Beowulf | Page 8

gray steeds set to gallop amain,
and ran a race when the road
seemed fair.
From time to time, a thane of the king,
who had made many vaunts, and
was mindful of verses,
stored with sagas and songs of old,
bound word to word in
well-knit rime,
welded his lay; this warrior soon
of Beowulf's quest right cleverly
sang,
and artfully added an excellent tale,
in well-ranged words, of the warlike deeds

he had heard in saga of Sigemund.
Strange the story: he said it all, --
the Waelsing's
wanderings wide, his struggles,
which never were told to tribes of men,
the feuds and
the frauds, save to Fitela only,
when of these doings he deigned to speak,
uncle to
nephew; as ever the twain
stood side by side in stress of war,
and multitude of the
monster kind
they had felled with their swords. Of Sigemund grew,
when he passed
from life, no little praise;
for the doughty-in-combat a dragon killed
that herded the
hoard: {13a} under hoary rock
the atheling dared the deed alone
fearful quest, nor
was Fitela there.
Yet so it befell, his falchion pierced
that wondrous worm, -- on the
wall it struck,
best blade; the dragon died in its blood.
Thus had the dread-one by
daring achieved
over the ring-hoard to rule at will,
himself to pleasure; a sea-boat he
loaded,
and bore on its bosom the beaming gold,
son of Waels; the worm was
consumed.
He had of all heroes the highest renown
among races of men, this
refuge-of-warriors,
for deeds of daring that decked his name
since the hand and heart
of Heremod
grew slack in battle. He, swiftly banished
to mingle with monsters at
mercy of foes,
to death was betrayed; for torrents of sorrow
had lamed him too long;
a load of care
to earls and athelings all he proved.
Oft indeed, in earlier days,
for the
warrior's wayfaring wise men mourned,
who had hoped of him help from harm and
bale,
and had thought their sovran's son would thrive,
follow his father, his folk
protect,
the hoard and the stronghold, heroes' land,
home of Scyldings. -- But here,
thanes said,
the kinsman of Hygelac kinder seemed
to all: the other {13b} was urged
to crime!
And afresh to the race, {13c} the fallow roads
by swift steeds measured!
The morning sun
was climbing higher. Clansmen hastened
to the high-built hall,
those hardy-minded,
the wonder to witness. Warden of treasure,
crowned with glory,
the king himself,
with stately band from the bride-bower strode;
and with him the
queen and her crowd of maidens
measured the path to the mead-house fair.
XIV
HROTHGAR spake, -- to the hall he went,
stood by the steps, the steep roof saw,

garnished with gold, and Grendel's hand: --
"For the sight I see to the Sovran Ruler
be
speedy thanks! A throng of sorrows
I have borne from Grendel; but God still works

wonder on wonder, the Warden-of-Glory.
It was but now that I never more
for woes
that weighed on me waited help
long as I lived, when, laved in blood,
stood
sword-gore-stained this stateliest house, --
widespread woe for wise men all,
who had
no hope to hinder ever
foes infernal and fiendish sprites
from havoc in hall. This hero

now,
by the Wielder's might, a work has done
that not all of us erst could ever do
by
wile and wisdom. Lo, well can she say
whoso of women this warrior bore
among
sons of men, if still she liveth,
that the God of the ages was good to her
in the birth of
her bairn. Now, Beowulf, thee,
of heroes best, I shall heartily love
as mine own, my
son; preserve thou ever
this kinship new: thou shalt never lack
wealth of the world
that I wield as mine!
Full oft for less have I largess showered,
my precious hoard, on
a punier man,
less stout in struggle. Thyself hast now
fulfilled such deeds, that thy
fame shall endure
through all the ages. As ever he did,
well may the Wielder reward
thee still!"
Beowulf spake, bairn of Ecgtheow: --
"This work of war most willingly

we have fought, this fight, and fearlessly dared
force of the foe. Fain, too, were I

hadst thou but seen himself, what time
the fiend in his trappings tottered to fall!

Swiftly, I thought, in strongest gripe
on his bed of death to bind him down,
that he in
the hent of this hand of mine
should breathe his last: but he broke away.
Him I might
not -- the Maker willed not --
hinder from flight, and firm enough hold
the
life-destroyer: too sturdy was he,
the ruthless, in running! For rescue, however,
he left
behind him his hand in pledge,
arm and shoulder; nor aught of help
could the cursed
one thus procure at all.
None the longer liveth he, loathsome fiend,
sunk in his sins,
but sorrow holds him
tightly grasped in gripe of anguish,
in baleful bonds, where bide
he must,
evil outlaw, such awful doom
as the Mighty Maker shall mete him out."
More silent seemed the son of Ecglaf {14a}
in boastful speech of his battle-deeds,


since athelings all, through the earl's great prowess,
beheld that hand, on the high roof
gazing,
foeman's fingers, -- the forepart of each
of the sturdy nails to steel was likest,
--
heathen's "hand-spear," hostile warrior's
claw uncanny. 'Twas clear, they said,

that him no blade of the brave could touch,
how keen soever,