The End.

Then the prince went and sat on a seat by the wall, thoughtfully gazed on the work of giants, how the stone-arches held up the eternal earth-hall from within. His thane, glorious in his victory, washed the blood-stained hand of his lord abundantly with water, the great-hearted man, weary from his battle-wounds, and loosened his helmet.

Beowulf spoke in spite of his injuries, his mortal wound; he knew full well that he had spent his allotted days, his worldly joy; then all was gone for him, the count of his days, death very near: “Now I would give my war-gear to my son, if any heir had been granted to me, born of my body. I have ruled this people for fifty winters. There was not one of the neighboring kings who dared meet me with swords, or oppress me with terror. I bided my time in my home, sought out my own fate, quarreled with no one, nor swore many false oaths. For all that I may have joy, though sick with mortal wounds, because the gods need not blame me with the murder of kinsmen, when my life departs from my body.

Now you must go quickly to behold the hoard under the grey stone, dear Wiglaf, now that the dragon lies dead, sleeps sorely wounded, robbed of treasure. Hurry now, that I may see the ancient wealth, the golden treasure, gaze my fill on those bright crafted gems, so I may the more easily, after that wealth of treasure, give up my life and the lordship I have long held.” [back to the theme of gold as a reward for killing a monster]

I have heard that the son of Weohstan then quickly obeyed his wounded lord, battle-sick, bore his ring-net, woven war-shirt, under the roof of the barrow. The victorious young thane, passing the seat, saw many precious jewels, gold glittering on the ground, wondrous things on the wall, and the lair of the dragon, the old flier in darkness; vessels stood there, cups of bygone men, with no one to brighten them, deprived of their ornaments. There was many a helm old and rusty, many arm-rings twisted with skill. Treasure, gold in the ground, can easily overpower any one of mankind, hide it from whom it will!

Likewise he saw a banner all of gold hanging high over the hoard, greatest of wonders, woven by hand; from it a light shone out, so that he could see the floor’s expanse, inspect the treasures. There was no sign of the serpent; a sword’s edge had carried him off.

Then I have heard, the hoard was plundered, the giant-work of ancient men carried off by one man alone, who loaded the bosom of his lord according to his own judgment, bore back the glittering treasure; likewise the dish and the sword, the precious things. He hastened, anxious, before his lord, oppressed by wounds, to bring the rings, so that the great-hearted king, lord of the Weders, bleeding and battle-weary, might see the gold with his own eyes before he gave up his life and his lordship.

Then the king spoke, aged in his sorrow, looked upon the gold: “I give thanks in words to the fate, for these precious things which I here look upon, that I might acquire such for my people before my day of death. Now I have sold my old life-span for this hoard of treasure; tend to the people’s needs from now on - I may no longer remain here. Bid the brave warriors build a barrow after the funeral-fire on a headland by the sea, which shall tower high on Whale’s Ness as a memorial for my people, so that seafarers who drive their tall ships from afar over the spray of ocean shall afterwards call it Beowulf’s Barrow.”

The bold king took off the golden neck-ring, gave it to his thane, the young spear-warrior, his gold-plated helmet, ring, and byrnie, bade him use them well: “You are the last remnant of our kin, the Waegmundings; fate has swept all my kinsmen away into eternity, earls in their courage; I must follow after them.” [this is the end of an epoch]

That was the old man’s last word from his breast-thoughts, before he chose the funeral-pyre, the hot battle-flames; from his breast his spirit departed to seek the hall of echoes.

Thus had unblithely befallen the young man that he saw his dearest one laid on the earth, bereft of life, faring most wretchedly. His slayer also lay dead, the horrid earth-dragon, deprived of life, crushed in ruin; the ring-hoard dragon might no longer rule over gold-treasures, but the swords’ edges had carried him off, the hard battle-sharp leavings of hammers, so that the wide-flier stilled by wounds fell on the ground near the hoard-hall; no more through the air did he sport at midnight, show himself proud of his wealth, but he fell to the earth because of the warrior’s handiwork.

