Nor was that the least
of deadly hand-combats, when men slew Hygelac,
the king of the Geats, the kinsman of Hrethel,
lord and friend to his folk, during a raid in Frisia,
in the storm of battle, beaten down by blades,
with swords drinking blood. Beowulf returned from there
by his own skill, swimming over the sea,
having captured alone thirty coats of armor,
battle-gear of enemies, when he attained the sea-side.
23
None of the Hetware,
ai
who bore against him
shields of linden-wood in the fighting on foot
could boast after battle, since only a few
escaped that war-hero to seek their own homes!
The son of Ecgtheow, alone and wretched,
swam back to his people across the broad sea.
Queen Hygd offered him the kingdom and its hoard,
treasures and the king’s throne, for she did not trust
that her son could wield power to protect the nation
against foreign foes, now that Hygelac lay dead.
Yet those grieving people could in no way prevail
upon that noble hero, in any of their assemblies,
that he would become the lord over Heardred,
or choose to hold a position of kingly power.
Thus Beowulf gave the prince full support with the folk,
friendly counsel and honor, till he was old enough
to rule the Weder-Geats. Yet Ohtere’s sons from over
the sea
sought Heardred’s protection, while fleeing a feud,
for raising arms against Onela, their father’s brother,
the lord of the Scylfings, the best of sea-rulers,
of all those in Sweden who gave out rich gifts,
a famous king. Thus Hygelac’s son Heardred
reached his limit of life-days, when for giving them shelter
he took deadly wounds from the slashing of swords.
Then the Swedish king Onela, the son of Ongentheow,
left to seek his own home, after laying Heardred low,
making way for Beowulf to hold the high throne,
to wield power over his people. That was a good king.
24
—XXXIV—
In later days, Beowulf bore vengeance in mind
for Heardred’s fall, and he became a friend to Eadgils,
who was totally helpless, and supported Ohtere’s son
in fighting across the wide sea, with a war-band,
giving warriors and weapons. He thus avenged Heardred,
in a bitter campaign, taking life from King Onela.
25
And so he survived, the son of Ecgtheow,
every one of the dangers of brutal battles,
his tests of courage, till at last the day came
when he would be forced to fight with the dragon.
Then the ruler of the Geats, swelling with rage,
went in a troop of twelve to observe the dragon.
By then he had heard how the feud arose,
a scourge to men, since by the betrayer’s hand
the priceless cup came into his possession.
With them there, as the thirteenth man,
was the one who had caused all of this conflict,
the wretched fugitive, who in misery was forced
to show the way. He went against his will
to the site where he saw the underground hall,
the barrow under earth, close by the surging sea,
where wave wrestled wave. The mound inside was full
of treasures and wire ornaments. The terrible guardian,
well-prepared for fighting, possessed those gold-riches,
old under earth. That would be no easy bargain
to be obtained by any one of the race of men.
The battle-hardened king sat down on the headland,
their gold-giving friend wishing good fortune
to his hearth-companions. His spirit was sad,
restless and ready for death—his fate drawing near,
which would seek out the old warrior
to find the hoard of his soul, and to sever the tie
of his life with his body. Not for long after that
was the spirit of the war-chief wound up in the flesh.
Then Beowulf spoke, the son of Ecgtheow:
“While a young man, I survived many battle-storms,
the waging of war. I now remember all that.
I was seven winters old when the ruler of treasures,
the lord and friend of the folk, took me from my father.
Hrethel the king kept me and fostered me,
gave me gold treasure and feasting, mindful of kinship,
and I was not loved any less while he lived,
a boy in the stronghold, than any of his sons,
Herebeald and Haethcyn, or my own lord Hygelac.
For the eldest son a death-bed was spread
by a dreadful deed that was caused by a kinsman,
when his brother Haethcyn drew his horned-bow,
and let fly an arrow that missed the mark,
striking down the prince, killing the kinsman,
one brother the other, with the bloody shaft.
No compensation could be paid for the wrongful death,
no consolation in mind. The prince had to lose his life
without hope of atonement, nor being avenged.
aj
So also is it mournful for an aged man
to be forced to suffer when his young son swings
high on the gallows. Then he sings a lay for his lament,
a sorrowful song, while his son hangs dead,
a treat for the raven, yet for all his age and wisdom,
he may not provide any help to his poor son.
