Beowulf

XXXVII

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!”