Retrospect Of Beówulf.—Strife Between Sweonas And Geatas
Se þäs leód-hryres leán gemundeuferan dôgrum, Eádgilse wearðfeá-sceaftum feónd. Folce gestepteofer sæ sîde sunu Ôhtereswîgum and wæpnum: he gewräc syððancealdum cear-sîðum, cyning ealdre bineát.Swâ he nîða gehwane genesen häfde,slîðra geslyhta, sunu Ecgþiówes,ellen-weorca, ôð þone ânne däg,þe he wið þam wyrme gewegan sceolde.Gewât þâ twelfa sum torne gebolgendryhten Geáta dracan sceáwian;häfde þâ gefrunen, hwanan sió fæhð ârâs,bealo-nîð biorna; him tô bearme cwom
He planned repayment for that prince’s fallin later days, became a friendto the wretched Eadgils. He backed, across the wide sea,the son of Ohthere with warriors and weapons;he later took his revenge, through cold, sorrowful campaigns,stripped that king of his life.So he had come throughevery conflict, every dangerous battle,the son of Ecgtheow, through deeds of courage,right up to that one day when he had to fightagainst the dragon. Then he set out, one of twelve,swollen with anger, the lord of the Geats,to look at the dragon; by then he had learnedhow the feud had begun,
mâððum-fät mære þurh þäs meldan hond,Se wäs on þam þreáte þreotteoða secg,se þäs orleges ôr onstealde,häft hyge-giômor, sceolde heán þononwong wîsian: he ofer willan gióngtô þäs þe he eorð-sele ânne wisse,hlæw under hrusan holm-wylme nêh,ýð-gewinne, se wäs innan fullwrätta and wîra: weard unhióre,gearo gûð-freca, gold-mâðmas heóld,eald under eorðan; näs þät ýðe ceáp,tô gegangenne gumena ænigum.Gesät þâ on nässe nîð-heard cyning,þenden hælo âbeád heorð-geneátum
that men’s evil deed;that famous treasure-cup had come into his handsthrough the informer’s own. He was the thirteenth manin that company, the one who had startedthe whole conflict, a captive, sad at heart;he had to lead them, humbled, to that place;he went against his will to where he alone knewof an earth-hall, a barrow beneath the ground,close to the sea’s surging, the strife of the waves,which was full within of wire-work and jewels;a monstrous guardian, ready for battle,held the gold treasures, old beneath the earth;that was no easy bargain for any man to strike.Then the battle-hardened king sat down on the headland,
gold-wine Geáta: him wäs geômor sefa,wäfre and wäl-fûs, Wyrd ungemete neáh,se þone gomelan grêtan sceolde,sêcean sâwle hord, sundur gedælanlîf wið lîce: nô þon lange wäsfeorh äðelinges flæsce bewunden.Biówulf maðelade, bearn Ecgþeówes:"Fela ic on giogoðe guð-ræsa genäs,"orleg-hwîla: ic þät eall gemon."Ic wäs syfan-wintre, þâ mec sinca baldor,"freá-wine folca ät mînum fäder genam,"heóld mec and häfde Hrêðel cyning,"geaf me sinc and symbel, sibbe gemunde;"näs ic him tô lîfe lâðra ôwihte
while he wished good luck to his hearth-companions,the gold-friend of the Geats;his spirit was sorrowful,restless and death-ready, his fate immeasurably near,the fate that was to greet that old man,seek out his soul’s treasure, tear life from body:not for long after that was the prince’s spiritstill wrapped in flesh. Beowulf spoke, son of Ecgtheow:“I survived many battle-rushes in my youth,times of war: I remember all of that.I was seven years old when the lord of treasures,the friendly lord of the people, took me from my father;King Hrethel kept me and had me in his household,gave me treasure and feasting, remembered our kinship;
"beorn in burgum, þonne his bearna hwylc,"Herebeald and Hæðcyn, oððe Hygelâc mîn."Wäs þam yldestan ungedêfelîce"mæges dædum morðor-bed strêd,"syððan hyne Hæðcyn of horn-bogan,"his freá-wine flâne geswencte,"miste mercelses and his mæg ofscêt,"brôðor ôðerne, blôdigan gâre:"þät wäs feoh-leás gefeoht, fyrenum gesyngad"hreðre hyge-mêðe; sceolde hwäðre swâ þeáh"äðeling unwrecen ealdres linnan."Swâ bið geômorlîc gomelum ceorle"tô gebîdanne, þät his byre rîde"giong on galgan, þonne he gyd wrece,
I was to him, while I lived, no less dear,a warrior in his strongholds, than any of his own sons,Herebeald and Haethcyn, or my own Hygelac.For the eldest, unfittingly, through a kinsman’s own act,a death-bed was spread, when Haethcyn, from his horn-bow,struck down his own friendly lord with an arrow,missed his mark and shot his own kinsman,one brother the other, with a bloody shaft:that was a fight with no compensation,a wrongful sin,heavy on the heart; even so, the princehad to lose his life unavenged.So it is a sorrowful thing for an old manto live to see his son ride, young, on the gallows;
"sârigne sang, þonne his sunu hangað"hrefne tô hrôðre and he him helpe ne mäg,"eald and in-frôd, ænige gefremman."Symble bið gemyndgad morna gehwylce"eaforan ellor-sîð; ôðres ne gýmeð"tô gebîdanne burgum on innan"yrfe-weardes, þonne se ân hafað"þurh deáðes nýd dæda gefondad."Gesyhð sorh-cearig on his suna bûre"wîn-sele wêstne, wind-gereste,"reóte berofene; rîdend swefað"häleð in hoðman; nis þær hearpan swêg,"gomen in geardum, swylce þær iú wæron.
then he may speak a lament, a grieving song,while his son hangs there for the raven’s pleasure,and he, old and worn with experience, can donothing at all to help him. He is reminded,every single morning, of his son’s going elsewhere;he cares nothing to wait for another heirwithin his walls, once that one has, through death’s compulsion,already tasted his own deeds. He looks, sorrowful,on his son’s dwelling, the deserted wine-hall,the wind’s own resting-place, stripped of joy;the riders sleep, the warriors, in the grave;there is no sound of the harp, no joy in the yards,such as there once were.