Then Ongentheow with edge of sword, the hoary-bearded,
was held at bay, and the folk-king there was forced
to suffer Eofor’s anger. In ire, at the
king Wulf Wonreding with weapon struck; and the chieftain’s
blood, for that blow, in streams flowed ’neath
his hair. No fear felt he, stout old Scylfing,
but straightway repaid in better bargain that bitter
stroke and faced his foe with fell intent. Nor
swift enough was the son of Wonred answer to render
the aged chief; too soon on his head the helm was
cloven; blood-bedecked he bowed to earth, and fell
adown; not doomed was he yet, and well he waxed, though
the wound was sore. Then the hardy Hygelac-thane,
{39b} when his brother fell, with broad brand smote,
giants’ sword crashing through giants’-helm
across the shield-wall: sank the king, his folk’s
old herdsman, fatally hurt. There were many to
bind the brother’s wounds and lift him, fast
as fate allowed his people to wield the place-of-war.
But Eofor took from Ongentheow, earl from other, the
iron-breastplate, hard sword hilted, and helmet too,
and the hoar-chief’s harness to Hygelac carried,
who took the trappings, and truly promised rich fee
’mid folk, — and fulfilled it so.
For that grim strife gave the Geatish lord, Hrethel’s
offspring, when home he came, to Eofor and Wulf a
wealth of treasure, Each of them had a hundred thousand
{39c} in land and linked rings; nor at less price
reckoned mid-earth men such mighty deeds! And
to Eofor he gave his only daughter in pledge of grace,
the pride of his home.
“Such is the feud, the foeman’s rage,
death-hate of men: so I deem it sure that the
Swedish folk will seek us home for this fall of their
friends, the fighting-Scylfings, when once they learn
that our warrior leader lifeless lies, who land and
hoard ever defended from all his foes, furthered
his folk’s weal, finished his course a hardy
hero.
— Now haste is best, that we go to
gaze on our Geatish lord, and bear the bountiful breaker-of-rings
to the funeral pyre. No fragments merely shall
burn with the warrior. Wealth of jewels, gold
untold and gained in terror, treasure at last with
his life obtained, all of that booty the brands shall
take, fire shall eat it. No earl must carry
memorial jewel. No maiden fair shall wreathe
her neck with noble ring: nay, sad in spirit
and shorn of her gold, oft shall she pass o’er
paths of exile now our lord all laughter has laid
aside, all mirth and revel. Many a spear morning-cold
shall be clasped amain, lifted aloft; nor shall lilt
of harp those warriors wake; but the wan-hued raven,
fain o’er the fallen, his feast shall praise
and boast to the eagle how bravely he ate when he
and the wolf were wasting the slain.”
