Part XXXVII

IT was heavy hap for that hero youngon his lord beloved to look and find himlying on earth with life at end,sorrowful sight. But the slayer too,awful earth-dragon, empty of breath,lay felled in fight, nor, fain of its treasure,could the writhing monster rule it more.For edges of iron had ended its days,hard and battle-sharp, hammers' leaving;and that flier-afar had fallen to groundhushed by its hurt, its hoard all near,no longer lusty aloft to whirlat midnight, making its merriment seen,proud of its prizes: prone it sankby the handiwork of the hero-king.Forsooth among folk but few achieve,-- though sturdy and strong, as stories tell me,and never so daring in deed of valor, --the perilous breath of a poison-foeto brave, and to rush on the ring-board hall,whenever his watch the warden keepsbold in the barrow. Beowulf paidthe price of death for that precious hoard;and each of the foes had found the endof this fleeting life.Befell erelongthat the laggards in war the wood had left,trothbreakers, cowards, ten together,fearing before to flourish a spearin the sore distress of their sovran lord.Now in their shame their shields they carried,armor of fight, where the old man lay;and they gazed on Wiglaf. Wearied he satat his sovran's shoulder, shieldsman good,to wake him with water. Nowise it availed.Though well he wished it, in world no morecould he barrier life for that leader-of-battlesnor baffle the will of all-wielding God.Doom of the Lord was law o'er the deedsof every man, as it is to-day.Grim was the answer, easy to get,from the youth for those that had yielded to fear!Wiglaf spake, the son of Weohstan, --mournful he looked on those men unloved: --"Who sooth will speak, can say indeedthat the ruler who gave you golden ringsand the harness of war in which ye stand-- for he at ale-bench often-timesbestowed on hall-folk helm and breastplate,lord to liegemen, the likeliest gearwhich near of far he could find to give, --threw away and wasted these weeds of battle,on men who failed when the foemen came!Not at all could the king of his comrades-in-armsventure to vaunt, though the Victory-Wielder,God, gave him grace that he got revengesole with his sword in stress and need.To rescue his life, 'twas little that Icould serve him in struggle; yet shift I made(hopeless it seemed) to help my kinsman.Its strength ever waned, when with weapon I struckthat fatal foe, and the fire less stronglyflowed from its head. -- Too few the heroesin throe of contest that thronged to our king!Now gift of treasure and girding of sword,joy of the house and home-delightshall fail your folk; his freehold-landevery clansman within your kinshall lose and leave, when lords high-bornhear afar of that flight of yours,a fameless deed. Yea, death is betterfor liegemen all than a life of shame!"