Beowulf

J. Lesslie Hall

• Publisher: Youcanprint
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9788892698239
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Classics
• Index: Literature

It may be the oldest surviving long poem in Old English and is commonly cited as one of the most important works of Old English literature. A date of composition is a matter of contention among scholars; the only certain dating pertains to the manuscript, which was produced between 975 and 1025. The author was an anonymous Anglo-Saxon poet, referred to by scholars as the "Beowulf poet". The poem is set in Scandinavia. Beowulf, a hero of the Geats, comes to the aid of Hrothgar, the king of the Danes, whose mead hall in Heorot has been under attack by a monster known as Grendel. After Beowulf slays him, Grendel's mother attacks the hall and is then also defeated. Victorious, Beowulf goes home to Geatland and later becomes king of the Geats. After a period of fifty years has passed, Beowulf defeats a dragon, but is fatally wounded in the battle. After his death, his attendants cremate his body and erect a tower on a headland in his memory. The full poem survives in the manuscript known as the Nowell Codex, located in the British Library. It has no title in the original manuscript, but has become known by the name of the story's protagonist. In 1731, the manuscript was badly damaged by a fire that swept through Ashburnham House in London that had a collection of medieval manuscripts assembled by Sir Robert Bruce Cotton.

REMINISCENCES (continued).—BEOWULF’S LAST BATTLE.

“He seeks thenhis chamber, singeth a woe-song

One for the other; all too extensive

Seemed homesteads and plains. So the helm of the Weders

Hrethel grieves for Herebald.

Mindful of Herebald heart-sorrow carried,

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Stirred with emotion, nowise was able

To wreak his ruinon the ruthless destroyer:

He was unable to follow the warrior with hatred,

With deeds that were direful, though dear he not held him.

Then pressed by the pang this pain occasioned him,

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He gave up glee, God-light elected;

He left to his sons, as theman that is rich does,

His land and fortress, when from life he departed.

Strife between Swedes and Geats.

Then was crime and hostility ’twixt Swedes andGeatmen,

O’er wide-stretching water warring was mutual,

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Burdensome hatred, when Hrethel had perished,

And Ongentheow’s offspring were active and valiant,

Wished not to hold to peace oversea, but

Round Hreosna-beorh often accomplished

Cruelest massacre. This my kinsman avengèd,

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The feud and fury, as ’tis found on inquiry,

Though one of them paid itwith forfeit of life-joys,

Hæthcyn’s fall at Ravenswood.

With price that was hard: the struggle became then

Fatal to Hæthcyn, lord of the Geatmen.

Then I heard that at morning one brother the other

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With edges of irons egged on to murder,

Where Ongentheow maketh onset on Eofor:

The helmet crashed, the hoary-haired Scylfing

Sword-smitten fell, his hand then remembered

Feud-hate sufficient, refused not the death-blow.

I requited him for the jewels he gave me.

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The gems that he gave me, with jewel-brightsword I

’Quited in contest, as occasion was offered:

Land he allowed me, life-joy at homestead,

Manor to live on. Little he needed

From Gepids or Danes or in Sweden to look for

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Trooper less true, with treasure to buy him;

’Mong foot-soldiers ever infront I would hie me,

Alone in the vanguard, and evermore gladly

Warfare shall wage, while this weapon endureth

That late and early often did serve me

Beowulf refers to his having slain Dæghrefn.

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When I proved before heroes the slayer of Dæghrefn,

Knight of the Hugmen: he by no means was suffered

To the king of the Frisians to carry the jewels,

The breast-decoration; but the banner-possessor

Bowed in the battle, brave-mooded atheling.

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No weapon was slayer, but war-grapple broke then

The surge of his spirit, his body destroying.

Now shall weapon’s edge make war for the treasure,

And hand and firm-sword.” Beowulf spake then,

Boast-words uttered—the latest occasion:

He boasts of his youthful prowess, and declares himself stillfearless.

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“I bravedin my youth-days battles unnumbered;

Still am I willing the struggle to look for,

Fame-deeds perform, folk-warden prudent,

If the hateful despoiler forth from his cavern

Seeketh me out!” Each of the heroes,

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Helm-bearers sturdy, he thereupon greeted

Hislast salutations.

Belovèd co-liegemen—his last salutation:

“No brand would I bear, no blade for the dragon,

Wist I a way my word-boast to ’complish1

Else with the monster, as with Grendel I did it;

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But fire in the battle hot I expect there,

Furious flame-burning: so I fixed on my body

Target and war-mail. The ward of the barrow2

I’ll not flee from a foot-length, the foeman uncanny.

At the wall ’twill befall us as Fate decreeth,

Let Fate decide between us.

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Each one’s Creator. I am eager in spirit,

With the wingèd war-hero to away with all boasting.

Bide on the barrow with burnies protected,

Wait ye here till the battle is over.

Earls in armor, which ofustwo may better

Bear his disaster, when the battle is over.

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’Tis no matter of yours, and mancannot do it,

But me and me only, to measure his strength with

The monster of malice, might-deeds to ’complish.

I with prowess shall gain the gold, or the battle,

Direful death-woe will drag off your ruler!”

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The mighty champion rose by his shieldthen,

Brave under helmet, in battle-mail went he

’Neath steep-rising stone-cliffs, the strength he reliedon

Of one man alone: no work for a coward.

Then he saw by the wall who a great many battles

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Had lived through, most worthy, when foot-troops collided,

The place of strife is described.

Stone-arches standing, stout-hearted champion,

Saw a brook from the barrow bubbling out thenceward:

The flood of the fountain was fuming with war-flame:

Not nigh to the hoard, for season the briefest

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Could he brave, without burning, the abyss that was yawning,

The drake was so fiery. The prince of the Weders

Caused then that words came from his bosom,

So fierce was his fury; the firm-hearted shouted:

His battle-clear voice came in resounding

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’Neath the gray-colored stone. Stirred was his hatred,

Beowulf calls out under the stone arches.

The hoard-wa...