And with his hands bathed tenderly his dear lord drenched in gore,

And with the battle all forspent, and did his helm undo. Then of his wound Beowulf spoke-that gash of deathly hue

Full well he knew his day of life, his joy of earth was

done,

His death exceeding near at hand, his tale of days

outrun

And thus he said:

I'd give

"Now to my son my battle-weed

If of my body any heir to guard it yet did live.

For fifty years I've ruled the folk. Of all the peoples

near

No king durst meet me with his hosts nor cause me aught to fear.

At home I bode my time; held well my own; no quarrels sought;

Nor swore an oath unrighteously. With death-wounds now o'er-wrought

In that I may rejoice! When life and body sundered

be

No kinsman's slaughter can the Lord of man impute to me!

Now quickly go, dear Wiglaf! Seek the hoard

beneath grey stone,

Now that the dragon lies asleep, with grievous wounds o'erthrown,

Of goods bereft; and use all speed that I may close behold

The jewels cunning wrought, old wealth, and all the store of gold,

And so when treasure rich is mine that I may pass away More easily from life and land I've held this many a day!"

Then at the words, as I have heard, straightway did Wohstan's heir

Obey his wounded dying lord; his linked war-coat he

bare,

And ring-mail 'neath the cavern's roof. And when he passed the seat

The brave thane, proud of victory, saw lying at his

feet

Much jewel-work and glittering gold, and wonders on the wall

The dragon's den, where stood the old night-flyer's beakers all,

The cups of bygone men-unbrightened-shorn of

ornament;

And many a rusty helmet old, and many armlets bent And closed with cunning skill.

Keep it who will,

The gold that lay within the den,

might well surpass all treasures

known to men.

And high above the hoard he saw a golden banner

stand,

Fastened with cunning finger-craft, most wondrous work of hand;

And from it flashed a beam of light that he could see

the ground,

And search for all the precious things. No dragon

there he found,

Slain by the sword was he.

And thus by one man, I've been told, The hoard within the hill was robbed-the giant-work of old.

Dishes and cups into his lap he piled as he thought

right;

The banner too he took away—the shining beacon

bright

And brass-shod sword with iron blade which that old

leader wore,

Who long while kept these treasures all, and fiery terrors bore

Fierce-welling, hot before the hoard at midnight, till he died.

Wealth-laden now the messenger him swiftly back

ward hied,

His brave heart torn with doubts if he alive should

find again

The Weder's lord where he had left him fainting on the plain.

His treasures bearing forth, he found, near death, and drenched in gore,

The mighty chief. With water then he sprinkled him

once more,

Till through the treas'ry of the heart the word's point

forced its way,

And sadly gazing on the wealth thus did the old man

say:

K

"Now to the King of glory, Lord Eternal, Lord of all, I utter thanks for these fair things on which my eyes do fall;

And for my folk that I could win thus much before my death.

Wisely I've bought this treasured hoard at price of my last breath!

Fulfil ye all the people's need! Here may I be no

more.

Bid my brave warriors build for me upon the lofty shore After the bale-fire, a bright mound, which, high on Hronésness,

Shall keep my folk in mind of me; and sailors all

who press

Their long-ships o'er the misty deep shall henceforth call it aye

Beowulf's Mound!"

The fearless-hearted prince now put away The golden ring from off his neck; his helmet wrought with gold,

And ring, and corselet then he gave to his young spearman bold;

Bade him enjoy them well, and said: "Alone thou'rt left, the last

Of all our Wægmund race; my kinsmen, earls of might, have passed,

Weird-driv'n, to doom; and thither too I go."

Of his heart's thought

Twas the last word the old man spake ere he the

bale-fire sought,—

The hotly raging waves of flame; and from its dwell

ing fared

His spirit forth to seek the doom for righteous men prepared.

V

WIGLAF AND THE DASTARDS.

'Twas hard for youth untried to see his much-loved leader dead,

Stretched pale and livid on the ground. Yet there the Scather dread,

By wounds subdued, bereft of life, the monstrous earth-drake lay.

No longer might the coilèd worm his treasured ring

hoard sway,

Killed by the iron sword,—the hammer's work * most sharp and bright—

And near his hoard-house, on the earth, grovelled the wide-of-flight

Wound-quieted; careering now through midnight air

no more

In sport, and proudly making show of all his treasures' store,

* Homera láf, the 'leavings,' the result, of the hammer in forging. So 1. 1032, the sword is called féla láf, 'the file's work.'