While Aeneas, finding the Latins hostile to him, sailed up the Tiber in search of allies, the troops he left behind under Ascanius were attacked by Turnus, and their slight fortifications besieged. They were sorely pressed, and longed to be able to inform Aeneas of their need.
Nisus was guardian of the gate,No bolder heart in war's debate,The son of Hyrtacus, whom IdeSent, with his quiver at his side,From hunting beasts in mountain brakeTo follow in Aeneas' wake:With him Euryalus, fair boy;None fairer donned the arms of Troy;His tender cheek as yet unshornAnd blossoming with youth new-born.Love made them one in every thought:In battle side by side they fought;And now in duty at the gateThe twain in common station wait."Can it be Heaven," said Nisus then,"That lends such warmth to hearts of men,Or passion surging past controlThat plays the god to each one's soul?Long time, impatient of repose,My swelling heart within me glows,And yearns its energy to flingOn war, or some yet grander thing.See there the foe, with vain hope flushed!Their lights are scant, their stations hushed:Unnerved by slumber and by wineTheir bravest chiefs are stretched supine.Now to my doubting thought give heedAnd listen where its motions lead.Our Trojan comrades, one and all,Cry loud, Aeneas to recall,And where, they say, the men to goAnd let him of our peril know?Now if the meed I ask they swearTo give you—nay, I claim no share,Content with bare renown—Meseems, beside yon grassy heapThe way I well might find and keep,To Pallanteum's town."The youth returns, while thirst of praiseInfects him with a strange amaze:"Can Nisus aim at heights so great,Nor take his friend to share his fate?Shall I look on, and let you goAlone to venture 'mid the foe?Not thus my sire Opheltes, versedIn war's rude toil, my childhood nursed,When Argive terror filled the airAnd Troy was battling with despair:Nor such the lot my youth has tried,In hardship ever at your side,Since, great Aeneas' liegeman sworn,I followed Fortune to her bourne:Here, here within this bosom burnsA soul that mere existence spurns,And holds the fame you seek to reap,Though bought with life, were bought full cheap.""Not mine the thought," brave Nisus said,"To wound you with so base a dread:So may great Jove, or whosoe'erMarks with just eyes how mortals fare,Protect me going, and restoreIn triumph to your arms once more.But if—for many a chance, you wis,Besets an enterprise like this—If accident or power divineThe scheme to adverse end incline,Your life at least I would prolong:Death does your years a deeper wrong.Leave me a friend to tomb my clay,Rescued or ransomed, which you may;Or, e'en that boon should chance refuse,To pay the absent funeral dues.Nor let me cause so dire a smartTo that devoted mother's heart,Who, sole of all the matron train,Attends her darling o'er the main,Nor cares like others to sit downAn inmate of Acestes' town."He answers brief: "Your pleas are naught:Firm stands the purpose of my thought:Come, stir we: why so slow?"Then calls the guards to take their place,Moves on by Nisus, pace with pace,And to the prince they go.All other creatures wheresoe'erWere stretched in sleep, forgetting care:Troy's chosen chiefs in high debateWere pondering o'er the reeling state,What means to try, or whom to speedTo show Aeneas of their need.There stand they, midway in the field,Still hold the spear, still grasp the shield:When Nisus and his comrade braveWith eager tones admittance crave;The matter high; though time be lost,The occasion well were worth the cost,Iulus hails the impatient pair,Bids Nisus what they wish declare.Then spoke the youth: "Chiefs I lend your ears,Nor judge our proffer by our years.The Rutules, sunk in wine and sleep,Have ceased their former watch to keep:A stealthy passage have we spiedWhere on the sea the gate opes wide:The line of fires is scant and broke,And thick and murky rolls the smoke.Give leave to seek, in these dark hours,Aeneas at Evander's towers,Soon will you see us here againDecked with the spoils of slaughtered men.Nor strange the road: ourselves have seenThe city, hid by valleys green,Just dimly dawning, and exploredIn hunting all the river-board."Out spoke Aletes, old and gray:"Ye gods, who still are Ilium's stay,No, no, ye mean not to destroyDown to the ground the race of Troy,When such the spirit of her youth,And such the might of patriot truth."Then, as the tears roll down his face,He clasps them both in strict embrace:"Brave warriors! what rewards so great,For worth like yours to compensate?From Heaven and from your own true heartExpect the largest, fairest part:The rest, and at no distant day,The good Aeneas shall repay,Nor he, the royal youth, forgetThrough all his life the mighty debt.""Nay, hear me too," Ascanius cried,"Whose life is with my father's tied:O Nisus! by the home-god powersWe jointly reverence, yours and ours,The god of ancient Capys' line,And Vesta's venerable shrine,By these dread sanctions I appealTo you, the masters of my weal;Oh, bring me back my sire again!Restore him, and I feel no pain.Two massy goblets will I give;Rich sculptures on the silver live;The plunder of my sire,What time he took Arisba's hold;Two chargers, talents twain of gold,A bowl beside of antique mouldBy Dido brought from Tyre.Then, too, if ours the lot to reignO'er Italy by conquest ta'en,And each man's spoil assign,—Saw ye how Turnus rode yestreen,His horse and arms of golden sheen?That horse, that shield and glowing crestI separate, Nisus, from the restAnd count already thine.Twelve female slaves, at your desire,Twelve captives with their arms entire,My sire shall give you, and the plainThat forms Latinus' own domain.But you, dear youth, of worth divine,Whose blooming years are nearer mine,Here to my heart I take, and chooseMy comrade for whate'er ensues.No glory will I e'er pursue,Unmotived by the thought of you:Let peace or war my state befall,Thought, word, and deed, you share them all."The youth replied: "No after dayThis hour's fair promise shall betray,Be fate but