The Fire-Drake. The Hoard
Nealles mid geweoldum wyrm-horda . . . cräftsôhte sylfes willum, se þe him sâre gesceôd,ac for þreá-nêdlan þeów nât-hwylceshäleða bearna hete-swengeas fleáh,for ofer-þearfe and þær inne fealhsecg syn-bysig. Sôna in þâ tîdeþät . . . . . þam gyste . . . . br . g . stôd,hwäðre earm-sceapen . . . . . . .. . ð . . . sceapen o . . . . i r . . e se fæs begeat,sinc-fät geseah: þær wäs swylcra felain þam eorð-scräfe ær-gestreóna,swâ hy on geâr-dagum gumena nât-hwylceormen-lâfe äðelan cynnesþanc-hycgende þær gehýdde,deóre mâðmas. Ealle hie deáð fornam
Not at all of his own free will did he seek outthat dragon-hoard’s — craft, not by his own choice —he who so grievously wounded him — but out of dire need,a servant of some man’s household, fled the hostile blowsof the sons of men, driven by great necessity,and got in there, that man burdened with guilt.At once, at that hour, — something stood before the visitor —though the wretched creature —— he saw a treasure-vessel there: a great many suchancient treasures lay in that earth-cavern,just as, long ago, some man of noble linehad hidden them there thoughtfully, an enormous legacy,dear-bought treasures. Death had taken them allin earlier days,and the one who still remained,
ærran mælum, and se ân þâ genleóda duguðe, se þær lengest hwearf,weard wine-geômor wîscte þäs yldan,þät he lytel fäc long-gestreónabrûcan môste. Beorh eal gearowunode on wonge wäter-ýðum neáh,niwe be nässe nearo-cräftum fäst:þær on innan bär eorl-gestreónahringa hyrde hard-fyrdne dælfättan goldes, feá worda cwäð:"Heald þu nu, hruse, nu häleð ne môston,"eorla æhte. Hwät! hit ær on þe"gôde begeâton; gûð-deáð fornam,"feorh-bealo frêcne fyra gehwylcne,"leóda mînra, þâra þe þis lîf ofgeaf,
the last survivor of that people’s veterans,a friend-mourning guardian, expected the same for himself —that he would be allowed to enjoy those long-lasting treasuresonly a little while. A barrow stood all readyon open ground, close by the sea-waves,new by the headland, made fast by cunning craft;there he carried in the earls’ treasure,that guardian of rings, a heavy weightof plated gold, and spoke these few words:“Hold now, earth, since heroes cannot,what earls once owned. Listen — it was won from you,long ago, by worthy men;war-death has taken them,terrible life-destroying evil, every one of my people,all who gave up this life, who once knew hall-joy.
"gesâwon sele-dreám. Nâh hwâ sweord wege"oððe fetige fäted wæge,"drync-fät deóre: duguð ellor scôc."Sceal se hearda helm hyrsted golde"fätum befeallen: feormiend swefað,"þâ þe beado-grîman býwan sceoldon,"ge swylce seó here-pâd, sió ät hilde gebâd"ofer borda gebräc bite îrena,"brosnað äfter beorne. Ne mäg byrnan hring"äfter wîg-fruman wîde fêran"häleðum be healfe; näs hearpan wyn,"gomen gleó-beámes, ne gôd hafoc"geond säl swingeð, ne se swifta mearh"burh-stede beáteð. Bealo-cwealm hafað"fela feorh-cynna feorr onsended!"
