Beowulf
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Use it as you wish my young warrior-king!”
Then, as I heard, to the hall came forth
four war-horses well-matched and foot-swift
apple-fallow steeds—he served his king there
with kind words and treasures. So a kinsman should do—
no weaving of death-nets for his dear companion
no sly trickery treacherous design.
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To King Hygelac helmsman of the Geats
his nephew and friend was fast in promise
each man to the other mindful of gifts.
To Hygd the fair one folk-queen of the Geats
he bore the neck-ring—since that bright feast-day
her breast was enriched with that royal goldgift.
Three horses he gave her haltered and saddle-bred.
So he lived in honor Ecgtheow’s son
heartstrong warrior borne high to praise
by pride and mind-strength—not poisoned with ale
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did he slay his hearth-friends with hard murder-blades.
He held to his strength strongest of them all,
through those long life-days loaned by the Wielder,
harbored it well. In the hall of the Geats
as he grew to manhood no good was thought of him
nor did the Geat-lord grant him renown
make him treasure-gifts on mead-benches there—
warriors believed that his worth was little
no champion there. But change came to him
courage and war-strength as he climbed to manhood.
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Then King Hygelac called for his gift—
to the hall was borne Hrethel’s treasure-sword
gold-handled warblade—no Geatish edge-weapon
was stronger in story more steeped in battle-blood.
He bore that treasure to Beowulf’s hands
gave him seven thousand of separate domain
hall and high-seat. They held together
the kingdom of the Geats kept it in friendship
the old homeland though Hygelac’s rule
was broader in kind a king’s boundaries.
THE FINAL THIRD of Beowulf begins at a time when Beowulf has been ruling the Geats for fifty years, at which point a nameless servant or slave, fleeing punishment for some transgression, stumbles upon a dragon’s treasure and steals a cup with which he hopes to buy a pardon. The dragon discovers the theft and begins the destruction that leads to Beowulf’s final battle.
The treasure was first buried by nameless nobles, who protected it with a curse referred to near the end of the poem. It was much later unearthed and enjoyed for a time by men who gradually died out, leaving the final survivor who delivers the elegy at the beginning of this section and deposits the treasure in a barrow by the sea, where the dragon discovers it. Ironically, Beowulf dies thinking that the treasure he has won will benefit his people; instead, the Geats burn or bury all of it with Beowulf. As the anonymous messenger indicates towards the end, the old curse will probably punish the Geats since they left much of the treasure undestroyed in the burial mound.
The Geat-Swede conflicts and the fall of Hygelac are presented in a natural if unchronological way at appropriate moments throughout this section of the poem in highly allusive episodes, by the poet himself, by Beowulf, and by the anonymous messenger. In the opening sentence the poet mentions the deaths of Hygelac and his son Heardred, thus bringing together two separate events in a long series summarized as follows:
Three generations of Geats and Swedes are involved in these events. After Haethcyn accidentally kills his older brother Herebeald, King Hrethel of the Geats dies of a broken heart. The Swedes then attack the Geats in Geatish territory at Hreosnabeorh, after which Haethcyn leads a punitive expedition into Swedish territory at Hrefnawudu/Hrefnesholt (alternate names for “Ravenswood”), where Ongentheow, king of the Swedes, kills him and is himself killed by Wulf and Eofor, young Geatish warriors.
The first generation is now gone. Of the Geats, only Hygelac, his young son Heardred, and Beowulf remain. Of the Swedes, there are Ongentheow’s sons Onela and Ohthere, and Ohthere’s sons Eanmund and Eadgils.
During a pause in the Geat-Swede conflicts, Hygelac leads an expedition up the lower Rhine into the land of Franks and Frisians (including Hugas, Hetware, and Merovingians), where he is killed as he prepares to leave, Beowulf alone escaping. Heardred is now king of the Geats and Ohthere rules the Swedes.
When Ohthere dies, Onela seizes the throne from his nephew and sets in motion a series of conflicts that leave only two principals alive: Eadgils, now king of the Swedes, and Beowulf, now king of the Geats. Fifty years later, Wiglaf, chosen by Beowulf to succeed him, wears the armor of the slain brother of Eadgils, presumably still king of the Swedes, an unfortunate situation.
III
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Long afterwards in lingering years
after sharp swordswings sang in anger
and death found Hygelac by distant waters—
after Battle-Swedes came crossed into Götland
brought to Heardred baleful spear-play
bore him from life in the land of Weather-Geats
haled from the gift-throne Hereric’s nephew—
after Beowulf rose to rule that kingdom
fathered the Geats for fifty winters
learned through the years lessons of the throne—
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once more a monster moved through the night
a raging flame-dragon ruled in darkness
fire-grim guardian of a great treasure-mound
steep stonebarrow—a secret pathway
led to this wealth. A wandering fugitive
stumbled inside by the sleeping dragon
stole from the treasure a studded ale-cup
jeweled gold-vessel. The jealous goldguard
did not hide his wrath raged at that theft
by a sneaking runaway. Soon the Geatfolk
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found that his fury fell upon their land.