kind. Yet let me claimOne favor, more than all you name:A mother in the camp is mine,Derived from Priam's ancient line:No home in Sicily or TroyHas kept her from her darling boy.She knows not, she, the paths I tread;I leave her now, no farewell said;By night and this your hand I swear,A parent's tears I could not bear.Vouchsafe your pity, and engageTo solace her unchilded age:And I shall meet whate'er betideBy such assurance fortified."With sympathy and tender griefAll melt in tears, Iulus chief,As filial love in other shownRecalled the semblance of his own:And, "Tell your doubting heart," he cries,"All blessings wait your high emprise:I take your mother for my own,Creusa, save in name alone,Nor lightly deem the affection dueTo her who bore a child like you.Come what come may, I plight my trothBy this my head, my father's oath,The bounty to yourself decreedShould favoring gods your journey speed,The same shall in your line endure,To parent and to kin made sure."He spoke, and weeping still, untiedA gilded falchion from his side,Lycaon's work, the man of Crete,With sheath of ivory complete:Brave Mnestheus gives for Nisus' wearA lion's hide with shaggy hair;Aletes, old in danger grown,His helmet takes, and gives his own.Then to the gates, as forth they fare,The band of chiefs with many a prayerThe gallant twain attends:Iulus, manlier than his years,Oft whispering, for his father's earsFull many a message sends:But be it message, be it prayer,Alike 'tis lost, dispersed in air.The trenches past, through night's deep gloomThe hostile camp they near:Yet many a foe shall meet his doomOr ere that hour appear.There see they bodies stretched supine,O'ercome with slumber and with wine;The cars, unhorsed, are drawn up high;'Twixt wheels and harness warriors lie,With arms and goblets on the grassIn undistinguishable mass."Now," Nisus cried, "for hearts and hands:This, this the hour our force demands.Here pass we: yours the rear to mind,Lest hostile arm be raised behind;Myself will go before and slay,While carnage opes a broad highway."So whispers he with bated breath,And straight begins the work of deathOn Rhamnes, haughty lord;On rugs he lay, in gorgeous heap,From all his bosom breathing sleep,A royal seer by Turnus loved:But all too weak his seer-craft provedTo stay the rushing sword.Three servants next the weapon foundStretched 'mid their armor on the ground:Then Remus' charioteer he spiesBeneath the coursers as he lies,And lops his downdropt head;The ill-starred master next he leaves,A headless trunk, that gasps and heaves:Forth spouts the blood from every vein,And deluges with crimson rain,Green earth and broidered bed.Then Lamyrus and Lamus died,Serranus, too, in youth's fair pride:That night had seen him long at play:Now by the dream-god tamed he lay:Ah, had his play but matched the night,Nor ended till the dawn of light!So famished lion uncontrolledMakes havoc through the teeming fold,As frantic hunger craves;Mangling and harrying far and nearThe meek, mild victims, mute with fear,With gory jaws he raves.Nor less Euryalus performs:The thirst of blood his bosom warms;'Mid nameless multitudes he storms,Herbesus, Fadus, Abaris killsSlumbering and witless of their ills,While Rhoetus wakes and sees the whole,But hides behind a massy bowl.There, as to rise the trembler strove,Deep in his breast the sword he drove,And bathed in death withdrew.The lips disgorge the life's red flood,A mingled stream of wine and blood:He plies his blade anew.Now turns he to Messapus' band,For there the fires he seesBurnt out, while coursers hard at handAre browsing at their ease,When Nisus marks the excess of zeal,The maddening fever of the steel,And checks him thus with brief appeal:"Forbear we now; 't will soon be day:Our wrath is slaked, and hewn our way."Full many a spoil they leave behindOf solid silver thrice refined,Armor and bowls of costliest mouldAnd rugs in rich confusion rolled.A belt Euryalus puts onWith golden knobs, from Rhamnes won,Of old by Caedicus 't was sent,An absent friendship to cement,To Remulus, fair Tibur's lord,Who, dying, to his grandson leftThe shining prize: the Rutule swordIn after days the trophy reft.Athwart his manly chest in vainHe binds these trappings of the slain;Then 'neath his chin in triumph lacedMessapus' helm, with plumage graced,The camp at length they leave behind,And round the lake securely wind.Meanwhile a troop is on its way,From Latium's city sped,An offshoot from the host that layAlong the host in close array,Three hundred horsemen, sent to bringA message back to Turnus, king,With Volscens at their head.Now to the camp they draw them nigh,Beneath the rampart's height,When from afar the twain they spy,Still steering from the right;The helmet through the glimmering shadeAt once the unwary boy betrayed,Seen in the moon's full light.Not lost the sight on jealous eyes:"Ho! stand! who are ye?" Volscens cries,"Whence come, or whither tend?"No movement deign they of reply,But swifter to the forest fly,And make the night their friend.With fatal speed the mounted foesEach avenue as with network close,And every outlet bar.It was a forest bristling grimWith shade of ilex, dense and dim:Thick brushwood all the ground o'ergrew:The tangled ways a path ran through,Faint glimmering like a star.The darkling boughs, the cumbering preyEuryalus's flight delay:His courage fails, his footsteps stray:But Nisus onward flees;No thought he takes, till now at lastThe enemy is all o'erpast,E'en at the grove, since Alban called,Where then Latinus' herds were stalled:Sudden he pauses, looks behindIn eager hope his friend to find:In vain: no friend he sees."Euryalus, my chiefest care,Where left I you, unhappy? where?What clue may guide my erring treadThis leafy labyrinth back to thread?"Then, noting each remembered track,He thrids the wood, dim-seen and black.Listening, he hears the horse-hoofs' beat,The clatter of pursuing feet.A little moment—shouts arise,And lo! Euryalus he spies,Whom now the foemen's gathered throngIs hurrying helplessly along.While vain