Volume 2 — FROM 'BEOWULF'
Reading edition
[The Spear-Danes intrust the dead body of King Scyld to the sea, in a splendidly adorned ship. He had come to them mysteriously, alone in a ship, when an infant.]
At the hour that was fated Scyld then departed to the All-Father's keeping War-like to wend him; away then they bare him To the flood of the current, his fond-loving comrades. As himself he had bidden, while the friend of the Scyldings Word-sway wielded, and the well-lovèd land prince Long did rule them. The ring-stemmèd vessel, Bark of the atheling, lay there at anchor, Icy in glimmer and eager for sailing; The beloved leader laid they down there, Giver of rings, on the breast of the vessel, The famed by the mainmast. A many of jewels, Of fretted embossings, from far-lands brought over, Was placed near at hand then; and heard I not ever That a folk ever furnished a float more superbly With weapons of warfare, weeds for the battle, Bills and burnies; on his bosom sparkled Many a jewel that with him must travel On the flush of the flood afar on the current. And favors no fewer they furnished him soothly, Excellent folk-gems, than others had given him Lone on the main, the merest of infants: And a gold-fashioned standard they stretched under heaven High o'er his head, let the holm-currents bear him, Seaward consigned him: sad was their spirit, Their mood very mournful. Men are not able Soothly to tell us, they in halls who reside, Heroes under heaven, to what haven he hied. They guard the wolf-coverts, Lands inaccessible, wind-beaten nesses, Fearfullest fen-deeps, where a flood from the mountains 'Neath mists of the nesses netherward rattles, The stream under earth: not far is it henceward Measured by mile-lengths the mere-water standeth, Which forests hang over, with frost-whiting covered, A firm-rooted forest, the floods overshadow. There ever at night one an ill-meaning portent, A fire-flood may see; 'mong children of men None liveth so wise that wot of the bottom; Though harassed by hounds the heath-stepper seek for, Fly to the forest, firm-antlered he-deer, Spurred from afar, his spirit he yieldeth, His life on the shore, ere in he will venture To cover his head. Uncanny the place is: Thence upward ascendeth the surging of waters, Wan to the welkin, when the wind is stirring The weather unpleasing, till the air groweth gloomy, Then the heavens lower.
[Beowulf has plunged into the water of the mere in pursuit of Grendel's mother, and is a whole day in reaching the bottom. He is seized by the monster and carried to her cavern, where the combat ensues.]
The earl then discovered he was down in some cavern Where no water whatever anywise harmed him, And the clutch of the current could come not anear him, Since the roofed-hall prevented; brightness a-gleaming, Fire-light he saw, flashing resplendent. The good one saw then the sea-bottom's monster, The mighty mere-woman: he made a great onset With weapon-of-battle; his hand not desisted From striking; the war-blade struck on her head then A battle-song greedy. The stranger perceived then The sword would not bite, her life would not injure, But the falchion failed the folk-prince when straitened: Erst had it often onsets encountered, Oft cloven the helmet, the fated one's armor; 'Twas the first time that ever the excellent jewel Had failed of its fame. Firm-mooded after, Not heedless of valor, but mindful of glory Was Higelac's kinsman; the hero-chief angry Cast then his carved-sword covered with jewels That it lay on the earth, hard and steel-pointed; He hoped in his strength, his hand-grapple sturdy. So any must act whenever he thinketh To gain him in battle glory unending, And is reckless of living. The lord of the War-Geats (He shrank not from battle) seized by the shoulder The mother of Grendel; then mighty in struggle Swung he his enemy, since his anger was kindled, That she fell to the floor. With furious grapple She gave him requital early thereafter, And stretched out to grab him; the strongest of warriors Faint-mooded stumbled, till he fell in his traces, Foot-going champion. Then she sat on the hall-guest And wielded her war-knife wide-bladed, flashing, For her son would take vengeance, her one only bairn, His breast-armor woven bode on his shoulder; It guarded his life, the entrance defended 'Gainst sword-point and edges. Ecgtheow's son there Had fatally journeyed, champion of Geatmen, In the arms of the ocean, had the armor not given, Close-woven corselet, comfort and succor, And had God Most Holy not awarded the victory, All-knowing lord; easily did heaven's Ruler most righteous arrange it with justice; Uprose he erect ready for battle. Then he saw 'mid the war-gems a weapon of victory, An ancient giant-sword, of edges a-doughty, Glory of warriors: of weapons 'twas choicest, Only 'twas larger than any man else was Able to bear to the battle-encounter, The good and splendid work of the giants. He grasped then the sword-hilt, knight of the Scyldings, Bold and battle-grim, brandished his ring-sword. Hopeless of living, hotly he smote her, That the fiend-woman's neck firmly it grappled, Broke through her bone-joints, the bill fully pierced her Fate-cursed body, she fell to the ground then: The hand-sword was bloody, the hero exulted.
