The fall of his lord he was fain to requite
in after days; and to Eadgils he proved friend to
the friendless, and forces sent over the sea to the
son of Ohtere, weapons and warriors: well repaid
he those care-paths cold when the king he slew.
{32a}
Thus safe through struggles the son of Ecgtheow had
passed a plenty, through perils dire, with daring
deeds, till this day was come that doomed him now
with the dragon to strive. With comrades eleven
the lord of Geats swollen in rage went seeking the
dragon. He had heard whence all the harm arose
and the killing of clansmen; that cup of price on
the lap of the lord had been laid by the finder.
In the throng was this one thirteenth man, starter
of all the strife and ill, care-laden captive; cringing
thence forced and reluctant, he led them on till
he came in ken of that cavern-hall, the barrow delved
near billowy surges, flood of ocean. Within ’twas
full of wire-gold and jewels; a jealous warden, warrior
trusty, the treasures held, lurked in his lair.
Not light the task of entrance for any of earth-born
men! Sat on the headland the hero king, spake
words of hail to his hearth-companions, gold-friend
of Geats. All gloomy his soul, wavering, death-bound.
Wyrd full nigh stood ready to greet the gray-haired
man, to seize his soul-hoard, sunder apart life and
body. Not long would be the warrior’s spirit
enwound with flesh. Beowulf spake, the bairn
of Ecgtheow: — “Through store
of struggles I strove in youth, mighty feuds; I mind
them all. I was seven years old when the sovran
of rings, friend-of-his-folk, from my father took
me, had me, and held me, Hrethel the king, with food
and fee, faithful in kinship. Ne’er, while
I lived there, he loathlier found me, bairn in the
burg, than his birthright sons, Herebeald and Haethcyn
and Hygelac mine. For the eldest of these, by
unmeet chance, by kinsman’s deed, was the death-bed
strewn, when Haethcyn killed him with horny bow,
his own dear liege laid low with an arrow, missed
the mark and his mate shot down, one brother the other,
with bloody shaft. A feeless fight, {32b} and
a fearful sin, horror to Hrethel; yet, hard as it
was, unavenged must the atheling die! Too awful
it is for an aged man to bide and bear, that his bairn
so young rides on the gallows. A rime he makes,
sorrow-song for his son there hanging as rapture of
ravens; no rescue now can come from the old, disabled
man! Still is he minded, as morning breaks,
of the heir gone elsewhere; {32c} another he hopes
not he will bide to see his burg within as ward for
his wealth, now the one has found doom of death that
the deed incurred. Forlorn he looks on the lodge
of his son, wine-hall waste and wind-swept chambers
reft of revel. The rider sleepeth, the hero,
far-hidden; {32d} no harp resounds, in the courts
no wassail, as once was heard.
