Memories Of Past Time.—The Feud With The Fire-Drake
"Gewîteð þonne on sealman, sorh-leóð gäleð"ân äfter ânum: þûhte him eall tô rûm,"wongas and wîc-stede. Swâ Wedra helm"äfter Herebealde heortan sorge"weallende wäg, wihte ne meahte"on þam feorh-bonan fæhðe gebêtan:"nô þý ær he þone heaðo-rinc hatian ne meahte"lâðum dædum, þeáh him leóf ne wäs."He þâ mid þære sorge, þe him sió sâr belamp,"gum-dreám ofgeaf, godes leóht geceás;"eaferum læfde, swâ dêð eádig mon,"lond and leód-byrig, þâ he of lîfe gewât."Þâ wäs synn and sacu Sweona and Geáta,"ofer wîd wäter wrôht gemæne,"here-nîð hearda, syððan Hrêðel swealt,"oððe him Ongenþeówes eaferan wæran
“He goes then to his sleeping-chamber, sings a sorrow-song,one man alone for the other; it all seemed to himtoo spacious now, the fields and the dwelling-place.So the protector of the Weders carried surging heart-sorrowafter Herebeald’s death;he could not at allsettle the feud with that killer,nor could he hate that warrior for his hateful deed,though he was no longer dear to him.He then,with that grief that had befallen him so painfully,gave up the joys of men, chose God’s own light;he left to his sons, as a wealthy man does,his land and his strongholds, when he departed from life.Then there was crime and strife between the Swedes and the Geats,a shared hostility, across the wide water,
"frome fyrd-hwate, freóde ne woldon"ofer heafo healdan, ac ymb Hreosna-beorh"eatolne inwit-scear oft gefremedon."Þät mæg-wine mîne gewræcan,"fæhðe and fyrene, swâ hyt gefræge wäs,"þeáh þe ôðer hit ealdre gebohte,"heardan ceápe: Hæðcynne wearð,"Geáta dryhtne, gûð onsæge."Þâ ic on morgne gefrägn mæg ôðerne"billes ecgum on bonan stælan,"þær Ongenþeów Eofores niósade:"gûð-helm tôglâd, gomela Scylfing"hreás heoro-blâc; hond gemunde"fæhðo genôge, feorh-sweng ne ofteáh."Ic him þâ mâðmas, þe he me sealde,"geald ät gûðe, swâ me gifeðe wäs,
harsh warfare, once Hrethel died,and Ongentheow’s sons were bold and battle-eager,would not keep peace across the seas,but around Hreosnabeorhoften carried out terrible, malicious raids.My own kinsmen avenged that,the feud and the wrong,as is well known,though one of them paid for it with his life,a hard bargain: that battle proved fatalfor Haethcyn, lord of the Geats. Then, I heard,in the morning, one kinsman avenged the otheron his killer, with the sword’s edge,when Ongentheow struck at Eofor:his war-helmet split apart,the old Scylfing fell, pale from the sword-stroke;
"leóhtan sweorde: he me lond forgeaf,"eard êðel-wyn. Näs him ænig þearf,"þät he tô Gifðum oððe tô Gâr-Denum"oððe in Swió-rîce sêcean þurfe"wyrsan wîg-frecan, weorðe gecýpan;"symle ic him on fêðan beforan wolde,"âna on orde, and swâ tô aldre sceall"säcce fremman, þenden þis sweord þolað,"þät mec ær and sîð oft gelæste,"syððan ic for dugeðum Däghrefne wearð"tô hand-bonan, Hûga cempan:"nalles he þâ frätwe Fres-cyninge,"breóst-weorðunge bringan môste,"ac in campe gecrong cumbles hyrde,"äðeling on elne. Ne wäs ecg bona,"ac him hilde-grâp heortan wylmas,
his hand remembered feuds enough,did not hold back the death-blow. I repaid him in battlefor the treasures he had given me, with a shining sword,as was granted to me; he gave me land,a homeland to enjoy. There was no need for himto seek out a worse warrior among the Gifthas,or the Spear-Danes, or in Sweden,and buy him with wealth;I would always go before him on foot,alone in the vanguard, and so I shall alwayswage battle, as long as this sword holds out,which has served me well, early and late,ever since I became, before the assembled troops,the hand-slayer of Daeghrefn, champion of the Hugas:he was never able to carry off those trophies,that breast-ornament, to the Frisian king,