[Fifty years have elapsed. The aged Beowulf has died from the injuries received in his struggle with the Fire Drake. His body is burned, and a barrow erected.]
A folk of the Geatmen got him then ready A pile on the earth strong for the burning, Behung with helmets, hero-knight's targets, And bright-shining burnies, as he begged they should have them; Then wailing war-heroes their world-famous chieftain, Their liege-lord beloved, laid in the middle. Soldiers began then to make on the barrow The largest of dead fires: dark o'er the vapor The smoke cloud ascended; the sad-roaring fire, Mingled with weeping (the-wind-roar subsided) Till the building of bone it had broken to pieces, Hot in the heart. Heavy in spirit They mood-sad lamented the men-leader's ruin.... The men of the Weders made accordingly A hill on the height, high and extensive, Of sea-going sailors to be seen from a distance, And the brave one's beacon built where the fire was, In ten days' space, with a wall surrounded it, As wisest of world-folk could most worthily plan it. They placed in the barrow rings and jewels, All such ornaments as erst in the treasure War-mooded men had won in possession: The earnings of earlmen to earth they intrusted, The gold to the dust, where yet it remaineth As useless to mortals as in foregoing eras. 'Round the dead-mound rode then the doughty-in-battle, Bairns of all twelve of the chiefs of the people, More would they mourn, lament for their ruler, Speak in measure, mention him with pleasure; Weighed his worth, and his warlike achievements Mightily commended, as 'tis meet one praise his Liege lord in words and love him in spirit, When forth from his body he fares to destruction. So lamented mourning the men of the Geats, Fond loving vassals, the fall of their lord, Said he was gentlest of kings under heaven, Mildest of men and most philanthropic, Friendliest to folk-troops and fondest of honor.
By permission of John Leslie Hall, the Translator, and D.C. Heath & Co., Publishers.
DEOR'S LAMENT
Wayland often wandered in exile, doughty earl, ills endur'd, had for comrades care and longing, winter-cold wandering; woe oft found since Nithhad brought such need upon him,-- laming wound on a lordlier man. That pass'd over,--and this may, too! In Beadohild's breast, her brothers' death wrought no such ill as her own disgrace, when she had openly understood her maidhood vanished; she might no wise think how the case could thrive at all. That pass'd over,--and this may, too! We have heard enough of Hild's disgrace; heroes of Geat were homeless made, and sorrow stole their sleep away. That pass'd over,--and this may, too! Theodoric held for thirty winters Mæring's burg, as many have known. That pass'd over,--and this may, too! We have also heard of Ermanric's wolfish mind; wide was his sway o'er the Gothic race,--a ruler grim. Sat many a man in misery bound, waited but woe, and wish'd amain that ruin might fall on the royal house. That pass'd over,--and this may, too! Sitteth one sighing, sunder'd from happiness; all's dark within him; he deems forsooth that his share of evils shall endless be. Let such bethink him that thro' this world mighty God sends many changes: to earls a plenty honor he shows, ease and bliss; to others, sorrow. Now I will say of myself, and how I was singer once to the sons of Heoden, dear to my master, and Deor was my name. Long were the winters my lord was kind, happy my lot,--till Heorrenda now by grace of singing has gained the land which the "haven of heroes" erewhile gave me. That pass'd over,--and this may, too!
