The Collected Works of William Morris :: :: University of Virginia Library

There was then on the morning, as I have heard tell it,
Round the gift-hall a many of men of the warriors:
Were faring folk-leaders from far and from near
O'er the wide-away roads, the wonder to look on,
The track of the Loathly: his life-sundering nowise
Was deem'd for a sorrow to any of men there
Who gaz'd on the track of the gloryless wight;
How he all a-weary of mood thence awayward,
Brought to naught in the battle, to the mere of the nicors,
Now fey and forth-fleeing, his life-steps had flitted.
There all in the blood was the sea-brim a-welling,
The dread swing of the waves was washing all mingled
With hot blood; with the gore of the sword was it welling;
The death-doom'd had dyed it, sithence he unmerry
In his fen-hold had laid down the last of his life,
His soul of the heathen, and hell gat hold on him.

Thence back again far'd they those fellows of old,
With many a young one, from their wayfaring merry,

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Full proud from the mere-side on mares there a-riding
The warriors on white steeds. There then was of Beowulf
Set forth the might mighty; oft quoth it a many
That nor northward nor south ward beside the twin sea-floods,
Over all the huge earth's face now never another,
Never under the heaven's breadth, was there a better,
Nor of wielders of war-shields a worthier of king-ship;
But neither their friendly lord blam'd they one whit,
Hrothgar the glad, for good of kings was he.
There whiles the warriors far-famed let leap

A warrior tells of Sigemund

Their fair fallow horses and fare into flyting
Where unto them the earth-ways for fair-fashion'd seemed,
Through their choiceness well kenned; and whiles a king's thane,
A warrior vaunt-laden, of lays grown bemindful,
E'en he who all many of tales of the old days
A multitude minded, found other words also
Sooth-bounden, and boldly the man thus began
E'en Beowulf's wayfare well wisely to stir,

Wælsing, or Son of Wæls, i.e. Sigemund, who was father (and uncle) of Fitela by his sister Signy. This is told at length in the Icelandic Volsung Story: where Fitela is called Sinfjötli.

With good speed to set forth the spells well areded
And to shift about words. And well of all told he
That he of Sigemund erst had heard say,
Of the deeds of his might; and many things uncouth:
Of the strife of the Wælsing and his wide wayfarings,
Of those that men's children not well yet they wist,
The feud and the crimes, save Fitela with him;
Somewhat of such things yet would he say,
The eme to the nephew; e'en as they aye were
In all strife soever fellows full needful;
And full many had they of the kin of the eotens
Laid low with the sword. And to Sigemund upsprang

How Sigemund slew the Worm

After his death-day fair doom unlittle
Sithence that the war-hard the Worm there had quelled,
The herd of the hoard; he under the hoar stone,
The bairn of the Atheling, all alone dar'd it,
That wight deed of deeds; with him Fitela was not.
But howe'er, his hap was that the sword so through-waded
The Worm the all-wondrous, that in the wall stood

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The iron dear-wrought: and the drake died the murder.

In the Volsung Story it is Sigurd the son of Sigmund who slays the Worm

There had the warrior so won by wightness,
That he of the ring-hoard the use might be having
All at his own will. The sea-boat he loaded,
And into the ship's barm bore the bright fretwork
Wæls' son. In the hotness the Worm was to-molten.
Now he of all wanderers was widely the greatest
Through the peoples of man-kind, the warder of warriors,
By mighty deeds; erst then and early he throve.

Heremod is here and elsewhere put forward as an example of a bad chieftain. Of his story nothing is known outside of this book

Now sithence the warfare of Heremod waned,
His might and his valour, amidst of the eotens
To the wielding of foemen straight was he betrayed,
And speedily sent forth: by the surges of sorrow
O'er-long was he lam'd, became he to his lieges,
To all of the athelings, a life-care thenceforward.
Withal oft bemoaned in times that were older
The ways of that stout heart many a carle of the wisest,
Who trow'd in him boldly for booting of bales,
And had look'd that the king's bairn should ever be thriving,
His father's own lordship should take, hold the folk,
The hoard and the ward-burg, and realm of the heroes,
The own land of the Scyldings. To all men was Beowulf,

Hrothgar comes to Hart

The Hygelac's kinsman to the kindred of menfolk,
More fair unto friends; but on Heremod crime fell.

So whiles the men flyting, the fallow street there
With their mares were they meting. There then was the morn-light
Thrust forth and hasten'd; went many a warrior
All hardy of heart to the high hall aloft
The rare wonder to see; and the King's self withal
From the bride-bower wended, the warder of ring-hoards,
All glorious he trod and a mickle troop had he,
He for choice ways beknown; and his Queen therewithal
Meted the mead-path with a meyny of maidens.