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  Use it as you wish my young warrior-king!”

  Then, as I heard, to the hall came forth

  four war-horses well-matched and foot-swift

  apple-fallow steeds—he served his king there

  with kind words and treasures. So a kinsman should do—

  no weaving of death-nets for his dear companion

  no sly trickery treacherous design.

  2170

  To King Hygelac helmsman of the Geats

  his nephew and friend was fast in promise

  each man to the other mindful of gifts.

  To Hygd the fair one folk-queen of the Geats

  he bore the neck-ring—since that bright feast-day

  her breast was enriched with that royal goldgift.

  Three horses he gave her haltered and saddle-bred.

  So he lived in honor Ecgtheow’s son

  heartstrong warrior borne high to praise

  by pride and mind-strength—not poisoned with ale

  2180

  did he slay his hearth-friends with hard murder-blades.

  He held to his strength strongest of them all,

  through those long life-days loaned by the Wielder,

  harbored it well. In the hall of the Geats

  as he grew to manhood no good was thought of him

  nor did the Geat-lord grant him renown

  make him treasure-gifts on mead-benches there—

  warriors believed that his worth was little

  no champion there. But change came to him

  courage and war-strength as he climbed to manhood.

  2190

  Then King Hygelac called for his gift—

  to the hall was borne Hrethel’s treasure-sword

  gold-handled warblade—no Geatish edge-weapon

  was stronger in story more steeped in battle-blood.

  He bore that treasure to Beowulf’s hands

  gave him seven thousand of separate domain

  hall and high-seat. They held together

  the kingdom of the Geats kept it in friendship

  the old homeland though Hygelac’s rule

  was broader in kind a king’s boundaries.

  THE FINAL THIRD of Beowulf begins at a time when Beowulf has been ruling the Geats for fifty years, at which point a nameless servant or slave, fleeing punishment for some transgression, stumbles upon a dragon’s treasure and steals a cup with which he hopes to buy a pardon. The dragon discovers the theft and begins the destruction that leads to Beowulf’s final battle.

  The treasure was first buried by nameless nobles, who protected it with a curse referred to near the end of the poem. It was much later unearthed and enjoyed for a time by men who gradually died out, leaving the final survivor who delivers the elegy at the beginning of this section and deposits the treasure in a barrow by the sea, where the dragon discovers it. Ironically, Beowulf dies thinking that the treasure he has won will benefit his people; instead, the Geats burn or bury all of it with Beowulf. As the anonymous messenger indicates towards the end, the old curse will probably punish the Geats since they left much of the treasure undestroyed in the burial mound.

  The Geat-Swede conflicts and the fall of Hygelac are presented in a natural if unchronological way at appropriate moments throughout this section of the poem in highly allusive episodes, by the poet himself, by Beowulf, and by the anonymous messenger. In the opening sentence the poet mentions the deaths of Hygelac and his son Heardred, thus bringing together two separate events in a long series summarized as follows:

  Three generations of Geats and Swedes are involved in these events. After Haethcyn accidentally kills his older brother Herebeald, King Hrethel of the Geats dies of a broken heart. The Swedes then attack the Geats in Geatish territory at Hreosnabeorh, after which Haethcyn leads a punitive expedition into Swedish territory at Hrefnawudu/Hrefnesholt (alternate names for “Ravenswood”), where Ongentheow, king of the Swedes, kills him and is himself killed by Wulf and Eofor, young Geatish warriors.

  The first generation is now gone. Of the Geats, only Hygelac, his young son Heardred, and Beowulf remain. Of the Swedes, there are Ongentheow’s sons Onela and Ohthere, and Ohthere’s sons Eanmund and Eadgils.

  During a pause in the Geat-Swede conflicts, Hygelac leads an expedition up the lower Rhine into the land of Franks and Frisians (including Hugas, Hetware, and Merovingians), where he is killed as he prepares to leave, Beowulf alone escaping. Heardred is now king of the Geats and Ohthere rules the Swedes.

  When Ohthere dies, Onela seizes the throne from his nephew and sets in motion a series of conflicts that leave only two principals alive: Eadgils, now king of the Swedes, and Beowulf, now king of the Geats. Fifty years later, Wiglaf, chosen by Beowulf to succeed him, wears the armor of the slain brother of Eadgils, presumably still king of the Swedes, an unfortunate situation.

  III

  2200

  Long afterwards in lingering years

  after sharp swordswings sang in anger

  and death found Hygelac by distant waters—

  after Battle-Swedes came crossed into Götland

  brought to Heardred baleful spear-play

  bore him from life in the land of Weather-Geats

  haled from the gift-throne Hereric’s nephew—

  after Beowulf rose to rule that kingdom

  fathered the Geats for fifty winters

  learned through the years lessons of the throne—

  2210

  once more a monster moved through the night

  a raging flame-dragon ruled in darkness

  fire-grim guardian of a great treasure-mound

  steep stonebarrow—a secret pathway

  led to this wealth. A wandering fugitive

  stumbled inside by the sleeping dragon

  stole from the treasure a studded ale-cup

  jeweled gold-vessel. The jealous goldguard

  did not hide his wrath raged at that theft

  by a sneaking runaway. Soon the Geatfolk

  2220

  found that his fury fell upon their land.

