battle-rush bear his wounds. Wait ye the finish.
The fight is not yours, nor meet for any but me alone
to measure might with this monster here and play the
hero. Hardily I shall win that wealth, or war
shall seize, cruel killing, your king and lord!”
Up stood then with shield the sturdy champion, stayed
by the strength of his single manhood, and hardy ’neath
helmet his harness bore under cleft of the cliffs:
no coward’s path! Soon spied by the wall
that warrior chief, survivor of many a victory-field
where foemen fought with furious clashings, an arch
of stone; and within, a stream that broke from the
barrow. The brooklet’s wave was hot with
fire. The hoard that way he never could hope
unharmed to near, or endure those deeps, {33d} for
the dragon’s flame. Then let from his breast,
for he burst with rage, the Weder-Geat prince a word
outgo; stormed the stark-heart; stern went ringing
and clear his cry ’neath the cliff-rocks gray.
The hoard-guard heard a human voice; his rage was
enkindled. No respite now for pact of peace!
The poison-breath of that foul worm first came forth
from the cave, hot reek-of-fight: the rocks
resounded. Stout by the stone-way his shield
he raised, lord of the Geats, against the loathed-one;
while with courage keen that coiled foe came seeking
strife. The sturdy king had drawn his sword,
not dull of edge, heirloom old; and each of the two
felt fear of his foe, though fierce their mood.
Stoutly stood with his shield high-raised the warrior
king, as the worm now coiled together amain:
the mailed-one waited. Now, spire by spire,
fast sped and glided that blazing serpent. The
shield protected, soul and body a shorter while for
the hero-king than his heart desired, could his will
have wielded the welcome respite but once in his life!
But Wyrd denied it, and victory’s honors.
—
His arm he lifted lord of the Geats, the grim foe
smote with atheling’s heirloom. Its edge
was turned brown blade, on the bone, and bit more
feebly than its noble master had need of then in
his baleful stress. — Then the barrow’s
keeper waxed full wild for that weighty blow, cast
deadly flames; wide drove and far those vicious fires.
No victor’s glory the Geats’ lord boasted;
his brand had failed, naked in battle, as never it
should, excellent iron! — ’Twas no
easy path that Ecgtheow’s honored heir must
tread over the plain to the place of the foe; for
against his will he must win a home elsewhere far,
as must all men, leaving this lapsing life! —
Not long it was ere those champions grimly closed
again. The hoard-guard was heartened; high heaved
his breast once more; and by peril was pressed again,
enfolded in flames, the folk-commander! Nor yet
about him his band of comrades, sons of athelings,
armed stood with warlike front: to the woods
they bent them, their lives to save. But the
soul of one with care was cumbered. Kinship true
can never be marred in a noble mind!