Indeed few of mighty men, though bold in every deed, have prospered to rush against the blast of a venomous foe or disturb his treasure-hall, if they found the keeper waking, abiding in the barrow. By Beowulf a portion of princely treasures was paid for with his death. Each had reached the end of transient life.

It was not long after that the cowardly ones left the wood [those who did not do what is right], the unwarlike troth-breakers, ten together, who had not dared before to swing their spears in their lord’s great need; but shamefully they bore their shields, their war-garments, to where the old man lay; they looked upon Wiglaf. He sat wearied, the warrior, at his lord’s shoulder, tried to rouse him with water, but it availed him not at all; he could not keep life in his chieftain, though he wished it, nor change fate’s will.

Then was a grim answer readily given to the young man by him whose heart was seething. Wiglaf spoke, the son of Weohstan, that sad man looked on those unloved ones: “Lo! he who wishes to speak the truth may say that the lord who gave you these treasures, the battle-equipments in which you stand there - when on the ale-bench he often presented to those sitting in hall, a helmeted king to thanes, the best he could find far or near, that he utterly wasted that war-gear, miserably cast it away, when battle overtook him. The king of the folk had no cause to boast of his comrades-in-arms; yet the gods granted him unaided to avenge himself with his sword when valor was needed. Little protection could I give him in battle, and yet I attempted the impossible, to help my kinsman beyond my measure. It was ever the worse when I struck the deadly foe with my sword, the fire less fiercely flowed from his head. Too few defenders thronged around their lord when the terrible moment came to him. Now shall treasure-sharing and sword-giving, all joy of home and comfort cease for your kin. Every man of that clan must wander bereft of land-rights when nobles far and wide hear of your flight, your infamous deeds. Death is better for every earl than a shameful life!” [a lesson given to the reader]

Then he ordered to announce the battle’s outcome to the camp up over the sea-cliff, where the sad warriors sat with anxious hearts all morning long, shield-bearers in expectation of either the return of the dear man or his downfall. Little did he conceal that new tidings who rode over the headland, but truthfully spoke before them all: “Now is the lord of the Weders, the people’s joy-giver, fast in his death-bed, he lies lifeless in slaughter by the serpent’s deeds. Beside him lies his deadly foe, slain by his sword’s wounds; he could not inflict any wound on the monster with his blade. Wiglaf sits over Beowulf, the son of Weohstan, the living earl by the dead, keeps sorrowful watch over friend and foe.

Now there may be expectation of a time of war to our people, once the fall of the king becomes widely known to Franks and Frisians. The fierce quarrel with the Hugas was brought about when Hygelac came faring with a fleet to Frisian lands, where the Hetware vanquished him in battle, resolutely struck with an overwhelming force so that the mail-clad warrior had to bow, fell among the foot-troop; he gave no treasures to his nobles after that. The mercy of the Merovingian has been denied us ever since.

Nor do I expect any peace or trust from the Swedes; it was widely known that Ongentheow deprived Haethcyn, son of Hrethel, of life by Ravenswood, when in their pride the Geat people first sought out the warlike Scylfings. Soon the aged father of Ohthere, old and terrifying, gave a hand-stroke in return, destroyed the sea-king, rescued his bride, the aged queen bereft of gold, mother of Onela and Ohthere; then he pursued his deadly foes until they escaped with difficulty into Ravenswood, lordless. He besieged those left by the swords’ edges, weary with wounds, woes often promised that wretched band the whole night through: he said that in the morning he would seize them with the sword’s edge, some on the gallows-tree as sport for the birds.

Comfort came again to those sad in spirit along with the dawn, when they heard Hygelac’s horn and trumpet-sound, when that worthy man came marching with the strength of his army.