Always in mornings, there will come into his mind
the image of his son’s awful end. He does not even care
to wait in his stronghold for another son’s birth,
one to be his heir, since his first son departed,
forced by fate to suffer a terrible death.
He looks with great sorrow upon his son’s home,
a desolate wine-hall, where only winds dwell,
having lost all joy—the horsemen sleep in death,
the heroes in graves, nor does the harp sound
its happy notes in the hall, as it used to do.
26
—
XXXV
—
He goes to his bed singing a lay full of sadness,
his song for his son. His lands and his home now seem
too large for himself alone.
So also did King Hrethel,
protector of the Geats, store grief in his heart
after Herebeald’s killing, for he could in no way
seek for revenge on the slayer of his son,
nor could he let loose hatred toward Haethcyn
for his hateful deed, though he was not dear to the king.
In the midst of this misery which quite overcame him,
Hrethel gave up men’s joy and chose God’s light,
leaving his sons the lands and towns of his people,
as a good man does, when he departed this life.
Then feuding and strife between Swedes and Geats
broke out in bitterness of each nation to the other,
over the wide waters, after Hrethel passed away.
The sons of Ongentheow the Swede
27
proved themselves
brave and strong in battle, and did not wish to maintain
friendship across the seas, but they often fought
with death-dealing malice around Hreosnabeorh.
ak
My kinsmen and friends took a fearful vengeance
for that feud and that crime, as is known far and wide,
though one warrior paid for winning with his life,
a hard bargain indeed. For in that fateful battle
Haethcyn was killed, the king of the Geats.
I have heard it told, that in the morning Hygelac
avenged his brother. The killer was slain by the sword,
the old Swede Ongentheow, who was seeking for Eofor.
The helmet was sheared of this aged Scylfing,
who fell down pale as death. Not forgetting the feud,
the hand did not hold back in striking that blow.
In battle I paid Hygelac
al
back for the treasures
he had bestowed on me, wielding my bright sword,
as my fate would have it. He gave me fine lands,
an ancestral home. There was no need for him
to seek among Gifthas,
am
or among Spear-Danes,
or in the kingdom of the Swedes, to search for
a lesser warrior than myself to reward with riches.
Whenever fighting on foot, I was always in front,
alone before him, and so will I do battle,
as long as life lasts, and this sword survives,
which has at all times stood steadfastly by me.
In front of our forces, I killed Daeghrefn,
an
the Frankish champion, in hand-to-hand fighting—
he could not bring back to the king of the Frisians
any breast-adornments worn by our warriors,
but he fell in battle, the guardian of the banner,
a hero in strength. Yet the sword did not slay him,
but my battle-grip crushed his bone-house,
stilled the beating of his heart. Now with a blade,
with my sword in hand, I have to fight for the hoard.”
Then Beowulf spoke, gave his boasting-speech
for the last time: “I have lived through many battles
while in the strength of my youth, yet still I wish,
as old protector of my people, to seek out this fight,
to win great glory, if the man-slaying monster
will come out of his cave to meet me in battle.”
Then he saluted the company, his beloved comrades,
the courageous heroes with helmets strapped on,
for the last time: “I would not wish to bear a sword,
a weapon against the dragon, if I knew another way
to fulfill my boast, to grapple with this beast,
as I did against Grendel a long time ago.
But here I will face a foe breathing fire,
blazing and venomous—so I must do battle
under shield and mail-shirt. Yet I will not yield a step
to the hoard’s guardian, so we will test by the barrow’s wall
which one of us two wins the favor of fortune,
as the Creator decides for all. Since my courage is strong,
I need not make a boasting-speech against the war-flyer.
I bid each of you to wait near by the barrow,
protected by mail-coats, proud warriors in arms,
to see which of us two can better survive wounds
after the tumult of battle. This task is not yours,
nor is it fitting for any other man, except me alone,
to measure strength against the monster,
in heroic war-deeds. With courage I will win
a reward of gold treasures, or your king will be torn
away from his people in a frightful slaughter.”
