Beowulf

XXV

“UN­DER har­ness his heart then is hit in­deed by sharpest shafts; and no shel­ter avails from foul be­hest of the hellish fiend. {25a} Him seems too lit­tle what long he pos­sessed. Greedy and grim, no gold­en rings he gives for his pride; the promised fu­ture for­gets he and spurns, with all God has sent him, Won­der-​Wield­er, of wealth and fame. Yet in the end it ev­er comes that the frame of the body frag­ile yields, fat­ed falls; and there fol­lows an­oth­er who joy­ous­ly the jew­els di­vides, the roy­al rich­es, nor recks of his fore­bear. Ban, then, such bale­ful thoughts, Be­owulf dear­est, best of men, and the bet­ter part choose, prof­it eter­nal; and tem­per thy pride, war­rior fa­mous! The flow­er of thy might lasts now a while: but ere­long it shall be that sick­ness or sword thy strength shall min­ish, or fang of fire, or flood­ing bil­low, or bite of blade, or bran­dished spear, or odi­ous age; or the eyes’ clear beam wax dull and dark­en: Death even thee in haste shall o’er­whelm, thou hero of war! So the Ring-​Danes these half-​years a hun­dred I ruled, wield­ed ‘neath welkin, and ward­ed them brave­ly from mighty-​ones many o’er mid­dle-​earth, from spear and sword, till it seemed for me no foe could be found un­der fold of the sky. Lo, sud­den the shift! To me seat­ed se­cure came grief for joy when Gren­del be­gan to har­ry my home, the hellish foe; for those ruth­less raids, un­rest­ing I suf­fered heart-​sor­row heavy. Heav­en be thanked, Lord Eter­nal, for life ex­tend­ed that I on this head all hewn and bloody, af­ter long evil, with eyes may gaze! — Go to the bench now! Be glad at ban­quet, war­rior wor­thy! A wealth of trea­sure at dawn of day, be dealt be­tween us!” Glad was the Geats’ lord, go­ing be­times to seek his seat, as the Sage com­mand­ed. Afresh, as be­fore, for the famed-​in-​bat­tle, for the band of the hall, was a ban­quet dight nobly anew. The Night-​Helm dark­ened dusk o’er the drinkers. The doughty ones rose: for the hoary-​head­ed would has­ten to rest, aged Scyld­ing; and ea­ger the Geat, shield-​fight­er stur­dy, for sleep­ing yearned. Him wan­der-​weary, war­rior-​guest from far, a hall-​thane her­ald­ed forth, who by cus­tom court­ly cared for all needs of a thane as in those old days war­rior-​wan­der­ers wont to have. So slum­bered the stout-​heart. State­ly the hall rose gabled and gilt where the guest slept on till a raven black the rap­ture-​of-​heav­en {25b} blithe-​heart bod­ed. Bright came fly­ing shine af­ter shad­ow. The swords­men has­tened, athelings all were ea­ger home­ward forth to fare; and far from thence the great-​heart­ed guest would guide his keel. Bade then the hardy-​one Hrunt­ing be brought to the son of Ecglaf, the sword bade him take, ex­cel­lent iron, and ut­tered his thanks for it, quoth that he count­ed it keen in bat­tle, “war-​friend” win­some: with words he slan­dered not edge of the blade: ’twas a big-​heart­ed man! Now ea­ger for part­ing and armed at point war­riors wait­ed, while went to his host that Dar­ling of Danes. The doughty atheling to high-​seat has­tened and Hroth­gar greet­ed.