It was heavy hap for that hero young on his
lord beloved to look and find him lying on earth with
life at end, sorrowful sight. But the slayer
too, awful earth-dragon, empty of breath, lay felled
in fight, nor, fain of its treasure, could the writhing
monster rule it more. For edges of iron had ended
its days, hard and battle-sharp, hammers’ leaving;
{37a} and that flier-afar had fallen to ground hushed
by its hurt, its hoard all near, no longer lusty aloft
to whirl at midnight, making its merriment seen,
proud of its prizes: prone it sank by the handiwork
of the hero-king. Forsooth among folk but few
achieve, — though sturdy and strong, as
stories tell me, and never so daring in deed of valor,
— the perilous breath of a poison-foe
to brave, and to rush on the ring-board hall, whenever
his watch the warden keeps bold in the barrow.
Beowulf paid the price of death for that precious
hoard; and each of the foes had found the end of
this fleeting life. Befell erelong that the
laggards in war the wood had left, trothbreakers,
cowards, ten together, fearing before to flourish
a spear in the sore distress of their sovran lord.
Now in their shame their shields they carried, armor
of fight, where the old man lay; and they gazed on
Wiglaf. Wearied he sat at his sovran’s
shoulder, shieldsman good, to wake him with water.
{37b} Nowise it availed. Though well he wished
it, in world no more could he barrier life for that
leader-of-battles nor baffle the will of all-wielding
God. Doom of the Lord was law o’er the
deeds of every man, as it is to-day. Grim was
the answer, easy to get, from the youth for those
that had yielded to fear! Wiglaf spake, the son
of Weohstan, — mournful he looked on those
men unloved: — “Who sooth will
speak, can say indeed that the ruler who gave you
golden rings and the harness of war in which ye stand
— for he at ale-bench often-times bestowed
on hall-folk helm and breastplate, lord to liegemen,
the likeliest gear which near of far he could find
to give, — threw away and wasted these
weeds of battle, on men who failed when the foemen
came! Not at all could the king of his comrades-in-arms
venture to vaunt, though the Victory-Wielder, God,
gave him grace that he got revenge sole with his sword
in stress and need. To rescue his life, ’twas
little that I could serve him in struggle; yet shift
I made (hopeless it seemed) to help my kinsman.
Its strength ever waned, when with weapon I struck
that fatal foe, and the fire less strongly flowed
from its head.
— Too few the heroes in
throe of contest that thronged to our king! Now
gift of treasure and girding of sword, joy of the
house and home-delight shall fail your folk; his freehold-land
every clansman within your kin shall lose and leave,
when lords high-born hear afar of that flight of yours,
a fameless deed. Yea, death is better for liegemen
all than a life of shame!”
