Hrothgar'S Gratitude: He Discourses
Beówulf maðelode, bearn Ecgþeówes:"Hwät! we þe þâs sæ-lâc, sunu Healfdenes,"leód Scyldinga, lustum brôhton,"tîres tô tâcne, þe þu her tô lôcast."Ic þät unsôfte ealdre gedîgde:"wîge under wätere weorc genêðde"earfoðlîce, ät-rihte wäs"gûð getwæfed, nymðe mec god scylde."Ne meahte ic ät hilde mid Hruntinge"wiht gewyrcan, þeáh þät wæpen duge,"ac me geûðe ylda waldend,"þät ic on wage geseah wlitig hangian"eald sweord eácen (oftost wîsode"winigea leásum) þät ic þý wæpne gebräd."Ofslôh þâ ät þære säcce (þâ me sæl âgeald)"hûses hyrdas. Þâ þät hilde-bil
Beowulf spoke, son of Ecgtheow:“Listen! We have brought you gladly, son of Healfdene,prince of the Scyldings, this plunder from the seathat you look on now, as a token of glory.I did not come through that easily, with my life:I risked the deed under the water,carried it out with difficulty; the fightwas very nearly finished, had God not shielded me.I could accomplish nothing in that struggle with Hrunting,good weapon though it is, but the ruler of mengranted that I should see, hanging on the wall,a mighty old sword, splendid to look at —he often guides the friendless —so that I drew that weapon.Then, in that fight, when the chance was given me,I killed the guardians of that house.
"forbarn, brogden mæl, swâ þät blôd gesprang,"hâtost heaðo-swâta: ic þät hilt þanan"feóndum ätferede; fyren-dæda wräc,"deáð-cwealm Denigea, swâ hit gedêfe wäs."Ic hit þe þonne gehâte, þät þu on Heorote môst"sorh-leás swefan mid þînra secga gedryht,"and þegna gehwylc þînra leóda,"duguðe and iogoðe, þät þu him ondrædan ne þearft,"þeóden Scyldinga, on þâ healfe,"aldor-bealu eorlum, swâ þu ær dydest."Þâ wäs gylden hilt gamelum rince.hârum hild-fruman, on hand gyfen,enta ær-geweorc, hit on æht gehwearfäfter deófla hryre Denigea freán,wundor-smiða geweorc, and þâ þâs worold ofgeafgrom-heort guma, godes andsaca,
Then the battle-sword burned up, that patterned blade,as the blood sprang out, hottest of battle-sweats;I carried the hilt away from there, away from my enemies;I avenged those wicked deeds, that slaughter of the Danes,as it was fitting to do. I promise you nowthat you may sleep in Heorot free of sorrowwith your company of men, and every one of your thanes,the greater and the lesser alike,and that you need not fear,from that quarter, prince of the Scyldings,any deadly harm to your nobles, as you had to before.”Then the golden hilt was placed in the handof the old warrior, the grey-haired battle-leader,that ancient work of giants; it passed into the keeping,after the downfall of devils, of the lord of the Danes,the work of a wondrous smith;
morðres scyldig, and his môdor eác;on geweald gehwearf worold-cyningaþäm sêlestan be sæm tweónumþâra þe on Sceden-igge sceattas dælde.Hrôðgâr maðelode, hylt sceáwode,ealde lâfe, on þäm wäs ôr writenfyrn-gewinnes: syððan flôd ofslôh,gifen geótende, giganta cyn,frêcne gefêrdon: þät wäs fremde þeódêcean dryhtne, him þäs ende-leánþurh wäteres wylm waldend sealde.Swâ wäs on þæm scennum scîran goldesþurh rûn-stafas rihte gemearcod,geseted and gesæd, hwâm þät sweord geworht,îrena cyst ærest wære,wreoðen-hilt and wyrm-fâh. þâ se wîsa spräc
and once that hostile-hearted one,God’s own enemy, guilty of murder,had given up this world, and his mother too,it passed into the hands of the best of worldly kingsbetween the two seas,of those who ever dealt out treasurein the Danish lands. Hrothgar spoke, looked at the hilt,that ancient heirloom, on which was writtenthe beginning of an old conflict, from when the flood,the pouring sea, destroyed the race of giants —they suffered terribly for it; that was a peopleestranged from the eternal Lord;the Ruler gave themtheir final payment through the surging water.So it was, on that sword-guard of bright gold,rightly marked in letters of rune,