I have no one now to bear a sword, or polishthat plated cup,that precious drinking-vessel;that noble company has gone elsewhere.The hard helmet, gold-adorned, must lose its plating;the polishers sleep,those who once keptthe battle-mask bright; and that war-coat too,which endured the bite of blades in battle,over the crash of shields, decays now with the warrior.Nor can the ringed mail-shirt travel far and wideat a war-leader’s side, among heroes;there is no harp-joy now,no delight of the glee-wood, no good hawkswings through the hall, no swift horse
Swâ giômor-môd giohðo mænde,ân äfter eallum unblîðe hweóp,däges and nihtes, ôð þät deáðes wylmhrân ät heortan. Hord-wynne fondeald uht-sceaða opene standan,se þe byrnende biorgas sêceðnacod nîð-draca, nihtes fleógeðfýre befangen; hyne fold-bûendwîde gesâwon. He gewunian sceallhlâw under hrusan, þær he hæðen goldwarað wintrum frôd; ne byð him wihte þê sêl.Swâ se þeód-sceaða þreó hund wintraheóld on hrusan hord-ärna sumeácen-cräftig, ôð þät hyne ân âbealhmon on môde: man-dryhtne bär
stamps in the courtyard. Baleful death has sent awayso many of the living!” So, sad at heart,he mourned his grief, alone after all the rest,unhappy, by day and by night, until death’s tidetouched him at the heart. That old twilight-marauderfound the hoard-joy standing open —he who, burning,seeks out barrows, the naked, hostile dragon,flies by night wrapped in fire; the land-dwellersdread him greatly. He is fated to seek a hoardin the earth, where, old, he guards heathen gold;it does him no good at all. So that people’s tormentorheld that hoard-house in the earth for three hundred winters,immense in his strength, until a certain manangered him to the heart:
fäted wæge, frioðo-wære bädhlâford sînne. Þâ wäs hord râsod,onboren beága hord, bêne getîðadfeá-sceaftum men. Freá sceáwodefira fyrn-geweorc forman sîðe.Þâ se wyrm onwôc, wrôht wäs geniwad;stonc þâ äfter stâne, stearc-heort onfandfeóndes fôt-lâst; he tô forð gestôp,dyrnan cräfte, dracan heáfde neáh.Swâ mäg unfæge eáðe gedîganweán and wräc-sîð, se þe waldendeshyldo gehealdeð. Hord-weard sôhtegeorne äfter grunde, wolde guman findan,þone þe him on sweofote sâre geteóde:hât and hreóh-môd hlæw oft ymbe hwearf,
he brought his lorda plated cup, begged his lord for terms of peace.Then the hoard was ransacked, the ring-treasure taken away,the plea granted to that wretched man;his lord looked, for the first time, on that ancient work of men.Then the dragon woke, and strife began again;it went sniffing along the stone, stout-hearted,found the enemy’s footprint: he had stepped too close,with stealthy craft, right by the dragon’s head.So a man not marked for death may easily survivemisfortune and exile, if he keepsthe Ruler’s favor! The hoard-guardian searchedeagerly along the ground, wanted to find the manwho had done him this wrong while he slept;hot and fierce
ealne ûtan-weardne; ne þær ænig monwäs on þære wêstenne. Hwäðre hilde gefeh,beado-weorces: hwîlum on beorh äthwearf,sinc-fät sôhte; he þät sôna onfand,þät häfde gumena sum goldes gefandodheáh-gestreóna. Hord-weard onbâdearfoðlîce, ôð þät æfen cwom;wäs þâ gebolgen beorges hyrde,wolde se lâða lîge forgyldandrinc-fät dýre. Þâ wäs däg sceacenwyrme on willan, nô on wealle lengbîdan wolde, ac mid bæle fôr,fýre gefýsed. Wäs se fruma egeslîcleódum on lande, swâ hyt lungre wearðon hyra sinc-gifan sâre geendod.
in his spirit, he circled the barrow again and again,all the way round; there was no man at allin that wasteland. Even so he took joy in the thought of battle,of war-work; now and then he turned back into the barrow,hunted for the treasure-cup; he soon found outthat some man had tampered with the gold, the high treasure.The hoard-guardian waited, hardly able to bear it,until evening came; then the barrow’s keeper was enraged,that hateful one wanted to pay back with firefor that precious drinking-cup. Then the day was gone,just as the dragon wished; it would no longer waiton the wall, but set out with fire,girded in flame. The beginning was terribleto the people of that land, just as, soon after,it came harshly to an end for their treasure-giver.