with strong warriors—no serpent’s fire-blast
bothered his heartstrength no hot-searing flames
brought fear to that warrior who had wagered before
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crushed sea-monsters on the swelling waves
sailed on to Heorot hall of the Spear-Danes
salvaged Hrothgar from hell’s murderer
grappled with Grendel and his grim mother-fiend
returned with his life.
Not the least of battles
was the meeting of hands where Hygelac died
king of the Geats who came to his death-fight
in the land of Frisians far from his home—
Hrethel’s warrior-son won his death there
battered by swordswings. Beowulf escaped
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by the might of his hands hard grappling-strength—
he hauled to the shore helmets and corselets
of thirty warriors from the throng of battle
when he turned towards the sea. Seldom did warriors
of the Hetware race have reason to boast
of fierce spear-battle—few clung to life
to seek their homeland after hard swordbites.
Then Ecgtheow’s son only survivor
sailed heart-heavy to the home of the Geats.
There Hygd offered him hoard and kingdom
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did not trust her boy to take the gift-throne
defend it strongly against slaughtering guests
harbor it from harm after Hygelac’s death-day.
None the sooner for that could sorrowing Geatfolk
beg Beowulf to borrow their throne
take loan of the gift-hall from beloved Heardred
child-king of Hygelac chosen by his blood—
he hailed him as lord held him in friendship
counseled him kindly till he came to manhood
and the Geats’ gift-throne.
Grim fugitives
2380
sons of Ohthere sought his help there—
they fled from Onela uncle and throne-thief
greatest of sea-kings Swedes’ warrior-lord
who seized the gift-hall from his good brother-sons.
Heardred paid there for hosting his friends—
Hygelac’s child-king chose a life-wound
when throne-hungry Onela Ongentheow’s son
followed his nephews felled young Eanmund
then fled to his homeland when Heardred lay dead—
left the gift-hall the Geats’ kingdom
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in Beowulf’s care. He was kind to his people.
He remembered that day dark murder-time
gave then to Eadgils good warrior-help
backed him in sorrow—with swordmen and horses
he sent that young one beyond the lake-waters,
Ohthere’s son, who settled that feud
mindful of slaughter, stepped to the throne
of the Swedish kingdom.
Then King Beowulf
Ecgtheow’s son-child suffered and triumphed
burnishing his name with bright gift-years
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till that fearful twilight when the fire-dragon soared.
He marched then to battle one man among twelve
lord of the Geatfolk to look at that monster.
He had seen before then the source of that feud
cause of that torment—it came to his hand
precious treasure-cup through that poor fugitive
who had angered the dragon entered his gold-barrow—
that thief-slave was now the thirteenth among them
unwilling guide-servant guiltily led them
to the sleeping serpent. He stepped fearfully
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to the old earth-hall ancient stonebarrow
under the seacliff set into the rock
near the swirling waves. In its walls were gathered
gems and goldwork. The guard of that treasure
monstrous fire-warrior minded his booty
held it under earth—not easily bought
was that glittering gold not given away.
He sat by the cliffside keeper of the Geats
hailed his men then hearth-companions
wished them good luck. His wavering heart-thoughts
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wandered towards death—wyrd was close then
ready to receive that solemn warrior-king
seek out his soulhoard sunder it from breath
spirit from body-flesh—the center of his life
would soon be delivered from its locked flesh-home.
Beowulf spoke son of Ecgtheow:
“Fierce spear-charges I fought in my youth
moments of shieldclash—I remember it all.
In my seventh life-year I was sent from my father
given for training to that good folk-king
2430
Hrethel of the Geats who gave me father-love
measured my childhood mindful of our kinship.
No less was I loved in those long growth-days
than the sons of that king kind uncle-friends
Herebeald and Haethcyn and Hygelac my lord.
The oldest of his sons by sorrowful chance
slept in a murder-bed through a sibling’s error
when Haethcyn was shamed shot from a horn-bow
wounded Herebeald with a wandering arrow
missed his target murdered his elder
2440
his blood-loyal brother with a baleful point.
No payment was made for that pitiful crime
but aching heartwounds were offered to Hrethel—
no vengeance followed the fall of that prince.
Same is the sorrow of a solemn hall-lord
sharp soul-torture when his son rides hanging
young upon the gallows. Then he gropes for mercy
sings a horror-song as his son dangles there
food for the raven—he can find no help
no mercy or revenge for his mourning heart.
