The Tale of Beowulf/Chapter 37

by unknown author

XXXVII. THEY TWO SLAY THE WORM. BEOWULF IS WOUNDED DEADLY: HE BIDDETH WIGLAF BEAR OUT THE TREASURE.

THEN heard I that at need of the high king of folkThe upright earl made well manifest might,His craft and his keenness as kind was to him;The head there he heeded not (but the hand burnedOf that man of high mood when he helped his kinsman),Whereas he now the hate-guest smote yet a deal nether,That warrior in war-gear, whereby the sword dived,The plated, of fair hue, and thereby fell the flameTo minish thereafter, and once more the king's self2701Wielded his wit, and his slaying-sax drew out,The bitter and battle-sharp, borne on his byrny;Asunder the Weder's helm smote the Worm midmost;They felled the fiend, and force drave the life out,And they twain together had gotten him ending,Those athelings sib. E'en such should a man be, A thane good at need. Now that to the king wasThe last victory-while, by the deeds of himself,Of his work of the world. Sithence fell the wound,2710That the earth-drake to him had wrought but erewhile,To swell and to sweal; and this soon he found out,That down in the breast of him bale-evil welled,The venom withinward; then the Atheling wended,So that he by the wall, bethinking him wisdom,Sat on seat there and saw on the works of the giants,How that the stone-bows fast stood on pillars,The earth-house everlasting upheld withinward.Then with his hand him the sword-gory,That great king his thane, the good beyond measure,2720His friend-lord with water washed full well,The sated of battle, and unspann'd his war-helm.Forth then spake Beowulf, and over his wound said,His wound piteous deadly; wist he full well,That now of his day-whiles all had he dreed,Of the joy of the earth; all was shaken asunderThe tale of his days; death without measure nigh: Unto my son now should I be givingMy gear of the battle, if to me it were grantedAny ward of the heritage after my days2730To my body belonging. This folk have I holdenFifty winters; forsooth was never a folk-kingOf the sitters around, no one of them soothly,Who me with the war-friends durst wend him to greet,And bear down with the terror. In home have I abidedThe shapings of whiles, and held mine own well.No wily hates sought I; for myself swore not manyOf oaths in unright. For all this may I,Sick with the life-wounds, soothly have joy.Therefore naught need wyte me the Wielder of men2740With kin murder-bale, when breaketh asunderMy life from my lyke. And now lightly go thouTo look on the hoard under the hoar stone,Wiglaf mine lief, now that lieth the WormAnd sleepeth sore wounded, beshorn of his treasure;And be hasty that I now the wealth of old time,The gold-having may look on, and yarely beholdThe bright cunning gems, that the softlier may IAfter the treasure-weal let go awayMy life, and the folk-ship that long I have held.