resistance he essays,Trapped by false night and treacherous ways.What should he do? what force employTo rescue the beloved boy?Plunge through the spears that line the wood,And death and glory win with blood?Not unresolved, he poises soonA javelin, looking to the Moon:"Grant, goddess, grant thy present aid,Queen of the stars, Latonian maid,The greenwood's guardian power;If, grateful for success of mine,With gifts my sire has graced thy shrine,If e'er myself have brought thee spoil,The tribute of my hunter's toil,To ornament thy roof divine,Or glitter on thy tower,These masses give me to confound,And guide through air my random wound."He spoke, and hurled with all his might;The swift spear hurtles through the night:Stout Sulmo's back the stroke receives:The wood, though snapped, the midriff cleaves.He falls, disgorging life's warm tide,And long-drawn sobs distend his side.All gaze around: another spearThe avenger levels from his ear,And launches on the sky.Tagus lies pierced through temples twain,The dart deep buried in his brain.Fierce Volscens storms, yet finds no foe,Nor sees the hand that dealt the blow,Nor knows on whom to fly."Your heart's warm blood for both shall pay,"He cries, and on his beauteous preyWith naked sword he sprang.Scared, maddened, Nisus shrieks aloud:No more he hides in night's dark shroud,Nor bears the o'erwhelming pang:"Me, guilty me, make me your aim,O Rutules! mine is all the blame;He did no wrong, nor e'er could do;That sky, those stars attest 't is true;Love for his friend too freely shown,This was his crime, and this alone."In vain he spoke: the sword, fierce driven,That alabaster breast had riven.Down falls Euryalus, and liesIn death's enthralling agonies:Blood trickles o'er his limbs of snow;"His head sinks gradually low":Thus, severed by the ruthless plough,Dim fades a purple flower:Their weary necks so poppies bow,O'erladen by the shower.But Nisus on the midmost flies,With Volscens, Volscens in his eyes:In clouds the warriors round him rise,Thick hailing blow on blow:Yet on he bears, no stint, no stay,Like thunderbolt his falchion's sway:Till as for aid the Rutule shrieksPlunged in his throat the weapon reeks:The dying hand has reft awayThe life-blood of its foe.Then, pierced to death, asleep he fellOn the dead breast he loved so well.Blest pair! if aught my verse avail,No day shall make your memory failFrom off the heart of time,While Capitol abides in place,The mansion of the Aeneian race,And throned upon that moveless baseRome's father sits sublime.Conington's Translation, Book IX.
Beowulf, the only Anglo-Saxon epic preserved entire, was composed in southwest Sweden probably before the eighth century, and taken to England, where it was worked over and Christianized by the Northumbrian poets.
It is variously attributed to the fifth, seventh, and eighth centuries; but the seventh is most probably correct, since the Higelac of the poem has been identified with Chocilaicus of the "Gesta Regum Francorum," a Danish king who invaded Gaul in the days of Theuderic, son of Clovis, and died near the close of the sixth century.
The only manuscript of the poem in existence is thought to be of the tenth century. It is preserved in the British Museum. Since 1837 much interest has been manifested in the poem, and many editions of it have been given to the public.
Beowulf contains three thousand one hundred and eighty-four lines. It is written in alliterative verse. The lines are written in pairs, and each perfect line contains three alliterating words,—two in the first part, and one in the second.
The unknown writer of Beowulf cannot be praised for his skill in composition; the verse is rude, as was the language in which it was written. But it is of the greatest interest to us because of the pictures it gives of the everyday lives of the people whose heroic deeds it relates,—the drinking in the mead-halls, the relation of the king to his warriors, the description of the armor, the ships, and the halls. The heroes are true Anglo-Saxon types,—bold, fearless, ready to go to the assistance of any one in trouble, no matter how great the risk to themselves; and as ready to drink mead and boast of their valor after the peril is over. In spite of the attempt to Christianize the poem, it is purely pagan; the most careless reader can discover the priestly interpolations. And it has the greater value to us because it refused to be moulded by priestly hands, but remained the rude but heroic monument of our Saxon ancestors.
B. Ten Brink's Early English Literature, Tr. by Kennedy;
S. A. Brooke's History of Early English Literature, 1892, p. 12;
W. F. Collier's History of English Literature, p. 19;
G. W. Cox and E. H. Jones's Popular Romances of the Middle Ages, 1871, pp. 382-398; in 1880 ed. pp. 189-201;
Isaac Disraeli's Amenities of Literature, i. 65-73;
J. Earle's Anglo-Saxon Literature;
T. W. Hunt's Ethical Teaching in Beowulf (in his Ethical Teachings in Old English Literature, 1892, pp. 66-77);
H. Morley's English Writers, 1887, pp. 276-354;
H. A. Taine's History of English Literature, 1886, i. 62;
S. Turner's Anglo-Saxons, iii. 326; in ed. 3, i. 456;
J. Harrison's Old Teutonic Life in Beowulf (in the Overland Monthly, July, 1894);
F. A. March's The World of Beowulf (in Proceedings of American Philological Association, 1882).
Beowulf, edition with English translation, notes and glossary by Thomas Arnold, 1876;
The Deeds of Beowulf, 1892;
Beowulf, Tr. by J. M. Garnett, 1882 (translated line for line);
Beowulf, Tr. by J. L. Hall, 1892, metrical translation;
Beowulf, Tr. by J. M. Kemble, with copious glossary, preface, and philological notes, 2 vols., 1833-37;
Beowulf translated into modern rhymes, by H. W. Lumsden, 1881;
Beowulf, Tr. by Benjamin Thorpe, Literal translation, notes and glossary, 1875.
A mighty man was Scyld, ruler of the Gar-Danes. From far across the whale-path men paid him tribute and bore witness to his power. Beowulf was his son, a youth endowed with glory, whose fame spread far and wide through all the Danish land.
