Wiglaf Helps Beówulf In The Feud
Wîglâf wäs hâten Weoxstânes sunu,leóflîc lind-wiga, leód Scylfinga,mæg Älfheres: geseah his mon-dryhtenunder here-grîman hât þrowian.Gemunde þâ þâ âre, þe he him ær forgeafwîc-stede weligne Wægmundinga,folc-rihta gehwylc, swâ his fäder âhte;ne mihte þâ forhabban, hond rond gefêng,geolwe linde, gomel swyrd geteáh,þät wäs mid eldum Eánmundes lâf,suna Ôhteres, þam ät säcce wearðwracu wine-leásum Weohstânes banamêces ecgum, and his mâgum ätbärbrûn-fâgne helm, hringde byrnan,eald sweord eotonisc, þät him Onela forgeaf,his gädelinges gûð-gewædu,
Wiglaf was he called, son of Weohstan,a beloved shield-warrior, a prince of the Scylfings,kinsman of Aelfhere: he saw his lordsuffering the heat under his war-mask.He remembered then the favor his lord had granted him,the wealthy dwelling of the Waegmundings,every folk-right his father had held;he could not hold back then —his hand seized the shield,the yellow linden-wood, drew his old sword,known among men as the legacy of Eanmund,son of Ohthere, whom, friendless in exile,Weohstan killed with the sword’s edge in battle,and carried off to his kinsmen the brown-gleaming helmet,the ringed mail-coat, the old giant-made swordthat Onela had given him, his kinsman’s own war-gear,
fyrd-searo fûslîc: nô ymbe þâ fæhðe spräc,þeáh þe he his brôðor bearn âbredwade.He frätwe geheóld fela missera,bill and byrnan, ôð þät his byre mihteeorl-scipe efnan, swâ his ær-fäder;geaf him þâ mid Geátum gûð-gewædaæghwäs unrîm; þâ he of ealdre gewât,frôd on forð-weg. Þâ wäs forma sîðgeongan cempan, þät he gûðe ræsmid his freó-dryhtne fremman sceolde;ne gemealt him se môd-sefa, ne his mæges lâfgewâc ät wîge: þät se wyrm onfand,syððan hie tôgädre gegân häfdon.Wîglâf maðelode word-rihta fela,sägde gesîðum, him wäs sefa geômor:"Ic þät mæl geman, þær we medu þêgun,
ready battle-equipment:he did not speak of that feud,though he had cut down his brother’s son.He kept that gear for many a long year,the sword and the mail-coat, until his own soncould perform deeds of courage, as his father had before him;then he gave him,among the Geats, war-gear beyond counting,when he departed from life, old, on his way onward.This was the young champion’s first occasionto carry out a battle-charge beside his noble lord;his courage did not melt, nor did his kinsman’s legacyfail him in the fight:the dragon found that out,once the two of them had come together.Wiglaf spoke many fitting words,
"þonne we gehêton ûssum hlâforde"in biór-sele, þe ûs þâs beágas geaf,"þät we him þâ gûð-geatwa gyldan woldon,"gif him þyslîcu þearf gelumpe,"helmas and heard sweord: þê he ûsic on herge geceás"tô þyssum sîð-fate sylfes willum,"onmunde ûsic mærða and me þâs mâðmas geaf,"þê he ûsic gâr-wîgend gôde tealde,"hwate helm-berend, þeáh þe hlâford ûs"þis ellen-weorc âna âþôhte"tô gefremmanne, folces hyrde,"forþam he manna mæst mærða gefremede,"dæda dollîcra. Nu is se däg cumen,"þät ûre man-dryhten mägenes behôfað"gôdra gûð-rinca: wutun gangan tô,
said to his companions — his heart was sorrowful:“I remember the time when we drank mead together,when we promised our lord, in the beer-hall,the one who gave us these rings, that we would repay himfor this war-gear, should such need ever befall him,these helmets and hard swords: he chose us out of the armyfor this venture of his own will, thought us worth glory,and gave me these treasures, because he counted usgood spear-warriors, brave helmet-bearers —even though our lord meant to carry out this deed of couragealone, protector of his people, since he has donethe most glorious deeds, the boldest actions, of any man.Now the day has come that our liege-lordhas need of the strength of good warriors: let us go to him,help our battle-leader, while the terror lasts,
