BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow: --"Lo, now, this sea-booty, son of Healfdene,Lord of Scyldings, we've lustily brought thee,sign of glory; thou seest it here.Not lightly did I with my life escape!In war under water this work I essayedwith endless effort; and even somy strength had been lost had the Lord not shielded me.Not a whit could I with Hrunting doin work of war, though the weapon is good;yet a sword the Sovran of Men vouchsafed meto spy on the wall there, in splendor hanging,old, gigantic, -- how oft He guidesthe friendless wight! -- and I fought with that brand,felling in fight, since fate was with me,the house's wardens. That war-sword thenall burned, bright blade, when the blood gushed o'er it,battle-sweat hot; but the hilt I brought backfrom my foes. So avenged I their fiendish deedsdeath-fall of Danes, as was due and right.And this is my hest, that in Heorot nowsafe thou canst sleep with thy soldier band,and every thane of all thy folkboth old and young; no evil fear,Scyldings' lord, from that side again,aught ill for thy earls, as erst thou must!"Then the golden hilt, for that gray-haired leader,hoary hero, in hand was laid,giant-wrought, old. So owned and enjoyed itafter downfall of devils, the Danish lord,wonder-smiths' work, since the world was ridof that grim-souled fiend, the foe of God,murder-marked, and his mother as well.Now it passed into power of the people's king,best of all that the oceans boundwho have scattered their gold o'er Scandia's isle.Hrothgar spake -- the hilt he viewed,heirloom old, where was etched the riseof that far-off fight when the floods o'erwhelmed,raging waves, the race of giants(fearful their fate!), a folk estrangedfrom God Eternal: whence guerdon duein that waste of waters the Wielder paid them.So on the guard of shining goldin runic staves it was rightly saidfor whom the serpent-traced sword was wrought,best of blades, in bygone days,and the hilt well wound. -- The wise-one spake,son of Healfdene; silent were all: --"Lo, so may he say who sooth and rightfollows 'mid folk, of far times mindful,a land-warden old, {24a} that this earl belongsto the better breed! So, borne aloft,thy fame must fly, O friend my Beowulf,far and wide o'er folksteads many. Firmly thoushalt all maintain,mighty strength with mood of wisdom. Love ofmine will I assure thee,as, awhile ago, I promised; thou shalt prove a stayin future,in far-off years, to folk of thine,to the heroes a help. Was not Heremod thusto offspring of Ecgwela, Honor-Scyldings,nor grew for their grace, but for grisly slaughter,for doom of death to the Danishmen.
He slew, wrath-swollen, his shoulder-comrades,companions at board! So he passed alone,chieftain haughty, from human cheer.Though him the Maker with might endowed,delights of power, and uplifted highabove all men, yet blood-fierce his mind,his breast-hoard, grew, no bracelets gave heto Danes as was due; he endured all joylessstrain of struggle and stress of woe,long feud with his folk. Here find thy lesson!Of virtue advise thee! This verse I have said for thee,wise from lapsed winters. Wondrous seemshow to sons of men Almighty Godin the strength of His spirit sendeth wisdom,estate, high station: He swayeth all things.Whiles He letteth right lustily farethe heart of the hero of high-born race, --in seat ancestral assigns him bliss,his folk's sure fortress in fee to hold,puts in his power great parts of the earth,empire so ample, that end of itthis wanter-of-wisdom weeneth none.So he waxes in wealth, nowise can harm himillness or age; no evil caresshadow his spirit; no sword-hate threatensfrom ever an enemy: all the worldwends at his will, no worse he knoweth,till all within him obstinate pridewaxes and wakes while the warden slumbers,the spirit's sentry; sleep is too fastwhich masters his might, and the murderer nears,stealthily shooting the shafts from his bow!