When the time came for Scyld to die he ordered his thanes to prepare the ring-stemmed ship, laden with treasures, battle-weed, and swords, and place him in the death-chamber. Laden with his people's gifts, and sailing under a golden banner, he passed from sight, none knew whither.
After him ruled Beowulf, and after him Healfdene,—brave warriors and kind monarchs. When, after Healfdene's death, his son Hrothgar succeeded him, his fame in war inclined all his kinsmen towards him, and he, too, became a mighty monarch.
To the mind of Hrothgar it came to build a lordly mead-hall where he and his men could find pleasure in feasting, drinking mead, and hearing the songs of the minstrels. Heorot it was called, and when its high spires rose glistening in the air, all hailed it with delight.
But, alas! The joy in hall, the melody of the harp, and the shouts of the warriors penetrated to the dismal fen where lay concealed the monster Grendel, descendant of sin-cursed Cain. At night came Grendel to the hall, found sleeping the troop of warriors, and bore away in his foul hands thirty of the honored thanes. Great was the sorrow in Heorot when in the morning twilight the deed of Grendel became known.
For twelve long winters did this sorrow continue; for so long a time was Hrothgar plunged in grief; for so many years did this beautiful mead-hall, destined for joyful things, stand idle.
While thus the grief-stricken lord of the Scyldings brooded over his wrongs, and the people besought their idols vainly for aid, the tidings of Grendel's ravages were conveyed to the court of the Gothic king, Higelac, and thus reached the ears of a highborn thane, Beowulf. A strong man was he, his grasp equal to that of thirty men.
Straightway commanded he a goodly ship to be made ready, chose fifteen of his bravest Goths, and swiftly they sailed over the swan-path to the great headlands and bright sea-cliffs of the Scyldings.
High on the promontory stood the guard of Hrothgar. "What men be ye who hither come?" cried he. "Not foes, surely. Ye know no pass word, yet surely ye come on no evil errand. Ne'er saw I a greater lord than he who leads the band. Who are ye?"
"Higelac's man am I," answered the leader. "Ecgtheow, my sire; my name, Beowulf. Lead me, I pray thee, to thy lord, for I have come over seas to free him forever from his secret foe, and to lift the cloud that hangs over the stately mead-hall."
Over the stone-paved streets the warder led the warriors, their armor clanking, their boar-tipped helmets sparkling, to the goodly hall, Heorot. There were they warmly welcomed, for Hrothgar had known Beowulf's sire; the fame of the young man's strength had also reached him, and he trusted that in his strong grasp Grendel should die.
All took their seats on the mead-benches, and a thane passed from warrior to warrior, bearing the chased wine-cup. Sweet was the minstrel's song, and the warriors were happy in Heorot.
But Hunferd sat at the banquet, and envious of Beowulf's fame, taunted him with his swimming match with Breca. "Seven days and nights thou didst swim with Breca; but he was stronger, and he won. Worse will befall thee, if thou dar'st this night await Grendel!"
"Easy it is to brag of Breca's deeds when drunk with beer, friend Hunferd!" replied Beowulf. "Seven days and nights I swam through the sea-water, slaying the monsters of the deep. Rough was the wave, terrible were the water beasts; but I reached the Finnish land. Wert thou as brave as thou claim'st to be, Grendel would ne'er have wrought such havoc in thy monarch's land."
Decked with gold, Queen Waltheow passed through the hall, greeted the warriors, and proffered the mead-cup to Beowulf, thanking God that she had found an earl who would deliver them from their enemy.
When dusky night fell over Heorot, the king uprose. "To no other man have I ever entrusted this hall of gold. Have now and keep it! Great reward shall be thine if thou come forth alive!"
The knights left in the lordly hall composed themselves for slumber, all save Beowulf, who, unarmed, awaited the coming of Grendel.
He came, with wrathful step and eyes aflame, bursting open the iron bolts of the great door, and laughing at the goodly array of men sleeping before him. On one he laid hands and drank his blood; then he clutched the watchful Beowulf.
Ne'er had he found a foe like this! Fearful, he turned to flee to his home in the fen, but the grip of Beowulf forbade flight. Strongly was Heorot builded, but many a gilded mead-bench was torn from the walls as the two combated within the hall. The sword blade was of no avail, and him must Beowulf bring to death by the strength of his grip alone. At last, with a scream that struck terror to every Dane's heart, the monster sprang from Beowulf and fled, leaving in the warrior's grasp his arm and shoulder. Great was Beowulf's joy, for he knew that the wound meant death.
When the king and queen came forth in the morning with their nobles and maids, and saw the grisly arm of Grendel fastened upon the roof of Heorot, they gave themselves up to rejoicing. Gifts were heaped upon Beowulf,—a golden crest, a banner bright, a great and goodly sword and helm and corselet, eight steeds with headstalls ornamented with gold plate, and a richly decorated saddle. Nor were his comrades forgotten, but to each were given rich gifts.
When the mead-hall had been cleansed and refitted, they gathered therein and listened to the song of the bard who told how Healfdene's knight, Hnæf, smote Finn. The song over, the queen, crowned with gold, gave gifts to Beowulf, the liberator from the horrors of Grendel,—two armlets, a necklace, raiment, and rings. When the drinking and feasting were over, the king and Beowulf withdrew, leaving many earls to keep the hall. Little guessed they that one of them was that night doomed to die!
The haunt of Grendel was a mile-wide mere. Around it were wolf-haunted cliffs, windy promontories, mist-covered mountains. Close around the mere hung the woods, shrouding the water, which, horrible sight, was each night covered with fire. It was a place accursed; near it no man might dwell; the deer that plunged therein straightway died.
In a palace under the mere dwelt Grendel and his mother; she, a foul sprite, whom the peasants had sometimes seen walking with her son over the meadows. From her dwelling-place she now came forth to avenge the death of her son, and snatched away from the group of sleeping Ring-Danes the good Æschere, dearest of all his thanes to Hrothgar.
