Beowulf

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.”