(Old English Epic)
This was the first time
For young Wiglaf, that he should join
The rush of war with his dear lord. His mind
Did not melt, nor his legacy of strength
Go weak in the fight; as the worm found out,
After they had come together.
***
Wiglaf waded through the reek with keen-headed
Help for his lord – with golden words and few.
“Dear Beowulf, live up to all you have done,
As in your youth you said you would never
As long as you had life let right fame
Fall away. Now, long famous for your deeds,
Pure prince, you must with all your might
Serve your worthy life well – I will help!”
At these words, the worm came angrily on,
For a second time, a foul gust of hate,
Worm-infested fire, most loathsome of men,
To fall upon his foes. Waves of fire burned
Shield to rim. A scorching byrnie could not
Yield much help under his kinsman’s cover
Went strong in arm, when his own board was
Reduced to flaming dust. Then the captain
King’s mind took fame in hand, struck so hard
With his blade of war, that between his hand
And that hateful head shattered Naegling stood,
Went weak in the fight, Beowulf’s own sword,
Old-etched in gray! Its edges of iron
Were not fated to be enough to help
The man in battle – his hand was too strong.
That man, I heard, with his swing overtaxed
Every wound-hard weapon he had carried
Into battle – not any better for it.
Then for a third time was that stealthy brute,
That fire-fierce dragon, reminded of old feuds.
He rushed that hero when he got a chance,
Agressively grim, went hot for the neck
With his bitter teeth. Beowulf throbbed red.
The life-blood of his soud rippled in gore.
Then I heard at his great prince’s need
That Wiglaf showed such arm-work,
Such craft and keenness, he was born to.
He never heeded the head, but burned his hand
Where he helped out with his family strength,
Striking this spiteful ghost with such spite
Low down, clever in arms, that his pretty sword
Plunged through plated flesh, and fire began
At last to cool. Beowulf was master still
Of arm and will and bared the bitter sharp
Dagger he bore on his smoldering byrnie.
The Weders’ chief wrote the worm off across
The middle, felled his foe. Strong arms let life
Leak out – they had served him up together,
a kinsmen pledged as mand and knife should be,
Thanes at need! But that was the sinking king’s
Last moment of winning work in this world.
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