Loud was Hrothgar's wailing when at morning Beowulf came forth from his bower.
"Sorrow not, O wise man," spake Beowulf. "I fear not. I will seek out this monster and destroy her. If I come not back it will at least be better than to have lost my glory. She can never hide from me. I ween that I will this day rid thee of thine enemy."
Accompanied by Hrothgar, some of the Ring-Danes and his Goths, Beowulf sought the dismal mere, on whose brink they found the head of Æschere. Among the bloody waves swam horrible shapes, Nicors and sea-drakes, that fled at a blast of the war-horn. Beowulf slew one of the monsters, and while his companions were marvelling at the grisly form, he prepared himself for the combat. His breast was guarded by a coat of mail woven most cunningly; upon his head shone the gold-adorned helmet, and in his hand was Hunferd's sword, Hrunting, made of iron steeped in twigs of bitter poison, annealed in battle blood, and fearful to every foe.
"Hearken unto me, O Hrothgar," cried the hero. "If I return not, treat well my comrades and send my gifts to Higelac, that he may see the deed I have accomplished, and the generous ring-lord I have gained among the Scyldings." And without waiting for a reply, he leaped into the waves and was lost to sight.
There was the monster waiting for him; and catching him in her grip, which bruised him not because of his strong mail-coat, she dragged him to her cave, in whose lighted hall he could see the horrible features of the woman of the mere. Strong was Hrunting, but of no avail was its mighty blade against her. Soon he threw it down, and gripped her, reckless of peril. Once he threw her on the ground, but the second time she threw him, and drew her glaive to pierce his breast. Strong was the linked mail, and Beowulf was safe. Then his quick eye lighted on a sword,—a magic, giant sword; few men could wield it. Quickly he grasped it, and smote the neck of the sea-woman. Broken were the bone-rings, and down she fell dead. Then Ecgtheow's son looked around the hall and saw the body of the dead Grendel. Thirsting to take his revenge, he smote him with his sword. Off flew the head; but when the red drops of blood touched the magic blade it melted, leaving but the massive golden hilt in the hands of the hero. Beowulf took no treasure from the cave, but rose through the waves, carrying only the head of the monster and the hilt of the sword.
When Hrothgar and his men saw the mere red and boiling with blood they deemed that Beowulf was dead, and departed to their citadel. Sorrowful sat the comrades of Beowulf, waiting and hoping against hope for his reappearance. Up sprang they when they saw him, joyfully greeted him, relieved him of his bloody armor, and conducted him to Hrothgar, bearing—a heavy task—the head of Grendel.
When Hrothgar saw the hideous head and the mighty sword-hilt, whose history he read from its Runic inscriptions, he hailed Beowulf with joy, and proclaimed him the mightiest of men. "But ever temper thy might with wisdom," advised the king, "that thou suffer not the end of Heremod, or be punished as I have been, in this my spacious mead-hall."
After a night's rest, Beowulf prepared to return to his country. Returning Hrunting to Hunferd, he praised the sword, saying nothing of its failure in the fight. Then to Hrothgar: "Farewell. If e'er thou art harried by foes, but let me know,—a thousand fighting men I'll bring. Higelac, well I know, will urge me on to honor thee. If e'er thy son seeks Gothic halls, I will intercede and win friends for him."
The old king, weeping, bade Beowulf farewell. "Peace be forever between the Goths and the Gar-Danes; in common their treasures! May gifts be interchanged between them!"
The bark was filled with the gifts heaped upon Beowulf and his men; and the warder, who had hailed them so proudly at their coming, now bade them an affectionate farewell. Over the swan-path sailed they, and soon reached the Gothic coast, and landed their treasures.
Then went Beowulf before Higelac and told him of his adventures. Higelac was a mighty king; lofty his house and hall, and fair and gentle was his wife, Hygd. To him, after he had related his adventures, Beowulf presented the boar-head crest, the battle-mail and sword, four of the steeds, and much treasure, and upon the wise and modest Hygd bestowed he the wondrous necklace given him by Waltheow. So should a good thane ever do!
There had been a time when Beowulf was accounted a sluggish knight, but now the land rang with his glory.
When Higelac died and Hardred was slain, Beowulf succeeded to the throne, and for fifty years ruled the people gloriously.
At this time a great fire-drake cherished a vast hoard in a cave on a high cliff, difficult of access, and known to few men. Thither one day fled a thrall from his master's wrath, and saw the hoard buried by some weary warrior, and now guarded by the dragon. While the drake slept, the thrall crept in and stole a cup as a peace-offering to his master.
When the drake awoke, he scented the foot-prints of the foe, and discovered his loss. When even was come, he hastened to wreak his revenge on the people, spewing out flames of fire, and laying waste the land.
Far and near were the lands of the Goths devastated, and ere long, tidings were borne to Beowulf that his great hall, his gift seat, was destroyed by fire. Saddened, and fearing that he had in some way angered God, he turned his mind to vengeance, and girded on his armor. A stout shield of iron he took, knowing that the dragon's fiery breath would melt the wood, and with foreboding of his fate, bade farewell to his hearth-mates. "Many times have I battled, great deeds have I done with sword and with hand-grip; now must I go forth and battle with hand and sword against the hoard-keeper."
Commanding the men who had accompanied him to remain upon the hillside, leaving him to combat with the dragon alone, Beowulf went proudly forward, shouting his battle-cry. Out rushed the dragon, full of deadly hate. His fiery breath was stronger than the king had deemed it. Stroke upon stroke he gave his enemy, who continued to cast forth his death-fire, so that Beowulf stood girt with flames.
From afar, among the watching thanes, Wiglaf saw his monarch's peril. "Comrades," he cried, "do you remember our promises to our king? Was it for this he stirred us up to glorious deeds? Was it for this he heaped gifts upon us? Let us go to his rescue. It is not right that we should see our lord fall, and bear away our shields untouched!"