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Each morning his mind measures that deathfall
his son’s departure—no patience soothes him
to wait through the years for young followers
heirs to his treasure when his only prince
has spoken his last left him for darkness.
He stares in sorrow at his son’s life-home
the wasted wine-hall by winds emptied
bereft of bench-joy—riders are sleeping now
silent in their graves—no sound of the harp
warms the meadhall where men once gathered.
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He stays in his bed sings his heartsongs
no longer does he roam—too roomy they seem
fields and homestead. So Hrethel in his way
grieved for Herebeald heavy with bloodgrief
wandering in pain—no way could he find
to bring his slayer to settle for that death
nor could he hate Haethcyn his blood-son
or love him still for that loathsome deed.
His grief was too great too grim for living—
he gave up his hall-joy for God’s comfort.
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To his kin he gave as a king should do
his land and homestead when he left this earthyard.
Then trouble began between Geats and Battle-Swedes
across the lakelands as they clashed in shield-war
hard killing-times after Hrethel’s deathday
when sons of Ongentheow sought out the Geats
with angry armies not eager for peace
held them to sword-play at Hreosnabeorh’s mound
struck against their shields with sharp blade-edges.
Later in that kind my kinsmen answered them
2480
took then their blood-pay as the tale is known
though
one paid there with his precious life-breath
a hard bargain—Haethcyn fell deathwards
king of the Geats killed in spear-battle.
On the morrow, I heard, a man took vengeance
with swift sword-anger slew that king-killer
when Eofor quenched there Ongentheow’s life
mindful of hall-gifts remembered his lord
did not spare his swordswing split through the helmet—
the battle-bleak Swede bent down to death.
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I repaid lord Hygelac in proud battle-play
for the treasure he gave times of the gift-throne,
served him with my sword. He soon gave me land
homestead and meadhall. He had no reason
to search among Gifthas or good Spear-Danes
or the Swedish kingdom for servants to his throne
to lavish rewards on a lesser warrior—
always at swordtime I stood before them all
guided my spearmen in strong war-clashing
and still I am ready while this sword endures
2500
this treasured Naegling that I took from death
on that sorrowful day when I slew Daeghrefn
killed him with my hands Hugas’ sword-champion—
no time did he have to take corpse-plunder
fetch breast-corselets to the Frisian leader
but gave up his life guardian of the banner
stronghearted warrior. No sword killed him
but my clenched handgrip crushed his bone-house
the springs of his heart. Now this sword I won there
finest of smith-blades will fight for that hoard.”
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Beowulf spoke then boastwords to fight by
a last venture-speech: “I lived in my youth
through hard war-moments—now I am ready,
weary with loan-days worn down with years,
for final glory-time if that grim hall-burner
will come to meet me from his mound of gold.”
He greeted them then the Geats around him
good helmet-men gave them farewell
his final boastwords: “I would bear no sword
no shield or helmet if my hands could win
2520
settle this fire-fight with this fuming monster
grapple him deathwards as with Grendel I did—
but here I expect hot flame-blasting
life-searing breath—better then for this
are war-shield and corselet. Not one footstep
will I move from this stone this smoking barrow.
Wyrd will decide the way of this meeting
and man’s Measurer. My mind is strong
no more will I boast of monsters of the past.
Wait in these woods in your webbed corselets
2530
with shields and spears to see which of us
will manage to survive vicious war-wounds
or kneel here to death. This is not your fight
nor the measure of anyone but only myself
to meet this monster match death with him
reach for his life. If luck moves with me
I will gather this gold or give my life here
if cold deathbale carries me away.”
Beowulf rose then with his round iron-shield
war-helmet gleaming went with his years
2540
under the stone-cliff—in his strength he trusted
one against all no way for a coward!
His tread was still young after years of warclash
at borders of his land when boar-banners rushed
with a sounding of horns. He saw by the cliffwall
a stonebarrow standing—a stream broke from it
burst from the wall bright with fire-flash
blistering the sand—he could step no closer
unburned by that breath nor bear that dragon-heat
standing so close as his shield grew hotter.
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Then from his breast bolstered with anger
the lord of the Geats loosened a wordblast
stormed stouthearted—under steep graystone
his battle-stout voice boomed to the mound.
Hate was awakened the hoard-guardian knew
the sound of that leader—there was little time then
to settle for peace. From the stone treasure-cave
burning breath-flame burst in a flash
old anger-fire—the earth trembled.
The strong hall-king hefted his shield then
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sought some relief from that singeing blast—
that ringed serpent was ready for combat
Beowulf Page 14