Beowulf

XXXII

THE fall of his lord he was fain to re­quite in af­ter days; and to Ead­gils he proved friend to the friend­less, and forces sent over the sea to the son of Ohtere, weapons and war­riors: well re­paid he those care-​paths cold when the king he slew. {32a} Thus safe through strug­gles the son of Ecgth­eow had passed a plen­ty, through per­ils dire, with dar­ing deeds, till this day was come that doomed him now with the drag­on to strive. With com­rades eleven the lord of Geats swollen in rage went seek­ing the drag­on. He had heard whence all the harm arose and the killing of clans­men; that cup of price on the lap of the lord had been laid by the find­er. In the throng was this one thir­teenth man, starter of all the strife and ill, care-​laden cap­tive; cring­ing thence forced and re­luc­tant, he led them on till he came in ken of that cav­ern-​hall, the bar­row delved near bil­lowy surges, flood of ocean. With­in ’twas full of wire-​gold and jew­els; a jeal­ous war­den, war­rior trusty, the trea­sures held, lurked in his lair. Not light the task of en­trance for any of earth-​born men! Sat on the head­land the hero king, spake words of hail to his hearth-​com­pan­ions, gold-​friend of Geats. All gloomy his soul, wa­ver­ing, death-​bound. Wyrd full nigh stood ready to greet the gray-​haired man, to seize his soul-​hoard, sun­der apart life and body. Not long would be the war­rior’s spir­it en­wound with flesh. Be­owulf spake, the bairn of Ecgth­eow: — “Through store of strug­gles I strove in youth, mighty feuds; I mind them all. I was sev­en years old when the sovran of rings, friend-​of-​his-​folk, from my fa­ther took me, had me, and held me, Hrethel the king, with food and fee, faith­ful in kin­ship. Ne’er, while I lived there, he loath­li­er found me, bairn in the burg, than his birthright sons, Here­beald and Haeth­cyn and Hygelac mine. For the el­dest of these, by un­meet chance, by kins­man’s deed, was the death-​bed strewn, when Haeth­cyn killed him with horny bow, his own dear liege laid low with an ar­row, missed the mark and his mate shot down, one broth­er the oth­er, with bloody shaft. A fee­less fight, {32b} and a fear­ful sin, hor­ror to Hrethel; yet, hard as it was, un­avenged must the atheling die! Too aw­ful it is for an aged man to bide and bear, that his bairn so young rides on the gal­lows. A rime he makes, sor­row-​song for his son there hang­ing as rap­ture of ravens; no res­cue now can come from the old, dis­abled man! Still is he mind­ed, as morn­ing breaks, of the heir gone else­where; {32c} an­oth­er he hopes not he will bide to see his burg with­in as ward for his wealth, now the one has found doom of death that the deed in­curred. For­lorn he looks on the lodge of his son, wine-​hall waste and wind-​swept cham­bers reft of rev­el. The rid­er sleep­eth, the hero, far-​hid­den; {32d} no harp re­sounds, in the courts no was­sail, as once was heard.