Rushing forward, he cried, "Beowulf, here am I! Now strike for thy life! Thou hast said that thou never wouldst let thy fame depart from thee!"
Again the dragon came forth; again it enveloped its foeman in flames. The linden shield of Wiglaf burned in his hands, and he sought shelter behind Beowulf's shield of iron. Again and again Wiglaf smote the monster, and when the flames burnt low, Beowulf seized his dirk and pierced the dragon so that he fell dead.
The dragon lay dead, but Beowulf felt the poison in his wounds and knew that he had not long to live. He commanded Wiglaf to bring forth the treasure that he might gaze upon the hoard,—jewel work and twisted gold,—that he had wrested from the fire-drake.
The den was filled with rings of gold, cups, banners, jewels, dishes, and the arms of the old owner of the treasure. All these did Wiglaf bear forth to his lord, who surveyed them, and uttered thanks to his Maker, that he could win such a treasure. Then, turning to Wiglaf, he said, "Now I die. Build for me upon the lofty shore a bright mound that shall ever remind my people of me. Far in the distance their ships shall descry it, and they shall call it Beowulf's mound." Then, giving his arms to Wiglaf, he bade him enjoy them. "Thou art the last of our race. All save us, fate-driven, are gone to doom. Thither go I too."
Bitterly did Wiglaf denounce his comrades when he saw them steal from their hiding-places. "Well may it be said of you that he who gave you your arms threw them away. No thanks deserve ye for the slaughter of the dragon! I did my little, but it was not in my power to save my kinsman. Too few helpers stood about him! Now shall your kin be wanting in gifts. Void are ye of land-rights! Better is it for an earl to die than to live with a blasted name!"
Sorrowful were the people when they heard of the death of Beowulf. Full well they knew with what joy the tidings would be hailed by their enemies, who would hasten to harry the land, now that their great leader was gone. The Frisians, the Merovingians, the Franks, the Swedes,—all had their grievances, which they would hasten to wreak on the Goths when they learned that the dreaded king was gone. Dreary would be the land of the Goths; on its battle-fields the wolves would batten; the ravens would call to the eagles as they feasted on the slain.
Straight to the Eagle's Nest went the band, and found their dead monarch; there, too, lay the loathsome fire-drake, full fifty feet long, and between them the great hoard, rust-eaten from long dwelling in the earth. Ever had that hoard brought ill with it.
Down from the cliff they thrust the dragon into the deep, and carried their chief to Hronesness. There they built a lofty pile, decked it with his armor, and burned thereon the body of their glorious ruler. According to his wish, they reared on the cliff a broad, high barrow, surrounded it with a wall, and laid within it the treasure. There yet it lies, of little worth to men!
Then around the barrow rode twelve of the bravest, boldest nobles, mourning their king, singing his praises, chanting a dirge, telling of his glorious deeds, while over the broad land the Gothic folk lamented the death of their tender prince, their noble king, Beowulf.
There was great rejoicing in Heorot when Beowulf slew Grendel, and at night the earls again slept in the hall as they had not dared to do since the coming of the fiend. But Grendel's mother came to avenge her son's death and slew Æschere, a favorite liegeman of Hrothgar's. In the morning, Beowulf, who had slept in another part of the palace, was sent for and greeted Hrothgar, unaware of his loss.
Hrothgar rejoined, helm of the Scyldings:"Ask not of joyance! Grief is renewed toThe folk of the Danemen. Dead is Æschere,Yrmenlaf's brother, older than he,My true-hearted counsellor, trusty adviser,Shoulder-companion, when fighting in battleOur heads we protected, when troopers were clashing,And heroes were dashing; such an earl should be ever,An erst-worthy atheling, as Æschere proved him.The flickering death-spirit became in HeorotHis hand-to-hand murderer; I cannot tell whitherThe cruel one turned, in the carcass exulting,By cramming discovered. The quarrel she wreaked then,The last night igone Grendel thou killedstIn grewsomest manner, with grim-holding clutches,Since too long he had lessened my liege-troop and wastedMy folk-men so foully. He fell in the battleWith forfeit of life, and another has followed,A mighty crime-worker, her kinsman avenging,And henceforth hath 'stablished her hatred unyielding,As it well may appear to many a liegeman,Who mourneth in spirit the treasure-bestower,Her heavy heart-sorrow; the hand is now lifelessWhich availed yon in every wish that you cherished.Land-people heard I, liegemen, this saying,Dwellers in halls, they had seen very oftenA pair of such mighty march-striding creatures,Far-dwelling spirits, holding the moorlands:One of them wore, as well they might notice,The image of woman, the other one wretchedIn guise of a man wandered in exile,Except that he was huger than any of earthmen;Earth-dwelling people entitled him GrendelIn days of yore; they knew not their father,Whe'r ill-going spirits any were borne himEver before. They guard the wolf-coverts,Lands inaccessible, wind-beaten nesses,Fearfullest fen-deeps, where a flood from the mountains'Neath mists of the nesses netherward rattles,The stream under earth: not far is it hencewardMeasured by mile-lengths that the mere-water standeth,Which forests hang over, with frost-whiting covered,A firm-rooted forest, the floods overshadow.There ever at night one an ill-meaning portentA fire-flood may see; 'mong children of menNone liveth so wise that wot of the bottom;Though harassed by hounds the heath-stepper seek for,Fly to the forest, firm-antlered he-deer,Spurred from afar, his spirit he yieldeth,His life on the shore, ere in he will ventureTo cover his head. Uncanny the place is:Thence upward ascendeth the surging of waters,Wan to the welkin, when the wind is stirringThe weathers unpleasing, till the air groweth gloomy,And the heavens lower. Now is help to be gottenFrom thee