IT was heavy hap for that hero youngon his lord beloved to look and find himlying 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 groundhushed by its hurt, its hoard all near,no longer lusty aloft to whirlat midnight, making its merriment seen,proud of its prizes: prone it sankby 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-foeto brave, and to rush on the ring-board hall,whenever his watch the warden keepsbold in the barrow. Beowulf paidthe price of death for that precious hoard;and each of the foes had found the endof this fleeting life.Befell erelongthat the laggards in war the wood had left,trothbreakers, cowards, ten together,fearing before to flourish a spearin 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 satat his sovran's shoulder, shieldsman good,to wake him with water. {37b} Nowise it availed.Though well he wished it, in world no morecould he barrier life for that leader-of-battlesnor baffle the will of all-wielding God.Doom of the Lord was law o'er the deedsof 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 indeedthat the ruler who gave you golden ringsand the harness of war in which ye stand-- for he at ale-bench often-timesbestowed on hall-folk helm and breastplate,lord to liegemen, the likeliest gearwhich 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-armsventure to vaunt, though the Victory-Wielder,God, gave him grace that he got revengesole with his sword in stress and need.To rescue his life, 'twas little that Icould serve him in struggle; yet shift I made(hopeless it seemed) to help my kinsman.Its strength ever waned, when with weapon I struckthat fatal foe, and the fire less stronglyflowed from its head. -- Too few the heroesin throe of contest that thronged to our king!Now gift of treasure and girding of sword,joy of the house and home-delightshall fail your folk; his freehold-landevery clansman within your kinshall lose and leave, when lords high-bornhear afar of that flight of yours,a fameless deed. Yea, death is betterfor liegemen all than a life of shame!"
Beowulf · Anonymous (translated by Francis Barton Gummere)