I have heard that swiftly the son of Weohstan
at wish and word of his wounded king, —
war-sick warrior, — woven mail-coat, battle-sark,
bore ’neath the barrow’s roof. Then
the clansman keen, of conquest proud, passing the
seat, {36a} saw store of jewels and glistening gold
the ground along; by the wall were marvels, and many
a vessel in the den of the dragon, the dawn-flier
old: unburnished bowls of bygone men reft of
richness; rusty helms of the olden age; and arm-rings
many wondrously woven.
— Such wealth of
gold, booty from barrow, can burden with pride each
human wight: let him hide it who will! —
His glance too fell on a gold-wove banner high o’er
the hoard, of handiwork noblest, brilliantly broidered;
so bright its gleam, all the earth-floor he easily
saw and viewed all these vessels. No vestige
now was seen of the serpent: the sword had ta’en
him. Then, I heard, the hill of its hoard was
reft, old work of giants, by one alone; he burdened
his bosom with beakers and plate at his own good will,
and the ensign took, brightest of beacons. —
The blade of his lord — its edge was iron
— had injured deep one that guarded the
golden hoard many a year and its murder-fire spread
hot round the barrow in horror-billows at midnight
hour, till it met its doom. Hasted the herald,
the hoard so spurred him his track to retrace; he
was troubled by doubt, high-souled hero, if haply
he’d find alive, where he left him, the lord
of Weders, weakening fast by the wall of the cave.
So he carried the load. His lord and king he
found all bleeding, famous chief at the lapse of life.
The liegeman again plashed him with water, till point
of word broke through the breast-hoard. Beowulf
spake, sage and sad, as he stared at the gold. —
“For the gold and treasure, to God my thanks,
to the Wielder-of-Wonders, with words I say, for what
I behold, to Heaven’s Lord, for the grace that
I give such gifts to my folk or ever the day of my
death be run! Now I’ve bartered here for
booty of treasure the last of my life, so look ye
well to the needs of my land! No longer I tarry.
A barrow bid ye the battle-fanned raise for my ashes.
’Twill shine by the shore of the flood, to folk
of mine memorial fair on Hrones Headland high uplifted,
that ocean-wanderers oft may hail Beowulf’s
Barrow, as back from far they drive their keels o’er
the darkling wave.” From his neck he unclasped
the collar of gold, valorous king, to his vassal gave
it with bright-gold helmet, breastplate, and ring,
to the youthful thane: bade him use them in joy.
“Thou art end and remnant of all our race the
Waegmunding name. For Wyrd hath swept them, all
my line, to the land of doom, earls in their glory:
I after them go.” This word was the last
which the wise old man harbored in heart ere hot death-waves
of balefire he chose. From his bosom fled his
soul to seek the saints’ reward.