"helpan hild-fruman, þenden hyt sý,"glêd-egesa grim! God wât on mec,"þät me is micle leófre, þät mînne lîc-haman"mid mînne gold-gyfan glêd fäðmie."Ne þynceð me gerysne, þät we rondas beren"eft tô earde, nemne we æror mægen"fâne gefyllan, feorh ealgian"Wedra þiódnes. Ic wât geare,"þät næron eald-gewyrht, þät he âna scyle"Geáta duguðe gnorn þrowian,"gesîgan ät säcce: sceal ûrum þät sweord and helm,"byrne and byrdu-scrûd bâm gemæne."Wôd þâ þurh þone wäl-rêc, wîg-heafolan bärfreán on fultum, feá worda cwäð:"Leófa Biówulf, læst eall tela,
this grim dread of fire! God knows in methat it is far dearer to me that the flame should take my bodyalong with my gold-giver.It does not seem right to methat we should carry our shields back home,unless we can first bring down the enemy,defend the life of the prince of the Weders.I know well that his past deeds do not deservethat he alone, of all the troop of Geats,should suffer this grief, sink in this struggle:sword and helmet, mail-coat and war-dress,shall be shared between the two of us.”He waded then through the deadly smoke,bore his war-helmet to help his lord,spoke a few words: “Beloved Beowulf,
"swâ þu on geoguð-feore geâra gecwæde,"þät þu ne âlæte be þe lifigendum"dôm gedreósan: scealt nu dædum rôf,"äðeling ân-hydig, ealle mägene"feorh ealgian; ic þe fullæstu!"Äfter þâm wordum wyrm yrre cwom,atol inwit-gäst ôðre sîðe,fýr-wylmum fâh fiónda niósan,lâðra manna; lîg-ýðum forbornbord wið ronde: byrne ne meahtegeongum gâr-wigan geóce gefremman:ac se maga geonga under his mæges scyldelne geeode, þâ his âgen wäsglêdum forgrunden. Þâ gen gûð-cyningmærða gemunde, mägen-strengo,
carry it all through well, just as you said, long ago,in your youth, that while you livedyou would not let your glory fail: you must now,resolute in your deeds, noble-minded prince,defend your life with all your strength;I will stand by you!” After these wordsthe dragon came in fury a second time,that terrible, hostile spirit, with surging flames,to seek out its enemies, those hated men;the shield burned to the boss in waves of fire;the mail-coat could offer no help at allto the young spear-warrior;but the young man pressed on boldlyunder his kinsman’s shield, once his own had been destroyed by the flames.Then the war-king still remembered glory,
slôh hilde-bille, þät hyt on heafolan stôdnîðe genýded: Nägling forbärst,geswâc ät säcce sweord Biówulfesgomol and græg-mæl. Him þät gifeðe ne wäs,þät him îrenna ecge mihtonhelpan ät hilde; wäs sió hond tô strong,se þe mêca gehwane mîne gefrægeswenge ofersôhte, þonne he tô säcce bärwæpen wundrum heard, näs him wihte þê sêl.Þâ wäs þeód-sceaða þriddan sîðe,frêcne fýr-draca fæhða gemyndig,ræsde on þone rôfan, þâ him rûm âgeald,hât and heaðo-grim, heals ealne ymbefêngbiteran bânum; he geblôdegod wearðsâwul-drióre; swât ýðum weóll.
struck with his battle-sword with all his might,so that it stuck in the head, driven by hatred:Naegling shattered, Beowulf’s own swordfailed him in the fight, old and grey.It was not granted to him that edges of ironcould help him in that battle; his hand was too strong —the hand that, I have heard, overtaxed every bladewith its own stroke, whenever he carried into battlea weapon wondrously hard — it did him no good, even so.Then the people’s tormentor, for the third time,that terrible fire-dragon, mindful of feuds,rushed at that brave man, when the chance was given,hot and battle-fierce, seized his whole neckbetween its sharp teeth; he grew bloodied with his own life’s blood;blood welled out in waves.