The Tale of Beowulf/Chapter 39
XXXIX. WIGLAF CASTETH SHAME ON THOSE FLEERS.
BUT gone was it then with the unaged man2820Full hard that there he beheld on the earthThe liefest of friends at the ending of life,Of bearing most piteous. And likewise lay his baneThe Earth-drake, the loathly fear, reft of his life,By bale laid undone: the ring-hoards no longerThe Worm, the crook-bowed, ever might wield;For soothly the edges of the irons him bare off,The hard battle-sharded leavings of hammers, So that the wide-flier stilled with woundingFell onto earth anigh to his hoard-hall,2830Nor along the lift ever more playing he turnedAt middle-nights, proud of the owning of treasure,Show'd the face of him forth, but to earth there he fellBecause of the host-leader's work of the hand.This forsooth on the land hath thriven to few,Of men might and main bearing, by hearsay of mine,Though in each of all deeds full daring he were,That against venom-scather's fell breathing he set on,Or the hall of his rings with hand be a-stirring,If so be that he waking the warder had found2840Abiding in burg. By Beowulf wasHis deal of the king-treasure paid for by death;There either had they fared on to the endOf this loaned life. Long it was not untilThose laggards of battle the holt were a-leaving,Unwarlike troth-liars, the ten there together,Who durst not e'en now with darts to be playingE'en in their man-lord's most mickle need.But shamefully now their shields were they bearing,Their weed of the battle, there where lay the aged;2850 They gazed on Wiglaf where weary'd he sat,The foot-champion, hard by his very lord's shoulder,And wak'd him with water: but no whit it sped him;Never might he on earth howsoe'er well he will'd itIn that leader of spears hold the life any more,Nor the will of the Wielder change ever a whit;But still should God's doom of deeds rule the redeFor each man of men, as yet ever it doth.Then from out of the youngling an answer full grim2859Easy got was for him who had lost heart erewhile,And word gave out Wiglaf, Weohstan's son,The sorrowful-soul'd man: on those unlief he saw:Lo that may he say who sooth would be saying,That the man-lord who dealt you the gift of those dear things,The gear of the war-host wherein there ye stand,Whereas he on the ale-bench full oft was a-givingUnto the hall-sitters war-helm and byrny,The king to his thanes, e'en such as he choicestAnywhere, far or near, ever might find:2869That he utterly wrongsome those weeds of the war Had cast away, then when the war overtook him.Surely never the folk-king of his fellows in battleHad need to be boastful; howsoever God gave him,The Victory-wielder, that he himself wreak'd himAlone with the edge, when to him need of might was.Unto him of life-warding but little might IGive there in the war-tide; and yet I beganAbove measure of my might my kinsman to help;Ever worse was the Worm then when I with swordSmote the life-foe, and ever the fire less stronglyWelled out from his wit. Of warders o'er littleThrong'd about the king when him the battle befell.2882Now shall taking of treasures and giving of swordsAnd all joy of your country-home fail from your kindred,All hope wane away; of the land-right moreoverMay each of the men of that kinsman's burg everRoam lacking; sithence that the athelings eft-soonsFrom afar shall have heard of your faring in flight,Your gloryless deed. Yea, death shall be betterFor each of the earls than a life ever ill-fam'd.2890