Translation of F.B. Gummere in the Atlantic Monthly, February, 1891: by permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.
FROM 'THE WANDERER' Oft-times the Wanderer waiteth God's mercy, Sad and disconsolate though he may be, Far o'er the watery track must he travel, Long must he row o'er the rime-crusted sea-- Plod his lone exile-path--Fate is severe. Mindful of slaughter, his kinsman friends' death, Mindful of hardships, the wanderer saith:-- Oft must I lonely, when dawn doth appear, Wail o'er my sorrow--since living is none Whom I may whisper my heart's undertone. Know I full well that in man it is noble Fast in his bosom his sorrow to bind. Weary at heart, yet his Fate is unyielding-- Help cometh not to his suffering mind. Therefore do those who are thirsting for glory Bind in their bosom each pain's biting smart. Thus must I often, afar from my kinsmen, Fasten in fetters my home-banished heart. Now since the day when my dear prince departed Wrapped in the gloom of his dark earthen grave, I, a poor exile, have wandered in winter Over the flood of the foam-frozen wave, Seeking, sad-hearted, some giver of treasure, Some one to cherish me friendless--some chief Able to guide me with wisdom of counsel, Willing to greet me and comfort my grief. He who hath tried it, and he alone, knoweth How harsh a comrade is comfortless Care Unto the man who hath no dear protector, Gold wrought with fingers nor treasure so fair. Chill is his heart as he roameth in exile-- Thinketh of banquets his boyhood saw spread; Friends and companions partook of his pleasures-- Knoweth he well that all friendless and lordless Sorrow awaits him a long bitter while;-- Yet, when the spirits of Sorrow and Slumber Fasten with fetters the orphaned exile, Seemeth him then that he seeth in spirit, Meeteth and greeteth his master once more, Layeth his head on his lord's loving bosom, Just as he did in the dear days of yore. But he awaketh, forsaken and friendless, Seeth before him the black billows rise, Seabirds are bathing and spreading their feathers, Hailsnow and hoar-frost are hiding the skies. Then in his heart the more heavily wounded, Longeth full sore for his loved one, his own, Sad is the mind that remembereth kinsmen, Greeting with gladness the days that are gone. Seemeth him then on the waves of the ocean Comrades are swimming,--well-nigh within reach,-- Yet from the spiritless lips of the swimmers Cometh familiar no welcoming speech. So is his sorrow renewed and made sharper When the sad exile so often must send Thoughts of his suffering spirit to wander Wide o'er the waves where the rough billows blend. So, lest the thought of my mind should be clouded, Close must I prison my sadness of heart, When I remember my bold comrade-kinsmen, How from the mede-hall I saw them depart. Thus is the earth with its splendor departing-- Day after day it is passing away, Nor may a mortal have much of true wisdom Till his world-life numbers many a day. He who is wise, then, must learn to be patient-- Not too hot-hearted, too hasty of speech, Neither too weak nor too bold in the battle, Fearful, nor joyous, nor greedy to reach, Neither too ready to boast till he knoweth-- Man must abide, when he vaunted his pride, Till strong of mind he hath surely determined Whether his purpose can be turned aside. Surely the wise man may see like the desert How the whole wealth of the world lieth waste, How through the earth the lone walls are still standing, Blown by the wind and despoiled and defaced. Covered with frost, the proud dwellings are ruined, Crumbled the wine-halls--the king lieth low, Robbed of his pride--and his troop have all fallen Proud by the wall--some, the spoil of the foe, War took away--and some the fierce sea-fowl Over the ocean--and some the wolf gray Tore after death--and yet others the hero Sad-faced has laid in earth-caverns away. Thus at his will the eternal Creator Famished the fields of the earth's ample fold-- Until her dwellers abandoned their feast-boards. Void stood the work of the giants of old. One who was viewing full wisely this wall-place, Pondering deeply his dark, dreary life. Spake then as follows, his past thus reviewing, Years full of slaughter and struggle and strife:-- "Wither, alas, have my horses been carried? Whither, alas, are my