The Tale of Beowulf/Chapter 38
XXXVIII. BEOWULF BEHOLDETH THE TREASURE AND PASSETH AWAY.
THEN heard I that swiftly the son of that Weohstan2751After this word-say his lord the sore wounded,Battle-sick, there obeyed, and bare forth his ring-net,His battle-sark woven, in under the burg-roof;Saw then victory-glad as by the seat went he,The kindred-thane moody, sun-jewels a many,Much glistering gold lying down on the ground,Many wonders on wall, and the den of the Worm,The old twilight-flier; there were flagons a-standing,2759The vats of men bygone, of brighteners bereft,And maim'd of adornment; was many an helmRusty and old, and of arm-rings a manyFull cunningly twined. All lightly may treasure,The gold in the ground, every one of mankindBefool with o'erweening, hide it who will.Likewise he saw standing a sign there all-goldenHigh over the hoard, the most of hand-wonders,With limb-craft belocked, whence light a ray gleamed,Whereby the den's ground-plain gat he to look on, The fair works scan throughly. Not of the Worm there2770Was aught to be seen now, but the edge had undone him.Heard I then that in howe of the hoard was bereaving,The old work of the giants, but one man alone,Into his barm laded beakers and dishesAt his very own doom; and the sign eke he took,The brightest of beacons. But the bill of the old lord(The edge was of iron) erewhile it scathedHim who of that treasure hand-bearer wasA long while, and fared a-bearing the flame-dreadBefore the hoard hot, and welling of fierceness2780In the midnights, until that by murder he died.In haste was the messenger, eager of back-fare,Further'd with fretted gems. Him longing fordidTo wot whether the bold man he quick there shall meetIn that mead-stead, e'en he the king of the Weders,All sick of his might, whereas he erst left him.He fetching the treasure then found the king mighty,His own lord, yet there, and him ever all goryAt end of his life; and he yet once again Fell the water to warp o'er him, till the word's point2790Brake through the breast-hoard, and Beowulf spake out,The aged, in grief as he gaz'd on the gold:Now I for these fretworks to the Lord of all thanking,To the King of all glory, in words am yet saying,To the Lord ever living, for that which I look on;Whereas such I might for the people of mine,Ere ever my death-day, get me to own.Now that for the treasure-hoard here have I soldMy life and laid down the same, frame still then everThe folk-need, for here never longer I may be.2800So bid ye the war-mighty work me a howeBright after the bale-fire at the sea's nose,Which for a remembrance to the people of meAloft shall uplift him at Whale-ness for ever,That it the sea-goers sithence may hoteBeowulf's Howe, e'en they that the high-shipsOver the flood-mists drive from afar.Did off from his halse then a ring was all golden,The king the great-hearted, and gave to his thane,To the spear-warrior young his war-helm gold-brindled,2810 The ring and the byrny, and bade him well brook them:Thou art the end-leaving of all of our kindred,The Wægmundings; Weird now hath swept all awayOf my kinsmen, and unto the doom of the MakerThe earls in their might; now after them shall I.That was to the aged lord youngest of wordsOf his breast-thoughts, ere ever he chose him the bale,The hot battle-wellings; from his heart now departedHis soul, to seek out the doom of the soothfast.