sunu Healfdenes (swîgedon ealle):"Þät lâ mäg secgan, se þe sôð and riht"fremeð on folce, (feor eal gemon"eald êðel-weard), þät þes eorl wære"geboren betera! Blæd is âræred"geond wîd-wegas, wine mîn Beówulf,"þîn ofer þeóda gehwylce. Eal þu hit geþyldum healdest,"mägen mid môdes snyttrum. Ic þe sceal mîne gelæstan"freóde, swâ wit furðum spræcon; þu scealt tô frôfre weorðan"eal lang-twidig leódum þînum,"häleðum tô helpe. Ne wearð Heremôd swâ"eaforum Ecgwelan, Âr-Scyldingum;"ne geweôx he him tô willan, ac tô wäl-fealle"and tô deáð-cwalum Deniga leódum;"breát bolgen-môd beód-geneátas,"eaxl-gesteallan, ôð þät he âna hwearf,
set down and stated, for whom that sword,finest of irons, was first made,with its wound hilt and its serpent-patterned blade.Then the wise one spoke, son of Healfdene(everyone fell silent): “This much one may say,whoever deals in truth and right among the people —and the old guardian of this homeland remembers far back —that this earl was born the better man!Your fame is raised up, my friend Beowulf,through every far country. You hold it all with patience,strength joined together with wisdom of mind.I will keep my friendship to you, as we agreed before;you shall become a lasting comfort to your own people,a help to warriors. Heremod did not turn out that wayfor the sons of Ecgwela, the honored Scyldings;he did not grow to their liking, but to slaughter
"mære þeóden. mon-dreámum from:"þeáh þe hine mihtig god mägenes wynnum,"eafeðum stêpte, ofer ealle men"forð gefremede, hwäðere him on ferhðe greów"breóst-hord blôd-reów: nallas beágas geaf"Denum äfter dôme; dreám-leás gebâd,"þät he þäs gewinnes weorc þrowade,"leód-bealo longsum. Þu þe lær be þon,"gum-cyste ongit! ic þis gid be þe"âwräc wintrum frôd. Wundor is tô secganne,"hû mihtig god manna cynne"þurh sîdne sefan snyttru bryttað,"eard and eorl-scipe, he âh ealra geweald."Hwîlum he on lufan læteð hworfan"monnes môd-geþonc mæran cynnes,
and death-dealing for the Danish people; in his ragehe cut down his own table-companions, his shoulder-comrades,until he turned away alone, that once-famous prince,from the joys of men: though mighty God had raised himin strength and power above every other man,yet in his heart a blood-thirsty hoard grew;he gave the Danes no rings at all for glory;he lived joyless, so that he suffered the painof that struggle, a long affliction on his people.Learn from that; grasp what true worth is!I have told you this tale, wise as I am with winters.It is a wonder to tell how mighty God,out of his generous spirit, hands out wisdomto mankind, land and rank; he has power over it all.Sometimes he lets the mind of a man of famous line
"seleð him on êðle eorðan wynne,"tô healdanne hleó-burh wera,"gedêð him swâ gewealdene worolde dælas,"sîde rîce, þät he his selfa ne mäg"for his un-snyttrum ende geþencean;"wunað he on wiste, nô hine wiht dweleð,"âdl ne yldo, ne him inwit-sorh"on sefan sweorceð, ne gesacu ôhwær,"ecg-hete eóweð, ac him eal worold"wendeð on willan; he þät wyrse ne con,"ôð þät him on innan ofer-hygda dæl"weaxeð and wridað, þonne se weard swefeð,"sâwele hyrde: bið se slæp tô fäst,"bisgum gebunden, bona swîðe neáh,"se þe of flân-bogan fyrenum sceóteð.
turn toward love, gives him earthly joysto hold in his homeland, a stronghold of men to guard,makes so many regions of the world subject to him,so wide a kingdom, that he himself,in his own lack of wisdom, cannot imagine an end to it;he lives in luxury, nothing troubles him at all,no sickness, no old age, no malicious sorrowdarkens his mind, no hostility anywhereshows him its sword-hate, but the whole worldturns as he wishes; he does not know the worse of it —until, within him, a share of pridegrows and flourishes, while the guardian sleeps,the soul’s own shepherd; that sleep is far too sound,weighed down with cares, the slayer very near,the one who shoots wickedly from his bow.”