kinspeople gone? Where is my giver of treasure and feasting? Where are the joys of the hall I have known? Ah, the bright cup--and the corseleted warrior-- Ah, the bright joy of a king's happy lot! How the glad time has forever departed, Swallowed in darkness, as though it were not! Standeth, instead of the troop of young warriors, Stained with the bodies of dragons, a wall-- The men were cut down in their pride by the spearpoints-- Blood-greedy weapons--but noble their fall. Earth is enwrapped in the lowering tempest, Fierce on the stone-cliff the storm rushes forth, Cold winter-terror, the night shade is dark'ning, Hail-storms are laden with death from the north. All full of hardships is earthly existence-- Here the decrees of the Fates have their sway-- Fleeting is treasure and fleeting is friendship-- Here man is transient, here friends pass away. Earth's widely stretching, extensive domain, Desolate all--empty, idle, and vain." In 'Modern Language Notes': Translation of W.R. Sims.
THE SEAFARER
Sooth the song that I of myself can sing, Telling of my travels; how in troublous days, Hours of hardship oft I've borne! With a bitter breast-care I have been abiding; Many seats of sorrow in my ship have known! Frightful was the whirl of waves when it was my part Narrow watch at night to keep on my Vessel's prow When it rushed the rocks along. By the rigid cold Fast my feet were pinched, fettered by the frost, By the chains of cold. Care was sighing then Hot my heart around; hunger rent to shreds Courage in me, me sea-wearied! This the man knows not, He to whom it happens, happiest on earth, How I, carked with care, in the ice-cold sea, Overwent the winter on my wander-ways, All forlorn of happiness, all bereft of loving kinsmen, Hung about with icicles; flew the hail in showers. Nothing heard I there save the howling of the sea, And the ice-chilled billow, 'whiles the crying of the swan. All the glee I got me was the gannet's scream, And the swoughing of the seal, 'stead of mirth of men; 'Stead of the mead-drinking, moaning of the sea-mew. There the storms smote on the crags, there the swallow of the sea Answered to them, icy-plumed; and that answer oft the earn-- Wet his wings were--barked aloud. None of all my kinsmen Could this sorrow-laden soul stir to any joy. Little then does he believe who life's pleasure owns, While he tarries in the towns, and but trifling ills, Proud and insolent with wine--how out-wearied I Often must outstay on the ocean path! Sombre grew the shade of night, and it snowed from northward, Frost the field enchained, fell the hail on earth, Coldest of all grains. Wherefore now then crash together Thoughts my soul within that I should myself adventure The high streamings of the sea, and the sport of the salt waves! For a passion of the mind every moment pricks me on All my life to set a faring; so that far from hence, I may seek the shore of the strange outlanders. Yes, so haughty of his heart is no hero on the earth, Nor so good in all his giving, nor so generous in youth, Nor so daring in his deed, nor so dear unto his lord, That he has not always yearning unto his sea-faring, To whatever work his Lord may have will to make for him. For the harp he has no heart, nor for having of the rings, Nor in woman is his weal, in the world he's no delight, Nor in anything whatever save the tossing o'er the waves! Oh, forever he has longing who is urged towards the sea. Trees rebloom with blossoms, burghs are fair again, Winsome are the wide plains, and the world is gay-- All doth only challenge the impassioned heart Of his courage to the voyage, whosoever thus bethinks him, O'er the ocean billows, far away to go. Every cuckoo calls a warning, with his chant of sorrow! Sings the summer's watchman, sorrow is he boding, Bitter in the bosom's hoard. This the brave man wots not of, Not the warrior rich in welfare--what the wanderer endures, Who his paths of banishment, widest places on the sea. For behold, my thought hovers now above my heart; O'er the surging flood of sea now my spirit flies, O'er the homeland of the whale--hovers then afar O'er the foldings of the earth! Now again it flies to me Full of yearning, greedy! Yells that lonely flier; Whets upon the Whale-way irresistibly my heart, O'er the storming of the seas!
