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

Until that within him a deal of o'erthinking
Waxeth and groweth while sleepeth the warder,
The soul's herdsman; that slumber too fast is forsooth,
Fast bounden by troubles, the banesman all nigh,
E'en he that from arrow-bow evilly shooteth.
Then he in his heart under helm is besmitten
With a bitter shaft; not a whit then may he ward him
From the wry wonder-biddings of the ghost the all-wicked.
Too little he deems that which long he hath holden,
Wrath-greedy he covets; nor e'en for boast-sake gives
The rings fair beplated; and the forth-coming doom
Forgetteth, forheedeth, for that God gave him erewhile,
The Wielder of glory, a deal of the worship.
At the ending-stave then it after befalleth

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That the shell of his body sinks fleeting away,
And falleth all fey; and another one fetcheth,
E'en one that undolefully dealeth the treasure,
The earl's gains of aforetime, and fear never heedeth.

“From the bale-envy ward thee, lief Beowulf, therefore,
Thou best of all men, and choose thee the better,
The redes everlasting; to o'erthinking turn not,
O mighty of champions! for now thy might breatheth
For a short while of time; but eft-soon it shall be
That sickness or edges from thy strength thee shall sunder,
Or the hold of the fire, or the welling of floods,
Or the grip of the sword-blade, or flight of the spear,
Or eld the all-evil: or the beaming of eyen
Shall fail and shall dim: then shall it be forthright
That thee, lordly man, the death over-masters.
E'en so I the Ring-Danes for an hundred of seasons
Did wield under the welkin and lock'd them by war
From many a kindred the Middle Garth over
With ash-spears and edges, in such wise that not ever
Under the sky's run of my foemen I reckon'd.
What! to me in my land came a shifting of that,
Came grief after game, sithence Grendel befell,
My foeman of old, mine ingoer soothly.
I from that onfall bore ever unceasing
Mickle mood-care; herefor be thanks to the Maker,
To the Lord everlasting, that in life I abided,
Yea, that I on that head all sword-gory there,
Now the old strife is over, with eyen should stare.
Go fare thou to settle, the feast-joyance dree thou,
O war-worshipp'd! unto us twain yet there will be
Mickle treasure in common when come is the morning.”

They feast again; they go bedward: the morrow

Glad of mood then the Geat was, and speedy he gat him
To go see the settle, as the sage one commanded.
Then was after as erst, that they of the might-fame,
The floor-sitters, fairly the feasting bedight them
All newly. The helm of the night loured over,
Dark over the host-men. Uprose all the doughty,

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For he, the hoar-blended, would wend to his bed,
That old man of the Scyldings. The Geat without measure,
The mighty shield-warrior, now willed him rest.
And soon now the hall-thane him of way-faring weary,
From far away come, forth show'd him the road,
E'en he who for courtesy cared for all things
Of the needs of the thane, e'en such as on that day
The farers o'er ocean would fainly have had.

Rested then the wide-hearted; high up the house tower'd
Wide-gaping all gold-dight; within slept the guest;
Until the black raven, the blithe-hearted, boded
The heavens' joy: then was come thither a-hastening
The bright sun o'er the plains, and hasten'd the scathers,
The Athelings, once more aback to their people
All fain to be faring; and far away thence
Would the comer high-hearted go visit his keel.
Bade then the hard one Hrunting to bear,
The Ecglaf's son bade to take him his sword,
The iron well-lov'd; gave him thanks for the lending,
Quoth he that the war-friend for worthy he told,
Full of craft in the war; nor with word blam'd he aught
The edge of the sword. Hah! the high-hearted warrior.

So whenas all way-forward, yare in their war-gear
Were the warriors, the dear one then went to the Danes,
To the high seat went the Atheling, whereas was the other;
The battle-bold warrior gave greeting to Hrothgar.