IT was heavy hap for that hero young

on his lord beloved to look and find him

lying 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; 106

and that flier-afar had fallen to ground

hushed by its hurt, its hoard all near,

no longer lusty aloft to whirl

at midnight, making its merriment seen,

proud of its prizes: prone it sank

by 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-foe

to brave, and to rush on the ring-board hall,

whenever his watch the warden keeps

bold in the barrow. Beowulf paid

the price of death for that precious hoard;

and each of the foes had found the end

of this fleeting life.

Befell erelong

that the laggards in war the wood had left,

trothbreakers, cowards, ten together,

fearing before to flourish a spear

in 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 sat

at his sovran’s shoulder, shieldsman good,

to wake him with water. 107 Nowise it availed.

Though well he wished it, in world no more

could he barrier life for that leader-of-battles

no............