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Beowulf XXXVII
'TWAS now, men say, in his
sovran's need
that the earl made known his noble strain,
craft and keenness and courage enduring.
Heedless of harm, though his hand was burned,
hardy-hearted, he helped his kinsman.
A little lower the
loathsome beast
he smote with sword; his steel drove in
bright and burnished; that blaze began
to lose and
lessen. At last the king
wielded his wits again, war-knife drew,
a biting blade by his
breastplate hanging,
and the Weders'-helm smote that
worm asunder,
felled the foe, flung forth its life.
So had they killed it,
kinsmen both,
athelings twain: thus an earl should be
in
danger's day! -- Of deeds of valor
this
conqueror's-hour of the king was last,
of his work in the world. The wound began,
which that
dragon-of-
earth had erst
inflicted,
to swell and smart; and soon he found
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in his breast was
boiling,
baleful and deep,
pain of
poison. The prince walked on,
wise in his thought, to the wall of rock;
then sat, and stared at the
structure of
giants,
where arch of stone and steadfast column
upheld forever that hall in earth.
Yet here must the hand of the
henchman peerless
lave with water his winsome lord,
the king and
conqueror covered with
blood,
with struggle spent, and unspan his helmet.
Beowulf spake in spite of his hurt,
his mortal wound; full well he knew
his portion now was past and gone
of
earthly bliss, and all had fled
of his file of days, and death was near:
"I would fain bestow on son of mine
this
gear of
war, were given me now
that any heir should after me come
of my proper
blood. This people I ruled
fifty winters. No
folk-
king was there,
none at all, of the neighboring clans
who war would wage me with '
warriors'-
friends' (1)
and threat me with horrors. At home I bided
what fate might come, and I cared for mine own;
feuds I sought not, nor falsely swore
ever on oath. For all these things,
though fatally wounded, fain am I!
From the Ruler-of-Man no wrath shall seize me,
when life from my frame must flee away,
for
killing of
kinsmen! Now quickly go
and gaze on that hoard 'neath the hoary rock,
Wiglaf loved, now the worm lies low,
sleeps, heart-sore, of his spoil bereaved.
And fare in haste. I would fain behold
the
gorgeous heirlooms, golden store,
have joy in the
jewels and
gems, lay down
softlier for sight of this
splendid hoard
my life and the lordship I long have held."
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(1) That is,
swords.