Translation of Stopford Brooke.
THE FORTUNES OF MEN
Full often it falls out, by fortune from God, That a man and a maiden may marry in this world, Find cheer in the child whom they cherish and care for, Tenderly tend it, until the time comes, Beyond the first years, when the young limbs increasing Grown firm with life's fullness, are formed for their work. Fond father and mother so guide it and feed it, Give gifts to it, clothe it: God only can know What lot to its latter days life has to bring. To some that make music in life's morning hour Pining days are appointed of plaint at the close. One the wild wolf shall eat, hoary haunter of wastes: His mother shall mourn the small strength of a man. One shall sharp hunger slay; one shall the storm beat down; One be destroyed by darts, one die in war. One shall live losing the light of his eyes, Feel blindly with fingers; and one, lame of foot, With sinew-wound wearily wasteth away, Musing and mourning, with death in his mind. One, failing feathers, shall fall from the height Of the tall forest tree; yet he trips as though flying, Plays proudly in air till he reaches the point Where the woodgrowth is weak; life then whirls in his brain, Bereft of his reason he sinks to the root, Falls flat on the ground, his life fleeting away. Afoot on the far-ways, his food in his hand, One shall go grieving, and great be his need, Press dew on the paths of the perilous lands Where the stranger may strike, where live none to sustain. All shun the desolate for being sad. One the great gallows shall have in its grasp, Stained in dark agony, till the soul's stay, The bone-house, is bloodily all broken up; When the harsh raven hacks eyes from the head, The sallow-coated, slits the soulless man. Nor can he shield from shame, scare with his hands, Off from their eager feast prowlers of air. Lost is his life to him, left is no breath, Bleached on the gallows-beam bides he his doom; Cold death-mists close round him called the Accursed. One shall die by the dagger, in wrath, drenched with ale, Wild through wine, on the mead bench, too swift with his words; Through the hand that brings beer, through the gay boon companion, His mouth has no measure, his mood no restraint; Too lightly his life shall the wretched one lose, Undergo the great ill, be left empty of joy. When they speak of him slain by the sweetness of mead, His comrades shall call him one killed by himself. Some have good hap, and some hard days of toil; Some glad glow of youth, and some glory in war, Strength in the strife; some sling the stone, some shoot. One shall handle the harp, at the feet of his hero Sit and win wealth from the will of his Lord; Still quickly contriving the throb of the cords, The nail nimbly makes music, awakes a glad noise, While the heart of the harper throbs, hurried by zeal.
Translation of Henry Morley.
FROM 'JUDITH'
[The Assyrian officers, obeying the commands of Holofernes, come to the carouse.]
They then at the feast proceeded to sit, The proud to the wine-drinking, all his comrades-in-ill, Bold mailèd-warriors. There were lofty beakers Oft borne along the benches, also were cups and flagons Full to the hall-sitters borne. The fated partook of them, Brave warriors-with-shields, though the mighty weened not of it, Awful lord of earls. Then was Holofernes, Gold-friend of men, full of wine-joy: He laughed and clamored, shouted and dinned, That children of men from afar might hear How the strong-minded both stormed and yelled, Moody and mead-drunken, often admonished The sitters-on-benches to bear themselves well. Thus did the hateful one during all day His liege-men loyal keep plying with wine, Stout-hearted giver of treasure, until they lay in a swoon.
[Holofernes has been slain by Judith. The Hebrews, encouraged by her, surprise the drunken and sleeping Assyrians.]
