf in the fiery flesh. 2650
It seems dead wrong for retainers to flee,
Bearing shields back home before we feel
The fearful flame or strike down our foe,
Defending the life of the lord of the Geats.
It would not be fair with all his proud deeds 2655
For Beowulf to fall alone, undefended—
To endure terror and treachery together.
We should all enter this shared strife
With sword, helmet, corselet, war-clothes.”
Then he braved the fire, wading through smoke 2660
To support his lord, hailing his king:
“Brave and beloved Beowulf, battle well!
Remember your vow since the days of your youth:
You would never let your glory fade,
Your name go unremembered. Now, noble warrior, 2665
You must trust to your strength to save your life.
Keep up your courage—I am coming to help you.”
After these words the worm grew fierce,
An alien evil, blazing in rage—
The serpent came seeking his human foe, 2670
Sheathed in flame, a fiery bane—
He hated mankind. The flame surged out,
The shield burned down
to its metal boss,
And the mail-coat did not serve well—
So the young warrior ducked down, 2675
Sought the protection of his kinsman’s shield,
An iron shelter. Beowulf the battle-king,
Mindful of glory, striking with strength,
Drove his blade with a righteous rage,
Thrust his sword into the dragon’s head, 2680
Stuck his skull. The ancient iron
Whose name was Nægling, broke at the bone—
An aging blade that failed in the fight.
The iron edge was not fated to save Beowulf
In this burning battle. I’ve heard his hand 2685
Was always too strong—it strained his sword.
That blood-tempered blade was not much help.
Then the scourge of mankind, the dread dragon,
Attacked for the third time, flaming in feud,
Blazing with bile. He seized Beowulf’s 2690
Neck with his claws, struck with his fangs,
Death-biting bones. Beowulf’s blood surged
From his open wounds like waves of gore.
Then, as I’ve heard, at the Geatish king’s need,
Wiglaf showed strength and skill beside him, 2695
A keenness of courage natural to him.
He took no heed of the dragon’s blazing head—
His hand burned when he helped his kinsman.
The mail-coated warrior struck lower down
In the dragon’s belly, the demon’s bulge, 2700
Shoved in his sword with its serpentine blade,
So the fire subsided. The dying king,
Conscious again, drew out his battle-knife,
Deadly and dangerous, that he kept on his corselet—
The guardian of Geats sliced open the worm’s belly. 2705
Their courage and kinship destroyed the dragon—
Comrades together, noble warriors in need.
So men should share strife, keep camaraderie,
Honor their kin. That was bold Beowulf’s
Last victory, the end of his life’s work. 2710
Then the deep wound that the dragon made
With its fierce fangs began to swell and burn.
Beowulf found a bitter evil festering in his breast,
A poison licking at his heart. Then the prince sat
By the stone wall at the edge of the barrow. 2715
He gazed at the old work of giants,
Saw how the ancient earth-hall was held up
By pillars of stone. Then his peerless thane
With his own hands washed him with water—
Wiglaf tended his battle-weary lord, 2720
His blood-stained leader, lending him comfort.
Tenderly he took off his helmet.
Then a dying Beowulf began to speak
In spite of his wounds. He knew deep down
His life-days were done, his joys on loan. 2725
Death was drawing inexorably near:
“Now I would give my good battle-clothes,
Sword and armor, to my heir and son,
Flesh of my flesh, if only I had one.
I’ve ruled the Geats well for fifty winters. 2730
None of the neighboring people’s kings
Dared to greet me with battle-song,
Sword-shouts, or the slash of war.
None of them touched me with terror.
I’ve held my own, endured my fate, 2735
My allotted time, a treasure of years,
Sought no feuds, sworn no devious oaths.
Now sick with life-wounds, I celebrate this—
My times of joy, my treasure of memories.
The Ruler of men will not blame me 2740
For the murder of kinsmen, the misery of feud,
When life leaves my body. Go quickly,
Wiglaf my friend and battle-companion,
To seek the hoard under the gray stone,
Now that the dragon sleeps, the unwaking worm, 2745
Deprived of his treasure. I want to see
The ancient wealth, the gifts of gold,
The beautiful gems, skillfully wrought.
I want to see what the worm has guarded,
The gifts in the ground, so I can leave life, 2750
Knowing the treasures I’ve left behind
To a land and nation I’ve long ruled.”
I’ve heard that Wiglaf, son of Weohstan,
Obeyed his battle-wounded lord,
Went into the barrow, wearing ring-mail, 2755
Walked by a stone seat, saw gems and jewels,
Gold on the ground, rich wall-hangings,
In the dragon’s den. In the night-flier’s cave,
Ancient cups stood, unused for eons,
Without their polishers, bereft of gems. 2760
Wiglaf saw hundreds of helmets
Gnawed by rust, people’s arm-rings
From tribes gone by, once artfully adorned.
