The Tale of Beowulf/Chapter 36
XXXVI. WIGLAF SON OF WEOHSTAN GOES TO THE HELP OF BEOWULF: NÆGLING, BEOWULF'S SWORD, IS BROKEN ON THE WORM.
WIGLAF so hight he, the son of Weohstan,Lief linden-warrior, and lord of Scylfings,The kinsman of Aelfhere: and he saw his man-lordUnder his host-mask tholing the heat;He had mind of the honour that to him gave he erewhile,The wick-stead the wealthy of them, the Wægmundings,And the folk-rights each one which his father had owned.Then he might not withhold him, his hand gripp'd the round,Yellow linden; he tugg'd out withal the old sword,That was known among men for the heirloom of Eanmund,2610Ohthere's son, unto whom in the strife did become,To the exile unfriended, Weohstan for the baneWith the sword-edge, and unto his kinsmen bare off The helm the brown-brindled, the byrny beringed,And the old eoten-sword that erst Onela gave him;Were they his kinsman's weed of the war,Host-fight-gear all ready. Of the feud nothing spake he,Though he of his brother the bairn had o'erthrown.But the host-gear befretted he held many seasons,The bill and the byrny, until his own boy mightDo him the earlship as did his ere-father.2621Amidst of the Geats then he gave him the war-weedOf all kinds unnumber'd, whenas he from life wendedOld on the forth-way. Then was the first timeFor that champion the young that he the war-raceWith his high lord the famed e'er he should frame:Naught melted his mood, naught the loom of his kinsmanWeaken'd in war-tide; that found out the WormWhen they two together had gotten to come.2629Now spake out Wiglaf many words rightwise,And said to his fellows: all sad was his soul:I remember that while when we gat us the mead,And whenas we behight to the high lord of us In the beer-hall, e'en he who gave us these rings,That we for the war-gear one while would pay,If unto him thislike need e'er should befall,For these helms and hard swords. So he chose us from hostTo this faring of war by his very own will,Of glories he minded us, and gave me these gems here,Whereas us of gar-warriors he counted for good,And bold bearers of helms. Though our lord e'en for us2641This work of all might was of mind all aloneHimself to be framing, the herd of the folk,Whereas most of all men he hath mightiness framed,Of deeds of all daring, yet now is the day comeWhereon to our man-lord behoveth the mainOf good battle-warriors; so thereunto wend we,And help we the host-chief, whiles that the heat be,The gleed-terror grim. Now of me wotteth GodThat to me is much liefer that that, my lyke-body,2650With my giver of gold the gleed should engrip.Unmeet it methinketh that we shields should bearBack unto our own home, unless we may erstThe foe fell adown and the life-days defendOf the king of the Weders. Well wot I hereof That his old deserts naught such were, that he onlyOf all doughty of Geats the grief should be bearing,Sink at strife. Unto us shall one sword be, one helm,One byrny and shield, to both of us common.Through the slaughter-reek waded he then, bare his war-helm2660To the finding his lord, and few words he quoth:O Beowulf the dear, now do thee all well,As thou in thy youthful life quothest of yore,That naught wouldst thou let, while still thou wert living,Thy glory fade out. Now shalt thou of deeds famed,The atheling of single heart, with all thy main dealFor the warding thy life, and to stay thee I will.Then after these words all wroth came the Worm,The dire guest foesome, that second of whilesWith fire-wellings flecked, his foes to go look on,The loath men. With flame was lightly then burnt up2671The board to the boss, and might not the byrnyTo the warrior the young frame any help yet.But so the young man under shield of his kinsman Went onward with valour, whenas his own wasAll undone with gleeds; then again the war-kingRemember'd his glories, and smote with main mightWith his battle-bill, so that it stood in the headNeed-driven by war-hate. Then asunder burst Nægling,Waxed weak in the war-tide, e'en Beowulf's sword,2680The old and grey-marked; to him was not givenThat to him any whit might the edges of ironsBe helpful in battle; over-strong was the handWhich every of swords, by the hearsay of me,With its swing over-wrought, when he bare unto strifeA wondrous hard weapon; naught it was to him better.Then was the folk-scather for the third of times yet,The fierce fire-drake, all mindful of feud;He rac'd on that strong one, when was room to him given,Hot and battle-grim; he all the halse of him gripped2690With bitter-keen bones; all bebloody'd he waxedWith the gore of his soul. Well'd in waves then the war-sweat.