The Passing Of Scyld
Hwät! we Gâr-Dena in geâr-dagumþeód-cyninga þrym gefrunon,hû þâ äðelingas ellen fremedon.Oft Scyld Scêfing sceaðena þreátum,monegum mægðum meodo-setla ofteáh.Egsode eorl, syððan ærest wearðfeá-sceaft funden: he þäs frôfre gebâd,weôx under wolcnum, weorð-myndum ðâh,ôð þät him æghwylc þâra ymb-sittendraofer hron-râde hýran scolde,gomban gyldan: þät wäs gôd cyning!þäm eafera wäs äfter cennedgeong in geardum, þone god sende
Listen.We have heard of the glory of the Spear-Danes’ kings in days gone by,how those princes did brave and mighty deeds.Scyld, son of Sheaf, tore mead-benches from troops of enemies again and again,stripped many peoples of their halls.He terrified warlords, this man who was first foundhelpless and alone — and lived to see comfort for it:he grew under the sky, thrived in honor,until every tribe that lived around him,across the whale’s road, had to obey himand pay him tribute. That was a good king.Later a son was born to him,a boy in his household, sent by God
folce tô frôfre; fyren-þearfe ongeat,þät hie ær drugon aldor-leáselange hwîle. Him þäs lîf-freá,wuldres wealdend, worold-âre forgeaf;Beówulf wäs breme (blæd wîde sprang),Scyldes eafera Scede-landum in.Swâ sceal geong guma, gôde gewyrcean,fromum feoh-giftum on fäder wine,þät hine on ylde eft gewunigenwil-gesîðas, þonne wîg cume,leóde gelæsten: lof-dædum scealin mægða gehwære man geþeón.Him þâ Scyld gewât tô gescäp-hwîle
to comfort a people who had felt the weight of need —long years without a ruler,suffering they had borne too long. The Lord of life,the ruler of glory, gave that son honor in the world.Beow’s fame spread wide —Scyld’s son, known through the Danish lands.So a young man should act: with good deeds,with open-handed gifts while still under his father’s roof,so that later, in old age, loyal companionswill stand by him when war comes,and his people will follow him. A man rises among his ownby deeds worth praising.Then Scyld went, at the hour fate had set for him,
fela-hrôr fêran on freán wære;hi hyne þâ ätbæron tô brimes faroðe.swæse gesîðas, swâ he selfa bäd,þenden wordum weóld wine Scyldinga,leóf land-fruma lange âhte.Þær ät hýðe stôd hringed-stefna,îsig and ûtfûs, äðelinges fär;â-lêdon þâ leófne þeóden,beága bryttan on bearm scipes,mærne be mäste. Þær wäs mâdma fela,of feor-wegum frätwa gelæded:ne hýrde ic cymlîcor ceól gegyrwanhilde-wæpnum and heaðo-wædum,
still strong, to go into his Lord’s keeping.His own dear companions carried him downto the water’s edge, as he himself had asked,while he still ruled them with his word — friend of the Scyldings,beloved lord of the land, who had held it long.There at the harbor stood the ring-prowed ship,icy, straining to be gone — the prince’s own vessel.They laid their beloved lord down in it,their giver of rings, in the ship’s hold,the great man by the mast. Treasure lay there in plenty,gathered and carried from distant lands.I never heard of a ship better furnishedwith weapons of war and coats of mail,
billum and byrnum; him on bearme lägmâdma mänigo, þâ him mid scoldonon flôdes æht feor gewîtan.Nalas hi hine lässan lâcum teódan,þeód-gestreónum, þonne þâ dydon,þe hine ät frumsceafte forð onsendonænne ofer ýðe umbor wesende:þâ gyt hie him âsetton segen gyldenneheáh ofer heáfod, lêton holm beran,geâfon on gâr-secg: him wäs geômor sefa,murnende môd. Men ne cunnonsecgan tô soðe sele-rædende,häleð under heofenum, hwâ þäm hläste onfêng.
with swords and armor; heaped on his chest laytreasure that would travel with himfar out into the sea’s keeping.They gave him no fewer gifts, no less wealth of the nation,than those who had once sent him outalone on the waves, a mere child.High over his head they raiseda golden banner, and let the sea take him,gave him to the ocean. Their hearts were heavy,their spirits mourning.No one can say for certain —not the wisest counselor, not any man alive under heaven —who received that cargo.