Not at all willfully did that wandering slave
breach that barrow bear the cup away
but in desperate need that nameless servant
hiding in heath-slopes from hateful whiplashing
sorrowful slave-wretch stumbling for his life
fell into that gloom. He found quickly
that terror waited there walled him in fear—
the slumbering serpent lay still in repose
unwary of his guest winking jewel-stones
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heaped in his coils—one cup was taken
an offering for mercy.
Many were the heirlooms
in that deep earthhouse old hall-treasures
gathered there in grief in gone sorrow-days
rings and bracelets bountiful throne-gifts
left hopelessly by a last survivor
dear gold-memories. Death took them all
in times long vanished victor of men
till one still living alone with that wealth
lordless hall-warden could hope no longer
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to wield that treasure—time was upon him
boundary of life. A barrow stood ready
under the bluff-rock above the waterways
nestled in the cliff narrow and secret.
He bore those treasures to the barrow’s fold
ring-hoard of warriors worthy of a king
sealed them in sorrow and spoke his grief-words:
“Hold you now, Earth now that heroes are sleeping
these treasures of men. They were taken from you
by good warrior-friends gone into silence—
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funeral fire-greed has fetched my people
from their loaned life-days, led into darkness
bright hall-laughter. Where are the sword-bearers
quick board-servants to burnish the ale-cups
vessels of victory? They have vanished away.
Hard mask-helmets hand-wrought with gold
shall gleam no longer—good men are sleeping
who should polish them well for warriors and kings.
This moldering mailcoat maimed in battle-clash
with bites of edges over breaking of shields
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crumbles in darkness—this death-stained swordvest
can march no longer linked ring-corselet
by a warrior’s side. No sweet harp-strumming
gathers the songwords nor the good falcon
swings through the hall nor the swift battle-steed
clatters in the yard. Cold death-wardens
have sent into silence sons of this land.”
So the mourning one mindful of youth-years
one after all of them wanders alone
through day and night-time till death’s welling
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comes to his heart. The hoard lay open—
the old fire-serpent found it waiting there
who burns through the air blasting hall-timbers—
searing hate-creature soaring through the night
ringed with fire-breath raging through darkness
torturing earth-dwellers—ever shall he seek
hidden treasure-hoards heathen gold-chambers
to guard in his coils—no good does it bring him.
Three hundred winters he hoarded his prize
wrapped his riches in his rocky barrow,
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crafty treasure-ward, till a trembling slave
kindled his anger claimed a gem-cup
bore it to his lord begged a settlement
a gift for his life. That great treasure-mound
was touched by thief-hands—time was granted
to that lucky wretch. His lord received it
ancient elf’s work ale-cup for kings.
Then that serpent woke swelled with anger—
he searched the stonework saw beside the mound
a hostile foot-track where that hopeless slave
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had stolen near to him stepped past his head.
So may the undoomed easily survive
sorrow and ruin he who reaps the favor
of the world’s Wielder. That waking flame-serpent
rushed round his treasure raged for that thief
who crept past his sleep swelled him with goldgrief.
Hot with hate-thoughts he hurtled outside
circled the barrow—he saw no creature
on the wild heathland hiding from fury.
At times he shot back to his bountiful riches
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searched for his cup—soon he discovered
that some man-creature had diminished his hoard
plundered his goldnest. No patience eased him
as he watched and waited for waning of that day.
That fearful treasure-guard fumed with yearning
writhing to ransom his rich jewel-cup
with flames from the sky. The sun grew heavy
dragged down the day—the dragon was ready
on his wall by the sea soared with balefire
fueled by his fury. The feud had begun,
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sorrow for landfolk which soon would be ended
by their great people-king, grievously paid for.
That serpent went sailing spewing flame-murder
blistering meadhalls—mountains of hate-fire
moved through the land—he would leave no creature
alive on the earth lone night-flyer.
That death-dragon’s work was widely visible—
with vicious vengeance, violent greed-death,
that winged sky-monster seared and blasted
the home of the Geats. To the hoard he dived
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dark stonebarrow as day broke the night.
With great fire-bellows he flung through the land
bale-flames and ashes—to his barrow he fled
for shelter from sunrise. Soon all failed him.
To Beowulf was sent sorrowful tidings
grief-heavy news that his great meadhall
mightiest of gift-thrones had melted in flames
cindered by dragon-heat. That darkest message
was horror to his heart hardest of fate-strokes.
He thought for a time he had turned from the Wielder
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angered the Shaper with shameful action
bittered his Maker—his breast was troubled
with dark wonder deep soul-questions.
The dragon had charred that champion’s kingdom
blasted to ashes the earth around him
from sea unto sea. Soon that battle-king
lord of the Geats would give him answer.
He called for a shield shaped to his war-needs
a great iron-round for the Geats’ defender
steel life-guardian—he had learned clearly
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that no good treewood could turn back those flames
board against fire-breath. The border of loan-days
had come for that lord last of earth-moments
and the dragon as well doomed to depart
who had lived with treasure for long centuries.
The old people-king was too proud for war-troops
had no wish to battle that wondrous night-flyer