"bân-hûs gebräc. Nu sceall billes ecg,"hond and heard sweord ymb hord wîgan."Beówulf maðelode, beót-wordum spräcniéhstan sîðe: "Ic genêðde fela"gûða on geogoðe; gyt ic wylle,"frôd folces weard, fæhðe sêcan,"mærðum fremman, gif mec se mân-sceaða"of eorð-sele ût gesêceð!"Gegrêtte þâ gumena gehwylcne,hwate helm-berend hindeman sîðe,swæse gesîðas: "Nolde ic sweord beran,"wæpen tô wyrme, gif ic wiste hû"wið þam aglæcean elles meahte"gylpe wiðgrîpan, swâ ic gió wið Grendle dyde;"ac ic þær heaðu-fýres hâtes wêne,"rêðes and-hâttres: forþon ic me on hafu
but he fell in battle, that standard-bearer,a nobleman in his courage.No edge was his slayer,but a battle-grip crushed the surging of his heart,broke his bone-house. Now the sword’s edge,hand and hard blade, shall fight for the hoard.”Beowulf spoke, uttered boast-wordsfor the last time: “I risked much in battlein my youth;even now, old as I am, guardian of this people,I will seek out this feud, perform a glorious deed,if that evil-doer will come out to mefrom his earth-hall!” Then he addressed each of his men,brave helmet-bearers, for the last time,his dear companions: “I would not carry a sword,a weapon, against the dragon, if I knew any other way
"bord and byrnan. Nelle ic beorges weard"oferfleón fôtes trem, feónd unhýre,"ac unc sceal weorðan ät wealle, swâ unc Wyrd geteóð,"metod manna gehwäs. Ic eom on môde from,"þät ic wið þone gûð-flogan gylp ofersitte."Gebîde ge on beorge byrnum werede,"secgas on searwum, hwäðer sêl mæge"äfter wäl-ræse wunde gedýgan"uncer twega. Nis þät eówer sîð,"ne gemet mannes, nefne mîn ânes,"þät he wið aglæcean eofoðo dæle,"eorl-scype efne. Ic mid elne sceall"gold gegangan oððe gûð nimeð,"feorh-bealu frêcne, freán eówerne!"Ârâs þâ bî ronde rôf oretta,heard under helm, hioro-sercean bär
I might grapple with this monster, as I once did with Grendel;but I expect hot battle-fire there,poisonous breath, and so I have onshield and mail-coat. I will not flee a single foot’s lengthfrom the barrow’s guardian, but it shall go for us at the walljust as fate allots it,the Measurer of every man.I am resolute in spirit, so that I will forgoboasting against this war-flier. Wait for me on the barrow,protected by your mail-shirts, you warriors in your gear,to see which of the two of us can better bear his woundsafter this deadly onslaught. This is not your undertaking,nor is it fitting for any man but me alone,that he should match his strength against this monster,perform this earl’s deed. I shall win the gold by courage,or else battle, terrible, life-destroying evil,
under stân-cleofu, strengo getrûwodeânes mannes: ne bið swylc earges sîð.Geseah þâ be wealle, se þe worna fela,gum-cystum gôd, gûða gedîgde,hilde-hlemma, þonne hnitan fêðan,(stôd on stân-bogan) streám ût þonanbrecan of beorge; wäs þære burnan wälmheaðo-fýrum hât: ne meahte horde neáhunbyrnende ænige hwîledeóp gedýgan for dracan lêge.Lêt þâ of breóstum, þâ he gebolgen wäs,Weder-Geáta leód word ût faran,stearc-heort styrmde; stefn in becomheaðo-torht hlynnan under hârne stân.Hete wäs onhrêred, hord-weard oncniówmannes reorde; näs þær mâra fyrst,
will take your lord!” Then the famous championrose up by his shield, hard under his helmet,bore his battle-shirt in under the stone cliffs,trusted in the strength of one man alone:that is no coward’s way. Then he who had lived throughvery many battles, many crashes of war,when troops of foot-soldiers clashed together,saw, standing by the wall —there was a stone archway there —a stream breaking out from the barrow; the surge of that springwas hot with battle-fires: he could not survive there,near the hoard, for any length of time without burning,because of the dragon’s flame. Then, since he was enraged,the prince of the Weder-Geats let words burst from his chest,stout-hearted, shouted out; his voice went in,battle-clear, ringing under the grey stone.
