Beowulf#Excerpt

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More information relevant to Beowulf.

Translation of lines 1700—1768.

Hrothgar addresses Beowulf:

> As realm-holder, speaking truth, doing right, and truly

>     Recalling the past, I may declare before all
>     That this my noble brother has spread his renown
>     Throughout the nations, steadily nurturing
>     The way of wisdom, my friend, my Beowulf.
>     I shall fulfil the promises my friendship has made.
>     And you, you are to be, to all your people
>     Strong consolation, a support to warriors.
>     Not so was Heremod to Ecgwela's sons,
>     Nor did his prospering aid his people,
>     But led to Danes' slaughter, deaths of his companions.
>     Raging he slew those sitting nearest,
>     Till leaving manly delights he died all alone,
>     Whom God had granted greatness of place,
>     Mightiness of strength, more than any man –
>     So it was brought about. But there grew in his breast
>     Moods that thirsted for blood, were backward in rewarding
>     The Danes for their deeds of glory, enduring joyless,
>     So that he suffered the toll of that struggle,
>     Personal, longdrawn ruin. You learn from this,
>     And develop generosity. Such my advice,
>     From my wisdom of many winters.

>     A marvel it is
>     To tell how the Almighty hands out wisdom
>     And large-mindedness and lands
>     To human kindreds, just as he may decide.
>     At whiles, out of love he lets a high-born lord
>     Rest happy in thought, happy in rule,
>     Grants him wide regions within his strong realm
>     So he fails to think about what fortune awaits.
>     That man lives in feasting, not enfeebled
>     By sickness or age; nor does harsh sorrow
>     Obscure his heart, nor does savagery
>     Reveal deadly hate; but the whole of the world
>     Becomes delightful, without any alloy.
>     And so within him a lofty spirit
>     Flourishes and grows, while the guardian dozes,
>     The soul's shepherd sleeps too soundly,
>     Protected from cares; then the close-living killer
>     Villainously bends his bow and shoots.
>     So the shaft's bitterness strikes beneath his defences.
>     The monstrous biddings from a demon of malice
>     Tell him his possessions are small, too small.
>     Fiercely he grasps, and has no pride in giving
>     Reward-rings of gold. Then he forgets
>     The rules of the world, that the Ruler had given him,
>     Apportioning honour. In the end it happens
>     That the body, as always fated, goes feebly to death.
>     Another inherits, uncaring, handing out heirlooms,
>     The ancient treasures, wholly unawed.

>     Keep yourself, my Beowulf, from this baleful course.
>     Pick the best choice, the path of the hero,
>     As ever has been counselled. Abandon arrogance.
>     Now, famed warrior, for a while you are strong;
>     But soon after, maybe, sword or a sickness,
>     Or the searing of fire, or the whelming sea,
>     Or the sword's dealings, or the spear's swiftness
>     Will separate you from your famed strength,
>     Or hateful old age will darken you eyes.
>     Suddenly it happens, that in an instant
>     Death overcomes you, you the hero.