The bloody track of Swedes and Geats, the slaughter-rush of men, was widely seen, how those men roused a feud between them. Then the good man, aged and downcast, departed to seek his stronghold; the earl Ongentheow went further up to higher ground - he had heard of Hygelac’s prowess, the proud one’s war-skill, and did not trust in resistance, that he could defy the seamen, defend his hoard, his children, and wife; the old man retreated from there behind the earth-wall. Then chase was given to the Swedish people, banners to Hygelac. The Geats pressed forward over the peace-plain once the sons of Hrethel had advanced to the entrenchments. There Ongentheow the grey-haired was brought to bay with the edge of the sword, so that the mighty king had to yield to the sole will of Eofor. Wulf Wonreding angrily struck at him with his weapon so that at the stroke blood burst out from under his hair; he was not daunted, however, the aged Scylfing, but quickly repaid that deadly stroke with a worse exchange - when the bold king turned towards him, he could no longer hold his blood-stained helmet, but the brave son of Wonred had to bow to the earth, felled by the sword. But he was not yet doomed, though the wound had touched him close. When his brother lay felled, Eofor, that broad-bladed weapon and his ancient giant-sword broke the giant-helm over the shield-wall; then the king sank down, the shepherd of his folk was mortally wounded. Then many bound up their fellow’s wounds, lifted him up swiftly, when a space was cleared for them so they might command the battlefield. Meanwhile one warrior stripped the other, looted Ongentheow of his iron byrnie, his hard hilted sword, with his helmet all together; he bore the greybeard’s armour to Hygelac. He accepted those trappings and graciously promised them rewards among his people - and he carried out his pledge; the lord of the Geats, son of Hrethel, when he came home, repaid Eofor and Wulf for that battle-assault, gave them surpassing treasures, bestowed on each of them a hundred thousand in land and linked rings; none among men could reprove him for those rewards, since they had won glory by fighting; and moreover he gave Eofor his sole daughter as a pledge of loyalty, an honor to his home.

That is the feud and enmity, the deadly hatred of men, on account of which I expect the Swedish people will seek us out once they learn that our lord lies lifeless, who upheld our treasure and our realm against foes, furthered the people’s welfare, or still further performed heroic deeds. Now is haste best, that we look upon our people’s king and bring him who gave us rings on his way to the funeral pyre. Not a few things shall melt with that bold man, but a hoard of treasure, huge weights of gold bought with his own life; but now at the last the flames shall consume it, the fire enfold it; no earl shall wear a remembrance-treasure, nor fair maiden have a ring-ornament around her neck, but shall go grief-stricken, bereft of gold, often not once, tread the land of exile, now that the leader of the host has laid aside laughter, mirth, and joy. Thus many a cold morning shall the spear be grasped in frozen fingers, hefted by hands, no sound of harp shall waken the warriors, but the dark raven, eager over the doomed, shall speak a great deal, recount to the eagle how he succeeded at the feast, when he with the wolf plundered the slain.”

So the bold warrior was telling the tales of evil; he did not lie much in words or facts. All the band arose; they went unjoyfully under the Eagle’s Ness with welling tears, to behold the wonder. They found him then on the sand, lifeless, his spirit gone, the one who had given them treasure in the past. The final day had come for that good man, the warrior-king, the lord of the Weders, had met a wondrous death.

But first they saw a more astonishing sight, the serpent on the ground, the malicious invader lying there opposite. The fire-dragon was grimly terrible, burnt in his own flames; he was fifty feet long where he lay; he had enjoyed the air’s dominion for a time at night, but now he had fallen to the ground, having made use of his last cavern. By him stood bowls and pitchers, dishes lay there, and precious swords eaten through with rust [the precious objects eaten by rust are a metaphore], as if they had remained a thousand winters in the earth’s embrace. That inheritance, that gold of ancient men, was enchanted with a spell [mention of a spell!], so that no man could touch that ring-hall, unless the gods themselves granted whom He would to open the hoard, even such a man as seemed fitting to them.

Then it was seen that the way did not prosper for him who unjustly hid riches under the mound; the guardian had slain someone before, then that feud was fearfully avenged. It is a wonder where a mighty prince may reach the end of his fated life, when he may no longer, though long granted it, dwell in the mead-hall among his kin. Such was it for Beowulf when he sought the barrow’s keeper and its quarrels: he did not know by what his parting from the world would come. Thus famous princes uttered deep curses until doomsday, that a man would be guilty of sins, imprisoned in idol-fanes, hellishly bound, racked with plagues, if he plundered that place. He was not gold-greedy earlier in his grace, more gladly did he look to fate’s favor.