Then the band of the brave was quickly prepared, Of the bold for battle; stepped out the valiant Men and comrades, bore their banners, Went forth to fight straight on their way The heroes 'neath helmets from the holy city At the dawn itself; shields made a din, Loudly resounded. Thereat laughed the lank Wolf in the wood, and the raven wan, Fowl greedy for slaughter: both of them knew That for them the warriors thought to provide Their fill on the fated; and flew on their track The dewy-winged eagle eager for prey, The dusky-coated sang his war-song, The crooked-beaked. Stepped forth the warriors, The heroes for battle with boards protected, With hollow shields, who awhile before The foreign-folk's reproach endured, The heathens' scorn; fiercely was that At the ash-spear's play to them all repaid, All the Assyrians, after the Hebrews Under their banners had boldly advanced To the army-camps. They bravely then Forthright let fly showers of arrows, Of battle-adders, out from the horn-bows, Of strongly-made shafts; stormed they aloud, The cruel warriors, sent forth their spears Among the brave; the heroes were angry, The dwellers-in-land, with the loathed race; The stern-minded stepped, the stout-in-heart, Rudely awakened their ancient foes Weary from mead; with hands drew forth The men from the sheaths the brightly-marked swords Most choice in their edges, eagerly struck Of the host of Assyrians the battle-warriors, The hostile-minded; not one they spared Of the army-folk, nor low nor high Of living men, whom they might subdue.
By consent of Ginn & Co. Translation of Garnett.
THE FIGHT AT MALDON
[The Anglo-Saxons under Byrhtnoth are drawn up on one side of Panta stream, the Northmen on the other. The herald of the Northmen demands tribute. Byrhtnoth replies.]
Then stood on the stathe, stoutly did call, The wikings' herald, with words he spake, Who boastfully bore from the brine-farers An errand to th' earl, where he stood on the shore:-- "To thee me did send the seamen snell, Bade to thee say, thou must send to them quickly Bracelets for safety; and 'tis better for you That ye this spear-rush with tribute buy off Than we in so fierce a fight engage. We need not each spill, if ye speed to this: We will for the pay a peace confirm. If thou that redest, who art highest in rank, If thou to the seamen at their own pleasure Money for peace, and take peace from us, We will with the treasure betake us to ship, Fare on the flood, and peace with you confirm." Byrhtnoth replied, his buckler uplifted, Waved his slim spear, with words he spake, Angry and firm gave answer to him:-- "Hear'st thou, seafarer, what saith this folk? They will for tribute spear-shafts you pay, Poisonous points and trusty swords, Those weapons that you in battle avail not. Herald of seamen, hark back again, Say to thy people much sadder words:-- Here stands not unknown an earl with his band, Who will defend this fatherland, Æthelred's home, mine own liege lord's, His folk and field; ye're fated to fall, Ye heathen, in battle. Too base it me seems That ye with our scats to ship may go Unfought against, so far ye now hither Into our country have come within; Ye shall not so gently treasure obtain; Shall spear and sword sooner beseem us, Grim battle-play, ere tribute we give."
[The Northmen, unable to force a passage, ask to be allowed to cross and fight it out on an equal footing. Byrhtnoth allows this.]
"Now room is allowed you, come quickly to us, Warriors to war; wot God alone Who this battle-field may be able to keep." Waded the war-wolves, for water they recked not, The wikings' band west over Panta, O'er the clear water carried their shields, Boatmen to bank their bucklers bore. There facing their foes ready were standing Byrhtnoth with warriors: with shields he bade The war-hedgel work, and the war-band hold Fast 'gainst the foes. Then fight was nigh, Glory in battle; the time was come That fated men should there now fall. Then outcry was raised, the ravens circled, Eagle eager for prey; on earth was uproar. Then they let from their fists the file-hardened spears, The darts well-ground, fiercely fly forth: The bows were busy, board point received, Bitter the battle-rush, warriors fell down, On either hand the youths lay dead.
By consent of Ginn & Co. Translation of Garnett.