and thee only! The abode thou know'st not,The dangerous place where thou'rt able to meet withThe sin-laden hero: seek if thou darest!For the feud I will fully fee thee with money,With old-time treasure, as erstwhile I did thee,With well-twisted jewels, if away thou shalt get thee."Beowulf answered, Ecgtheow's son:"Grieve not, O wise one! for each it is better,His friend to avenge than with vehemence wail him;Each of us must the end-day abide ofHis earthly existence; who is able accomplishGlory ere death! To battle-thane nobleLifeless lying, 't is at last most fitting.Arise, O king, quick let us hastenTo look at the footprint of the kinsman of Grendel!I promise thee this now: to his place he'll escape not,To embrace of the earth, nor to mountainous forest,Nor to depths of the ocean, wherever he wanders.Practice thou now patient enduranceOf each of thy sorrows, as I hope for thee soothly!"Then up sprang the old one, the All-Wielder thanked he,Ruler Almighty, that the man had outspoken.Then for Hrothgar a war-horse was decked with a bridle,Curly-maned courser. The clever folk-leaderStately proceeded: stepped then an earl-troopOf linden-wood bearers. Her foot-prints were seen thenWidely in wood-paths, her way o'er the bottoms,Where she far-away fared o'er fen-country murky,Bore away breathless the best of retainersWho pondered with Hrothgar the welfare of country.The son of the athelings then went o'er the stony,Declivitous cliffs, the close-covered passes,Narrow passages, paths unfrequented,Nesses abrupt, nicker-haunts many;One of a few of wise-mooded heroes,He onward advanced to view the surroundings,Till he found unawares woods of the mountainO'er hoar-stones hanging, holt-wood unjoyful;The water stood under, welling and gory.'T was irksome in spirit to all of the Danemen,Friends of the Scyldings, to many a liegemanSad to be suffered, a sorrow unlittleTo each of the earlmen, when to Æschere's head theyCame on the cliff. The current was seethingWith blood and with gore (the troopers gazed on it).The horn anon sang the battle-song ready.The troop were all seated; they saw 'long the water thenMany a serpent, mere-dragons wondrousTrying the waters, nickers a-lyingOn the cliffs of the nesses, which at noonday full oftenGo on the sea-deeps their sorrowful journey,Wild-beasts and worm-kind; away then they hastenedHot-mooded, hateful, they heard the great clamor,The war-trumpet winding. One did the Geat-princeSunder from earth-joys, with arrow from bowstring,From his sea-struggle tore him, that the trusty war-missilePierced to his vitals; he proved in the currentsLess doughty at swimming whom death had off-carried.Soon in the waters the wonderful swimmerWas straitened most sorely and pulled to the cliff-edge;The liegemen then looked on the loath-fashioned stranger.Beowulf donned then his battle-equipments,Cared little for life; inlaid and most ample,The hand-woven corselet which could cover his body,Must the wave-deeps explore, that war might be powerlessTo harm the great hero, and the hating one's grasp mightNot peril his safety; his head was protectedBy the light-flashing helmet that should mix with the bottoms,Trying the eddies, treasure-emblazoned,Encircled with jewels, as in seasons long pastThe weapon-smith worked it, wondrously made it,With swine-bodies fashioned it, that thenceforward no longerBrand might bite it, and battle-sword hurt it.And that was not least of helpers in prowessThat Hrothgar's spokesman had lent him when straitened;And the hilted hand-sword was Hrunting entitled,Old and most excellent 'mong all of the treasures;Its blade was of iron, blotted with poison,Hardened with gore; it failed not in battleAny hero under heaven in hand who it brandished,Who ventured to take the terrible journeys,The battle-field sought; not the earliest occasionThat deeds of daring 't was destined to 'complish.Ecglaf's kinsman minded not soothly,Exulting in strength, what erst he had spokenDrunken with wine, when the weapon he lent toA sword-hero bolder; himself did not venture'Neath the strife of the currents his life to endanger,To fame-deeds perform; there he forfeited glory,Repute for his strength. Not so with the otherWhen he, clad in his corselet, had equipped him for battle.Beowulf spoke, Ecgtheow's son:"Recall now, oh, famous kinsman of Healfdene,Prince very prudent, now to part I am ready,Gold-friend of earl-men, what erst we agreed on,Should I lay down my life in lending thee assistance,When my earth-joys were over, thou wouldst evermore serve meIn stead of a father; my faithful thanemen,My trusty retainers, protect thou and care for,Fall I in battle: and, Hrothgar belovèd,Send unto Higelac the high-valued jewelsThou to me hast allotted. The lord of the GeatmenMay perceive from the gold, the Hrethling may see itWhen he looks on the jewels, that a gem-giver found IGood over-measure, enjoyed him while able.And the ancient heirloom Unferth permit thou,The famed one to have, the heavy-sword splendid,The hard-edged weapon; with Hrunting to aid me,I shall gain me glory, or grim death shall take me."The atheling of Geatmen uttered these words andHeroic did hasten, not any rejoinderWas willing to wait for; the wave-current swallowedThe doughty-in-battle. Then a day's-length elapsed ereHe was able to see the sea at its bottom.Early she found then who fifty of wintersThe course of the currents kept in her fury,Grisly and greedy, that the grim one's dominionSome one of men from above was exploring.Forth did she grab them, grappled the warriorWith horrible clutches; yet no sooner she injuredHis body unscathed: the burnie out-guarded,That she proved but powerless to pierce through the armor,The limb-mail locked, with loath-grabbing fingers.The sea-wolf bare then, when bottomward came she,The ring-prince homeward, that he after was powerless.