Gifts in a barrow, gold in the ground,
Will easily overcome or eventually outlast 2765
Any man—no matter who hides it!
Wiglaf also saw a strange gold standard,
Hanging high in the hoard, a hand-work
Delicately woven. Out of its unearthly web,
A light shone so he could see the treasures 2770
Of wall and floor. No sign of the worm,
Of the serpent, could be seen. The keen blade
Of two warriors had taken him. Then I’ve heard
That Wiglaf alone plundered the hoard,
The old work of giants, robbed the barrow 2775
Of cups and plates, gems and jewels,
And the old standard, brightest of banners.
His old lord’s blade with its stout iron edge
Had already wounded the guardian of the hoard,
The treasure-terror and flame-breather, 2780
The dragon who blazed in the dead of night,
Till his life was cooled by sword-cuts.
Wiglaf hurried, eager to return
With his glittering treasure, anxious to know
Whether his brave lord would still be alive 2785
Where he left him, his life-blood fading.
He carried the treasure to his glorious king,
His dear lord whose life was draining,
His body-wounds leaking blood.
Wiglaf once again wiped his lord’s face, 2790
Sprinkling water on him till his words
And spirit revived from a deep source,
Welling up through his breast-hoard.
Beowulf spoke, wrapped in grief,
Gazing at the gold: “I thank God, 2795
The King of Glory, the Ruler of all,
For this ancient treasure, this trust of gold
I gaze on here, a gift to my people,
As I leave life, departing on death’s road.
I have bought this hoard with my elder days 2800
To sustain our people. Lead them now—
I can’t hold out. Command the brave Geats
To build a bright barrow after my funeral fire
On the high sea-cliff of Hronesness
As a reminder to my people, so that seafarers 2805
Will guide their ships by what they call
Beowulf’s Barrow through dark waters.”
He took off his collar, the gold neck-ring
And gave it to Wiglaf, the young spear-warrior—
Also his mail-coat, gold-plated helmet, 2810
And a gift of rings, telling him to use them well:
“You are the last remnant of our race,
Wiglaf of the Wægmundings. Fate has swept away
All of our kinsmen, earls and their courage,
Warriors and their sword-wielding strength. 2815
They have braved a way that I must follow.”
Thes
e were the old warrior’s last words,
A gift from his heart’s hoard before he climbed
The funeral pyre to embrace the fierce flames.
Out of his breast the soul flew seeking 2820
A righteous doom, the judgment of the just.
Then young Wiglaf sorrowed to see him suffer
In his last moments, the man he loved most,
Who lay by his slayer, the evil earth-dragon,
In unwaking sleep. No longer could the coiled worm 2825
Guard the ring-hoard, rule his treasure.
The flame-forged, battle-notched sword,
Hammered by smiths, had stolen his life.
The bitter serpent, the wide-flying worm,
Stilled by his wounds, had fallen by the barrow, 2830
Tucked beside Beowulf and the ancient treasure.
He could no longer glide through the dead of night,
Alone in his arrogance, pleased with his blaze,
Proud of his treasure. He’d dropped down to earth
Through Beowulf’s heart and hand-work. 2835
I’ve heard that hardly anyone on earth,
No matter how strong or daring of deeds,
Could disturb the ring-hoard with his hands
Or run through the worm’s bitter, blazing breath,
If he found the barrow-guard awake and watching. 2840
Beowulf bought the hoard with his life.
Each of them traveled on a treasured road,
Awesome at the end of their loan-days.
It wasn’t long before the ten battle-slackers,
Weak-willed traitors, left the woods. 2845
They dared not bring their spears to battle
When their liege-lord needed them most.
Now they bore their shields to the barrow,
Ashamed and late, their armor to where
Their old king lay. They looked at Wiglaf, 2850
A weary foot-soldier bent by his lord,
Washing him with water, trying to rouse him
Without success. The gesture was fruitless,
Though he wished dearly to wake his warlord,
Preserve his prince’s life on this earth. 2855
He could not alter the flow of his fate,
The judgment of God, whose doom rules all deeds,
Both then and now, never alters, never ebbs.
Then young Wiglaf gave a grim response
To the cowardly Geats who’d lost their courage. 2860
Wiglaf, son of Weohstan, looked at the unloved ones,
Spoke these dark words, sad in his heart:
“A man who speaks the truth may well say
That your liege-lord who gave you gifts of trust
Like the war-gear you’re wearing as you stand here, 2865
When he handed out gifts to hall-thanes
Drinking at mead-benches—helmets and mail-coats,
The finest of treasures far and near—