Beówulf Wounded To Death
Þâ ic ät þearfe gefrägn þeód-cyningesand-longne eorl ellen cýðan,cräft and cênðu, swâ him gecynde wäs;ne hêdde he þäs heafolan, ac sió hand gebarnmôdiges mannes, þær he his mæges healp,þät he þone nîð-gäst nioðor hwêne slôh,secg on searwum, þät þät sweord gedeáffâh and fäted, þät þät fýr ongonsweðrian syððan. Þâ gen sylf cyninggeweóld his gewitte, wäll-seaxe gebräd,biter and beadu-scearp, þät he on byrnan wäg:forwrât Wedra helm wyrm on middan.Feónd gefyldan (ferh ellen wräc),and hi hyne þâ begen âbroten häfdon,sib-äðelingas: swylc sceolde secg wesan,
Then I have heard that, in his king’s need,the earl at his side showed his courage,his strength and boldness, just as was natural to him;he paid no mind to his own head, but the brave man’s handwas burned, as he helped his kinsman,so that he struck that hostile creaturesomewhat lower down, the man in his war-gear,so that the sword sank in, bright and gold-adorned,so that the fire then began to die down afterward.Then again the king himself came back to his senses,drew his war-knife, bitter and battle-sharp,which he wore on his mail-coat; the protector of the Wederscut the dragon through the middle. They brought down their enemy —courage drove out its life — and the two of them together
þegn ät þearfe. Þät þam þeódne wässîðast sîge-hwîle sylfes dædum,worlde geweorces. Þâ sió wund ongon,þe him se eorð-draca ær geworhte,swêlan and swellan. He þät sôna onfand,þät him on breóstum bealo-nîð weóll,âttor on innan. Þâ se äðeling gióng,þät he bî wealle, wîs-hycgende,gesät on sesse; seah on enta geweorc,hû þâ stân-bogan stapulum fästeêce eorð-reced innan heóldon.Hyne þâ mid handa heoro-dreórigneþeóden mærne þegn ungemete till,wine-dryhten his wätere gelafede,hilde-sädne and his helm onspeón.
had destroyed it, those noble kinsmen:so should a man be, a thane in time of need!That was, for the prince, the last of his moments of victory,by his own deeds, the last of his work in the world.Then the wound the earth-dragon had given him earlierbegan to burn and to swell; he soon discoveredthat a deadly evil was welling in his chest,poison within. Then the nobleman went,still clear in his thought, to where he could siton a seat by the wall; he looked on the work of giants,saw how those stone arches, fixed on their pillars,held up that eternal earth-hall from within.Then with his own hands, that most loyal of thanes,beyond all measure faithful, bathed his blood-stained lord,
Biówulf maðelode, he ofer benne spräc,wunde wäl-bleáte (wisse he gearwe,þät he däg-hwîla gedrogen häfdeeorðan wynne; þâ wäs eall sceacendôgor-gerîmes, deáð ungemete neáh):"Nu ic suna mînum syllan wolde"gûð-gewædu, þær me gifeðe swâ"ænig yrfe-weard äfter wurde,"lîce gelenge. Ic þâs leóde heóld"fîftig wintra: näs se folc-cyning"ymbe-sittendra ænig þâra,"þe mec gûð-winum grêtan dorste,"egesan þeón. Ic on earde bâd"mæl-gesceafta, heóld mîn tela,
glorious in battle, refreshed him with water,and loosened his helmet. Beowulf spoke,spoke despite his wound, his mortal injury(he knew well enough that he had lived outhis allotted days, enjoyed his time on earth;his full count of days was entirely spent,death immeasurably near): “Now I would wantto give my war-gear to my own son,had any heir of my body been granted me,to come after me. I have held this peoplefifty winters; there was no king among the neighboring nationswho dared to face me with battle-friends,threaten me with terror. I waited out my time on earth,held what was mine well, looked for no treacherous quarrels,
"ne sôhte searo-nîðas, ne me swôr fela"âða on unriht. Ic þäs ealles mäg,"feorh-bennum seóc, gefeán habban:"forþam me wîtan ne þearf waldend fira"morðor-bealo mâga, þonne mîn sceaceð"lîf of lîce. Nu þu lungre"geong, hord sceáwian under hârne stân,"Wîglâf leófa, nu se wyrm ligeð,"swefeð sâre wund, since bereáfod."Bió nu on ôfoste, þät ic ær-welan,"gold-æht ongite, gearo sceáwige"swegle searo-gimmas, þät ic þý sêft mæge"äfter mâððum-welan mîn âlætan"lîf and leód-scipe, þone ic longe heóld."
swore no false oaths. For all of thisI may have joy, sick as I am with mortal wounds,since the Ruler of men need not blame mefor the murder of kinsmen, once my lifedeparts from my body. Now go quickly,look at the hoard under the grey stone,dear Wiglaf, now that the dragon lies there,sleeping, sorely wounded, stripped of his treasure.Be quick, so that I may see that ancient wealth,that gold, may look with my own eyeson the bright, precious gems, so that I may,because of that great store of treasure,more easily give up my life and this lordshipthat I have held so long.”