(He had daring to do it) to deal with his weapons,But many a mere-beast tormented him swimming,Flood-beasts no few with fierce-biting tusks didBreak through his burnie, the brave one pursued they.The earl then discovered he was down in some cavernWhere no water whatever anywise harmed him,And the clutch of the current could not come anear him,Since the roofed-hall prevented; brightness a-gleamingFire-light he saw, flashing, resplendent.The good one saw then the sea-bottom's monster,The mighty mere-woman; he made a great onsetWith weapon-of-battle, his hand not desistedFrom striking, that war-blade struck on her head thenA battle-song greedy. The stranger perceived thenThe sword would not bite, her life would not injure,But the falchion failed the folk prince when straitened:Erst had it often onsets encountered,Oft cloven the helmet, the fated one's armor:'T was the first time that ever the excellent jewelHad failed of its fame. Firm-mooded after,Not heedless of valor, but mindful of glory,Was Higelac's kinsman; the hero-chief angryCast then his carved-sword covered with jewelsThat it lay on earth, hard and steel-pointed;He hoped in his strength, his hand-grapple sturdy.So any must act whenever he thinkethTo gain him in battle glory unending,And is reckless of living. The lord of the War-Geats(He shrank not from battle) seized by the shoulderThe mother of Grendel; then mighty in struggleSwung he his enemy, since his anger was kindled,That she fell to the floor. With furious grappleShe gave him requital early thereafter,And stretched out to grab him; the strongest of warriorsFaint-mooded stumbled, till he fell in his traces,Foot-going champion. Then she sat on the hall-guestAnd wielded her war-knife wide-bladed, flashing,For her son would take vengeance, her one only bairn.His breast-armor woven bode on his shoulder;It guarded his life, the entrance defended'Gainst sword-point and edges. Ecgtheow's son thereHad fatally journeyed, champion of Geatmen,In the arms of the ocean, had the armor not given,Close-woven corselet, comfort and succor,And had God most holy not awarded the victory,All-knowing Lord; easily did heaven'sRuler most righteous arrange it with justice;Uprose he erect ready for battle.Then he saw 'mid the war-gems a weapon of victory,An ancient giant-sword, of edges a-doughty,Glory of warriors: of weapons 't was choicest,Only 't was larger than any man else wasAble to bear in the battle-encounter,The good and splendid work of the giants.He grasped then the sword-hilt, knight of the Scyldings,Bold and battle-grim, brandished his ring-sword,Hopeless of living, hotly he smote her,That the fiend-woman's neck firmly it grappled,Broke through her bone-joints, the bill fully pierced herFate-cursèd body, she fell to the ground then:The hand-sword was bloody, the hero exulted.The brand was brilliant, brightly it glimmered,Just as from heaven gemlike shinethThe torch of the firmament. He glanced 'long the building,And turned by the wall then, Higelac's vassalRaging and wrathful raised his battle-swordStrong by the handle. The edge was not uselessTo the hero-in-battle, but he speedily wished toGive Grendel requital for the many assaults heHad worked on the West-Danes not once, but often,When he slew in slumber the subjects of Hrothgar,Swallowed down fifteen sleeping retainersOf the folk of the Danemen, and fully as manyCarried away, a horrible prey.He gave him requital, grim-raging champion,When he saw on his rest-place weary of conflictGrendel lying, of life-joys bereavèd,As the battle at Heorot erstwhile had scathed him;His body far bounded, a blow when he suffered,Death having seized him, sword-smiting heavy,And he cut off his head then. Early this noticedThe clever carles who as comrades of HrothgarGazed on the sea-deeps, that the surging wave-currentsWere mightily mingled, the mere-flood was gory:Of the good one the gray-haired together held converse,The hoary of head, that they hoped not to see againThe atheling ever, that exulting in victoryHe'd return there to visit the distinguished folk-ruler:Then many concluded the mere-wolf had killed him.The ninth hour came then. From the ness-edge departedThe bold-mooded Scyldings; the gold-friend of heroesHomeward betook him. The strangers sat down thenSoul-sick, sorrowful, the sea-waves regarding:They wished and yet weened not their well-loved friend-lordTo see any more. The sword-blade began then,The blood having touched it, contracting and shrivellingWith battle-icicles; 't was a wonderful marvelThat it melted entirely, likest to ice whenThe Father unbindeth the bond of the frost andUnwindeth the wave-bands, He who wieldeth dominionOf time and of tides: a truth-firm Creator.Nor took he of jewels more in the dwelling,Lord of the Weders, though they lay all around him,Than the head and the handle handsome with jewels;The brand early melted, burnt was the weapon:So hot was the blood, the strange-spirit poisonousThat in it did perish. He early swam off thenWho had bided in combat the carnage of haters,Went up through the ocean; the eddies were cleansed,The spacious expanses, when the spirit from farlandHis life put aside and this short-lived existence.The seamen's defender came swimming to land thenDoughty of spirit, rejoiced in his sea-gift,The bulky burden which he bore in his keeping.The excellent vassals advanced then to meet him,To God they were grateful, were glad in their chieftain,That to see him safe and sound was granted them.From the high-minded hero, then, helmet and burnieWere speedily loosened: the ocean was putrid,The water 'neath welkin weltered with gore.Forth did they fare, then, their footsteps retracing,Merry and mirthful, measured the earth-way,To highway familiar: men very daringBare then the head from the sea-cliff, burdeningEach of the earlmen, excellent-valiant.Four of them had to carry with laborThe head of Grendel to the high towering gold-hallUpstuck on the spear, till fourteen most-valiantAnd battle-brave Geatmen came there goingStraight to the palace: the prince of the peopleMeasured the mead-ways, their mood-brave companion,The atheling of earlmen entered the building,Deed-valiant man, adorned with distinction,Doughty shield-warrior, to address King Hrothgar:Then hung by the hair, the head of GrendelWas borne to the building, where beer-thanes were drinking,Loth before earlmen and eke 'fore the lady:The warriors beheld then a wonderful sight.J. L. Hall's Translation, Parts XXI.-XXIV.