Then the renowned warrior rose up with his shield,
bold under his helmet, bearing his battle-coat
under the stone-cliffs, and trusting in the strength
of himself alone. Such is not cowardly conduct!
He who survived many dangerous struggles,
swords crashing together, strong in his manhood,
when warriors on foot clashed madly with weapons,
now saw a stone arch, with flames streaming out,
bursting forth from the barrow. The waves of that stream
surged with battle-fires, so no one could come near,
or live through the passage leading down to the hoard,
because of the flames of the dragon’s breath.
Then the king of the Weder-Geats, filled with fury,
let a loud shout burst forth from his breast;
his strong heart storming, his voice roared out,
his battle-cry ringing in the ancient stone barrow.
The hoard-guard then was seething in hatred
at those threatening words. This was no time
for seeking a truce. First from the stone-hall
came the monster’s breath, eager for burning,
a searing thrust. The earth thundered.
Hard by the barrow, the brave lord of the Geats
swung up his shield against the stranger’s terror,
as the creature coiled, making itself ready
to launch its attack. The bold battle-king
brought forth his sword, a strong ancient blade,
its edges not blunted. Each of those enemies,
intent on killing, inspired fear in the other.
Stern in spirit, the ruler of his comrades
stood with his shield, waiting in his war-gear,
as the dragon quickly coiled itself together.
Then balled up and burning, the dragon slithered forth,
speeding to its fate. The shield served less well,
and for a shorter while, than hero had hoped
to protect life and body of the famous prince.
For the first time in his life, there on that day,
he had to wield war-strength without Wyrd assigning
him victory in battle. The bold lord of the Geats,
raising the treasured sword high in his hand,
struck the many-colored monster, but the blade failed
when it hit the bone, biting far less deeply
than the king of his people, pressed hard by dangers,
needed for the kill. Then was the keeper of the barrow,
after that battle-blow, fierce in its fury,
spewing out deadly fires, the flames of war
sweeping the ground. The gold-friend of the Geats
might not boast of battle-triumph, for the naked blade
had faltered in the struggle, the famous old iron
failing its mission. It was no easy move
for Ecgtheow’s kinsman, the widely-famed king,
to give up ground to the hated enemy.
He would be forced to depart, against his will,
from his home and land, as each man must,
leaving this fleeting life.
It was then not long
that the two fierce fighters again joined battle.
The hoard-guard took heart, its breast again swelling
with breathing forth fire, as the people’s king Beowulf
was pinned down and suffering, surrounded by flames.
Not then did his comrades, the kinsmen of nobles,
close ranks around him, draw a line of defense,
a brave fighting force. But they fled to the woods,
where they saved their lives. Yet in one of them surged
a feeling of remorse, for he well remembered
the bonds of loyalty, as he considered his kinship.
—XXXVI—
He was called Wiglaf, son of Weohstan,
ao
a valued shield-warrior, a man of the Scylfings,
a kinsman of Aelfere. He saw his lord suffer
the blast of the heat burning under his helmet.
He did not forget the favor he received in times past,
the prosperous place among the Waegmundings,
ap
and each ancestral right he held from his father.
He could not hold back, but his hand heaved the shield,
the yellow linden-wood; he seized the time-honored
sword
aq
that was one of the trophies taken from Eanmund,
the son of Ohtere. Weohstan had slain him,
a friendless exile, in a fateful battle,
with the blade of his sword, and carried to his kinsmen
the shining helmet, the ringed shirt of mail,
the gigantic old sword—gifts given him by Onela,
28
the battle-armor of Eanmund, his brother’s son,
with ready war-gear. Nor did Onela speak afterward
concerning their feud, though Weohstan killed his kin.
The victor held those treasures for many half-years,
the shining sword and shirt of mail, until his own son
could perform bold deeds, as his father had before.
When in his old age, he left from this life,
among the people of the Geats, Weohstan gave Wiglaf
a countless collection of arms. And now was the first time
for the brave young warrior to withstand such fury,
the storm of battle, standing beside his beloved lord.
His spirit did not waver, nor would his father’s weapon
fail in the fighting—as the dragon would discover
when they both had come together in battle.