Wiglaf spoke, son of Weohstan: “Often many earls must suffer misery through the will of one, as has happened to us. We could not persuade our dear prince, the lord of the kingdom, by any counsel, that he should not challenge the gold-guardian, but let him lie where he long had been, dwell in his haunts until the end of the world. He held to his high destiny. The hoard is dearly bought, and fated to us - too cruel was the king’s doom. I was within and looked upon all the riches of that barrow when a way was opened for me, though not in a kindly manner, a passage under the earthen walls. I grasped a great and mighty burden of treasures in my hands; I bore it out here to my king. He was still alive then, wise and aware; the aged lord spoke many things in sorrow and commanded me to greet you, bade that you build, in memory of your prince’s deeds, a great barrow on the site of the pyre, mighty and magnificent, as he was the most worthy of warriors across the wide earth while he could still enjoy the wealth of his cities.

Let us now hasten to go and see the heap of precious things, the wonders under the wall. I shall guide you, so that you may look closely upon the rings and broad gold. Let the bier be ready, made swiftly, when we come out, and then let us bear our lord, the beloved man, to where he shall wait long in the allfather’s keeping.”

Then the son of Weohstan ordered commands to be given to many homestead-owners, that they, the leaders of men, should bring from afar wood for the pyre to where the good king lay: “Now shall fire consume - the dark flame, the roaring blaze - the lord of warriors, him who often endured the iron-shower when the storm of arrows, urged by bowstrings, shot over the shield-wall, the shaft did its duty, eager with its feather-gear it followed the barb.”

Now the wise son of Weohstan summoned together from the king’s band of thanes the best seven; he went with the seven under the enemy roof; one of the warriors who went at the front bore a burning torch in his hand. It was not decided by lot who should plunder that hoard, when men saw some part unguarded remaining in the hall, lying there perishing. Little did any mourn that they hastily carried out the precious treasures.

Moreover, they shoved the dragon, that serpent, over the cliff-wall, let the wave take him, the flood embrace the keeper of treasures. There the gold of ancient times was loaded on a wagon, countless in number; the prince, the hoary battle-warrior, was borne away to the Whale’s Headland.

Then the Geatish people prepared for him a funeral pyre on the earth [burned by the dragon then in a pyre], no small one, hung with helmets, battle-shields, bright byrnies, as he had requested; then in the midst they laid the great prince, lamenting their hero, their beloved lord. Then the warriors began to awaken on the mound the mightiest of funeral fires; wood-smoke arose black over the flames, the roaring fire - mingled with weeping (the tumult of the winds ceased) until it had consumed the bone-house, hot at its heart. Sad in mind, sorrowful in spirit, they mourned the death of their liege-lord. Likewise a Geatish woman with bound tresses sang a sorrowful song about Beowulf, earnestly said that she dreaded evil days for herself, much bloodshed, terror of troops, humiliation and captivity [tale of things to come].

Heaven swallowed the smoke. Then the Weder-Geats made a mound on the hill, it was high and broad, widely visible to seafaring men; and in ten days they built the beacon of the battle-renowned one, the remnant of the burning. Round the mound they built a wall, as worthy men could most expertly devise it. Within the mound they placed rings and jewels, all such adornments as brave-minded men had taken from the hoard before. They let the earth hold the treasure of earls, the gold in the ground, where it yet remains, as useless to men as it was before [the resonance with the rest of the story is interesting: all Beowulf did got him gold].

Then the brave men rode round the mound, the sons of nobles, twelve in all; they wished to bewail their sorrow, mourn their king, recite dirges and speak about the man. They praised his nobility and his deeds of courage, honoring him with praise, as is fitting for a man to praise his friendly lord with words, love him in heart, when he must forth from the fleeting body. So the Geatish companions, the hearth-band of their lord, mourned their ruler’s fall, said that he was among world-kings the mildest and most gracious of men, kindest to his people and most eager for fame [“most eager of fame” this is a biting end, remind us of Beowulf’s shortcomings].