{34d} to the boss, and the breastplate failed to shelter
at all the spear-thane young. Yet quickly under
his kinsman’s shield went eager the earl, since
his own was now all burned by the blaze. The
bold king again had mind of his glory: with
might his glaive was driven into the dragon’s
head, — blow nerved by hate. But Naegling
{34e} was shivered, broken in battle was Beowulf’s
sword, old and gray. ’Twas granted him
not that ever the edge of iron at all could help
him at strife: too strong was his hand, so the
tale is told, and he tried too far with strength of
stroke all swords he wielded, though sturdy their
steel: they steaded him nought. Then for
the third time thought on its feud that folk-destroyer,
fire-dread dragon, and rushed on the hero, where room
allowed, battle-grim, burning; its bitter teeth closed
on his neck, and covered him with waves of blood from
his breast that welled.
XXXV
’Twas now, men say, in his sovran’s
need that the earl made known his noble strain, craft
and keenness and courage enduring. Heedless of
harm, though his hand was burned, hardy-hearted, he
helped his kinsman. A little lower the loathsome
beast he smote with sword; his steel drove in bright
and burnished; that blaze began to lose and lessen.
At last the king wielded his wits again, war-knife
drew, a biting blade by his breastplate hanging,
and the Weders’-helm smote that worm asunder,
felled the foe, flung forth its life. So had
they killed it, kinsmen both, athelings twain:
thus an earl should be in danger’s day! —
Of deeds of valor this conqueror’s-hour of the
king was last, of his work in the world. The
wound began, which that dragon-of-earth had erst inflicted,
to swell and smart; and soon he found in his breast
was boiling, baleful and deep, pain of poison.
The prince walked on, wise in his thought, to the
wall of rock; then sat, and stared at the structure
of giants, where arch of stone and steadfast column
upheld forever that hall in earth. Yet here must
the hand of the henchman peerless lave with water
his winsome lord, the king and conqueror covered with
blood, with struggle spent, and unspan his helmet.
Beowulf spake in spite of his hurt, his mortal wound;
full well he knew his portion now was past and gone
of earthly bliss, and all had fled of his file of
days, and death was near: “I would fain
bestow on son of mine this gear of war, were given
me now that any heir should after me come of my proper
blood. This people I ruled fifty winters.
No folk-king was there, none at all, of the neighboring
clans who war would wage me with ‘warriors’-friends’
{35a} and threat me with horrors. At home I bided
what fate might come, and I cared for mine own; feuds
I sought not, nor falsely swore ever on oath.
For all these things, though fatally wounded, fain
am I! From the Ruler-of-Man no wrath shall seize
me, when life from my frame must flee away, for killing
of kinsmen! Now quickly go and gaze on that hoard
’neath the hoary rock, Wiglaf loved, now the
worm lies low, sleeps, heart-sore, of his spoil bereaved.
And fare in haste. I would fain behold the gorgeous
heirlooms, golden store, have joy in the jewels and
gems, lay down softlier for sight of this splendid
hoard my life and the lordship I long have held.”
