The Joy At Heorot
Þâ wäs on morgen mîne gefrægeymb þâ gif-healle gûð-rinc monig:fêrdon folc-togan feorran and neángeond wîd-wegas wundor sceáwian,lâðes lâstas. Nô his lîf-gedâlsârlîc þûhte secga ænegum,þâra þe tîr-leáses trode sceáwode,hû he wêrig-môd on weg þanon,nîða ofercumen, on nicera merefæge and geflýmed feorh-lâstas bär.Þær wäs on blôde brim weallende,atol ýða geswing eal gemengedhâtan heolfre, heoro-dreóre weól;deáð-fæge deóg, siððan dreáma leásin fen-freoðo feorh âlegde
In the morning, so I have heard,many a warrior gathered round the gift-hall:leaders of the people came from far and neardown long roads to look at the wonder,the tracks of the hated one. His parting from lifeseemed sorrowful to no man therewho studied the trail of that glory-less creature —how, weary at heart, beaten down,doomed and put to flight, he had carried his life-tracks awayto the monsters’ mere. There the waterwas welling with blood, the terrible churn of wavesall mixed with hot gore, boiling with battle-blood;death-fated, he had hidden himself,laid down his life, joyless, in the fen’s shelter,his heathen soul, and hell took him in.
hæðene sâwle, þær him hel onfêng.Þanon eft gewiton eald-gesîðas,swylce geong manig of gomen-wâðe,fram mere môdge, mearum rîdan,beornas on blancum. Þær wäs Beówulfesmærðo mæned; monig oft gecwäð,þätte sûð ne norð be sæm tweonumofer eormen-grund ôðer nænigunder swegles begong sêlra nærerond-häbbendra, rîces wyrðra.Ne hie hûru wine-drihten wiht ne lôgon,glädne Hrôðgâr, ac þät wäs gôd cyning.Hwîlum heaðo-rôfe hleápan lêton,on geflît faran fealwe mearas,þær him fold-wegas fägere þûhton,
From there the old companions turned back again,and many a young man too, riding for sport,proud from the mere, mounted on horses,warriors on their steeds. There Beowulf’s famewas spoken of; many said, again and again,that neither south nor north, between the two seas,across the wide earth, under the sweep of the sky,was any other shield-bearer better,more worthy of a kingdom. Nor did they, even so,find fault with their own friendly lord,gracious Hrothgar — he was a good king.Sometimes those battle-brave men let their tawny horsesrun, race each other in rivalry,wherever the paths looked fair to them,known for their going; sometimes a thane of the king,
cystum cûðe; hwîlum cyninges þegn,guma gilp-hläden gidda gemyndig,se þe eal-fela eald-gesegenaworn gemunde, word ôðer fandsôðe gebunden: secg eft ongansîð Beówulfes snyttrum styrianand on spêd wrecan spel gerâde,wordum wrixlan, wel-hwylc gecwäð,þät he fram Sigemunde secgan hýrde,ellen-dædum, uncûðes fela,Wälsinges gewin, wîde sîðas,þâra þe gumena bearn gearwe ne wiston,fæhðe and fyrene, bûton Fitela mid hine,þonne he swylces hwät secgan woldeeám his nefan, swâ hie â wæron
a man loaded with old songs, mindful of lays,who remembered a great store of ancient tradition,found other words, truly bound together:the man began, with skill, to shapeBeowulf’s venture into a well-made tale,weave it cleverly, vary his words,and tell it all — what he had heard toldof Sigemund, of unknown deeds,brave feats, the struggles of the Waelsing,his wide travels, things the sons of menhad barely heard of — feud and crime —except Fitela, who was with himwhenever he wanted to speak of such things,uncle to nephew, since the two of themwere always companions when trouble came;
ät nîða gehwâm nýd-gesteallan:häfdon eal-fela eotena cynnessweordum gesæged. Sigemunde gesprongäfter deáð-däge dôm unlýtel,syððan wîges heard wyrm âcwealde,hordes hyrde; he under hârne stân,äðelinges bearn, âna genêðdefrêcne dæde; ne wäs him Fitela mid.Hwäðre him gesælde, þät þät swurd þurhwôdwrätlîcne wyrm, þät hit on wealle ätstôd,dryhtlîc îren; draca morðre swealt.Häfde aglæca elne gegongen,þät he beáh-hordes brûcan môsteselfes dôme: sæ-bât gehlôd,bär on bearm scipes beorhte frätwa,
together they had cut down a great manyof the race of giants with their swords.No little glory sprang up for Sigemundafter his death-day, since, hardy in battle,he had killed the dragon, the hoard’s guardian;under the grey stone, that nobleman’s sonventured the perilous deed alone —Fitela was not with him that time;yet it fell to him that his sword drove cleanthrough the wondrous serpent, so that it stuck fast in the rock wall,that lordly iron; the dragon died in the slaughter.By his courage the brave one had wonthe right to enjoy the ring-hoard by his own judgment;he loaded his sea-boat, carried the bright treasure
Wälses eafera; wyrm hât gemealt.Se wäs wreccena wîde mærostofer wer-þeóde, wîgendra hleóellen-dædum: he þäs âron þâh.Siððan Heremôdes hild sweðrodeeafoð and ellen. He mid eotenum wearðon feónda geweald forð forlâcen,snûde forsended. Hine sorh-wylmaslemede tô lange, he his leódum wearð,eallum äðelingum tô aldor-ceare;swylce oft bemearn ærran mælumswîð-ferhðes sîð snotor ceorl monig,se þe him bealwa tô bôte gelýfde,þät þät þeódnes bearn geþeón scolde,
onto the ship’s hold, Waels’s own son;the worm melted away in its heat.He was the most widely famed of wanderersamong the nations of men for his courage,a shelter for warriors — by it he thrived.Afterward Heremod’s strength and courage failed him;he was betrayed, given over among enemies,swiftly sent away. Surges of sorrowoppressed him too long; he became, to his people,to every noble, a burden and a grief;just so, many a wise man had often mourned,in earlier days, that strong-hearted one’s path —one who had trusted in him for relief from evils,that the king’s son would prosper,
fäder-äðelum onfôn, folc gehealdan,hord and hleó-burh, häleða rîce,êðel Scyldinga. He þær eallum wearð,mæg Higelâces manna cynne,freóndum gefägra; hine fyren onwôd.Hwîlum flîtende fealwe strætemearum mæton. Þâ wäs morgen-leóhtscofen and scynded. Eode scealc monigswîð-hicgende tô sele þam heán,searo-wundor seón, swylce self cyning,of brýd-bûre beáh-horda weard,tryddode tîr-fäst getrume micle,cystum gecýðed, and his cwên mid himmedo-stîg gemät mägða hôse.
take up his father’s rank, protect the people,the hoard and the stronghold, the realm of warriors,the homeland of the Scyldings. But he, the kinsman of Hygelac,became instead more dear to everyone,to all his friends; sin had entered the other.At times, racing each other, they measuredthe tawny roads on horseback. By then the morning lightwas hurrying on. Many a retainer went,bold in spirit, to the high hallto see the marvel; and the king himself went too,out of his bride-chamber, guardian of the ring-hoard,stepping forth, glory-fast, with a great company,famed for his virtues, and beside him his queenmeasured the mead-path with her train of maidens.