freóde tô friclan. From ærest cwomoruð aglæcean ût of stâne,hât hilde-swât; hruse dynede.Biorn under beorge bord-rand onswâfwið þam gryre-gieste, Geáta dryhten:þâ wäs hring-bogan heorte gefýsedsäcce tô sêceanne. Sweord ær gebrädgôd gûð-cyning gomele lâfe,ecgum ungleáw, æghwäðrum wäsbealo-hycgendra brôga fram ôðrum.Stîð-môd gestôd wið steápne rondwinia bealdor, þâ se wyrm gebeáhsnûde tôsomne: he on searwum bâd.Gewât þâ byrnende gebogen scrîðan tô,gescîfe scyndan. Scyld wel gebearglîfe and lîce lässan hwîle
Hatred was stirred up; the hoard-guardian knewa man’s voice for what it was;there was no more time nowto look for friendship. First the monster’s breathcame out of the stone, hot battle-vapor;the earth resounded. The man under the barrowswung his shield-board up against the terrible stranger,the lord of the Geats; then the coiled creature’s heartwas roused to seek out battle. The good war-kinghad already drawn his sword, that ancient heirloom,its edges not blunt; each of the two, bent on destruction,felt terror of the other.The lord of his troopstood resolute behind his tall shield,when the dragon coiled itself quickly together:he waited there in his armor. Then, burning, coiled,
mærum þeódne, þonne his myne sôhte,þær he þý fyrste forman dôgorewealdan môste, swâ him Wyrd ne gescrâfhrêð ät hilde. Hond up âbrädGeáta dryhten, gryre-fâhne slôhincge lâfe, þät sió ecg gewâcbrûn on bâne, bât unswîðor,þonne his þiód-cyning þearfe häfde,bysigum gebæded. Þâ wäs beorges weardäfter heaðu-swenge on hreóum môde,wearp wäl-fýre, wîde sprungonhilde-leóman: hrêð-sigora ne gealpgold-wine Geáta, gûð-bill geswâcnacod ät nîðe, swâ hyt nô sceolde,îren ær-gôd. Ne wäs þät êðe sîð,
it came gliding on, rushing toward its fate.The shield protected well the life and bodyof that famous prince, for a shorter timethan his purpose demanded, if he was to prevail,for the first time in his life, that day,since fate had not decreed him glory in that battle.The lord of the Geats raised up his hand,struck the terror-streaked one with his ancestral blade,so that the edge failed, bright against the bone,bit less strongly than the king had need of,hard-pressed as he was by his troubles. Then the barrow’s guardianwas fierce in spirit after that battle-stroke,flung out deadly fire, war-flames sprang wide;the gold-friend of the Geats had no victory to boast of,his war-blade had failed him, naked, in the fight,
þät se mæra maga Ecgþeówesgrund-wong þone ofgyfan wolde;sceolde wyrmes willan wîc eardianelles hwergen, swâ sceal æghwylc monâlætan læn-dagas. Näs þâ long tô þon,þät þâ aglæcean hy eft gemêtton.Hyrte hyne hord-weard, hreðer æðme weóll,niwan stefne: nearo þrowodefýre befongen se þe ær folce weóld.Nealles him on heápe hand-gesteallan,äðelinga bearn ymbe gestôdonhilde-cystum, ac hy on holt bugon,ealdre burgan. Hiora in ânum weóllsefa wið sorgum: sibb æfre ne mägwiht onwendan, þam þe wel þenceð.
as it should not have, that excellent ancient iron.It was no easy journey, that the famous son of Ecgtheowshould have to give up that ground; he had to takea dwelling elsewhere, against his will, in some other place,just as every man must give up these loaned days.It was not long after that before the two combatants met again.The hoard-guardian took heart,his chest heaved with breathonce more; he suffered anguish, wrapped in fire,he who had once ruled his people. His companions did notstand around him in a body, sons of nobles,with warlike courage, but they fled into the woods,saved their own lives. Only in one of themdid his heart surge with sorrow: nothing can everset kinship aside, in a man who thinks rightly.