ine.

X. BEOWULF MAKES AN END OF HIS TALE OF THE SWIMMING.
WEALHTHEOW, HROTHGAR'S QUEEN, GREETS HIM;
AND HROTHGAR DELIVERS TO HIM THE WARDING OF THE HALL.

Thus oft and oft over the doers of evil
They threatened me hard; thane-service I did them 560
With the dear sword of mine, as forsooth it was meet,
That nowise of their fill did they win them the joy
The evil fordoers in swallowing me down,
Sitting round at the feast nigh the ground of the sea.
Yea rather, a morning-tide, mangled by sword-edge
Along the waves' leaving up there did they lie
Lull'd asleep with the sword, so that never sithence
About the deep floods for the farers o'er ocean
The way have they letted. Came the light from the eastward,
The bright beacon of God, and grew the seas calm, 570
So that the sea-nesses now might I look on,
The windy walls. Thuswise Weird oft will be saving
The earl that is unfey, when his valour availeth.
Whatever, it happ'd me that I with the sword slew
Nicors nine. Never heard I of fighting a night-tide
'Neath the vault of the heavens was harder than that,
Nor yet on the sea-streams of woefuller wight.
Whatever, forth won I with life from the foes' clutch
All of wayfaring weary. But me the sea upbore,
The flood downlong the tide with the weltering of waters, 580
All onto the Finnland. No whit of thee ever
Mid such strife of the battle-gear have I heard say,
Such terrors of bills. Nor never yet Breca
In the play of the battle, nor both you, nor either,
So dearly the deeds have framed forsooth
With the bright flashing swords; though of this naught I boast me.
But thou of thy brethren the banesman becamest,
Yea thine head-kin forsooth, for which in hell shalt thou
Dree weird of damnation, though doughty thy wit be;
For unto thee say I forsooth, son of Ecglaf, 590
That so many deeds never Grendel had done,
That monster the loathly, against thine own lord,
The shaming in Hart-hall, if suchwise thy mind were,
And thy soul e'en as battle-fierce, such as thou sayest.
But he, he hath fram'd it that the feud he may heed not,
The fearful edge-onset that is of thy folk,
Nor sore need be fearful of the Victory-Scyldings.
The need-pledges taketh he, no man he spareth
Of the folk of the Danes, driveth war as he lusteth,
Slayeth and feasteth unweening of strife