  Not at all willfully did that wandering slave

  breach that barrow bear the cup away

  but in desperate need that nameless servant

  hiding in heath-slopes from hateful whiplashing

  sorrowful slave-wretch stumbling for his life

  fell into that gloom. He found quickly

  that terror waited there walled him in fear—

  the slumbering serpent lay still in repose

  unwary of his guest winking jewel-stones

  2230

  heaped in his coils—one cup was taken

  an offering for mercy.

  Many were the heirlooms

  in that deep earthhouse old hall-treasures

  gathered there in grief in gone sorrow-days

  rings and bracelets bountiful throne-gifts

  left hopelessly by a last survivor

  dear gold-memories. Death took them all

  in times long vanished victor of men

  till one still living alone with that wealth

  lordless hall-warden could hope no longer

  2240

  to wield that treasure—time was upon him

  boundary of life. A barrow stood ready

  under the bluff-rock above the waterways

  nestled in the cliff narrow and secret.

  He bore those treasures to the barrow’s fold

  ring-hoard of warriors worthy of a king

  sealed them in sorrow and spoke his grief-words:

  “Hold you now, Earth now that heroes are sleeping

  these treasures of men. They were taken from you

  by good warrior-friends gone into silence—

  2250

  funeral fire-greed has fetched my people

  from their loaned life-days, led into darkness

  bright hall-laughter. Where are the sword-bearers

  quick board-servants to burnish the ale-cupsr />
  vessels of victory? They have vanished away.

  Hard mask-helmets hand-wrought with gold

  shall gleam no longer—good men are sleeping

  who should polish them well for warriors and kings.

  This moldering mailcoat maimed in battle-clash

  with bites of edges over breaking of shields

  2260

  crumbles in darkness—this death-stained swordvest

  can march no longer linked ring-corselet

  by a warrior’s side. No sweet harp-strumming

  gathers the songwords nor the good falcon

  swings through the hall nor the swift battle-steed

  clatters in the yard. Cold death-wardens

  have sent into silence sons of this land.”

  So the mourning one mindful of youth-years

  one after all of them wanders alone

  through day and night-time till death’s welling

  2270

  comes to his heart. The hoard lay open—

  the old fire-serpent found it waiting there

  who burns through the air blasting hall-timbers—

  searing hate-creature soaring through the night

  ringed with fire-breath raging through darkness

  torturing earth-dwellers—ever shall he seek

  hidden treasure-hoards heathen gold-chambers

  to guard in his coils—no good does it bring him.

  Three hundred winters he hoarded his prize

  wrapped his riches in his rocky barrow,

  2280

  crafty treasure-ward, till a trembling slave

  kindled his anger claimed a gem-cup

  bore it to his lord begged a settlement

  a gift for his life. That great treasure-mound

  was touched by thief-hands—time was granted

  to that lucky wretch. His lord received it

  ancient elf’s work ale-cup for kings.

  Then that serpent woke swelled with anger—

  he searched the stonework saw beside the mound

  a hostile foot-track where that hopeless slave

  2290

  had stolen near to him stepped past his head.

  So may the undoomed easily survive

  sorrow and ruin he who reaps the favor

  of the world’s Wielder. That waking flame-serpent

  rushed round his treasure raged for that thief

  who crept past his sleep swelled him with goldgrief.

  Hot with hate-thoughts he hurtled outside

  circled the barrow—he saw no creature

  on the wild heathland hiding from fury.

  At times he shot back to his bountiful riches

  2300

  searched for his cup—soon he discovered

  that some man-creature had diminished his hoard

  plundered his goldnest. No patience eased him

  as he watched and waited for waning of that day.

  That fearful treasure-guard fumed with yearning

  writhing to ransom his rich jewel-cup

  with flames from the sky. The sun grew heavy

  dragged down the day—the dragon was ready

  on his wall by the sea soared with balefire

  fueled by his fury. The feud had begun,

  2310

  sorrow for landfolk which soon would be ended

  by their great people-king, grievously paid for.

  That serpent went sailing spewing flame-murder

  blistering meadhalls—mountains of hate-fire

  moved through the land—he would leave no creature

  alive on the earth lone night-flyer.

  That death-dragon’s work was widely visible—

  with vicious vengeance, violent greed-death,

  that winged sky-monster seared and blasted

  the home of the Geats. To the hoard he dived

  2320

  dark stonebarrow as day broke the night.

  With great fire-bellows he flung through the land

  bale-flames and ashes—to his barrow he fled

  for shelter from sunrise. Soon all failed him.

  To Beowulf was sent sorrowful tidings

  grief-heavy news that his great meadhall

  mightiest of gift-thrones had melted in flames

  cindered by dragon-heat. That darkest message

  was horror to his heart hardest of fate-strokes.

  He thought for a time he had turned from the Wielder

  2330

  angered the Shaper with shameful action

  bittered his Maker—his breast was troubled

  with dark wonder deep soul-questions.

  The dragon had charred that champion’s kingdom

  blasted to ashes the earth around him

  from sea unto sea. Soon that battle-king

  lord of the Geats would give him answer.

  He called for a shield shaped to his war-needs

  a great iron-round for the Geats’ defender

  steel life-guardian—he had learned clearly

  2340

  that no good treewood could turn back those flames

  board against fire-breath. The border of loan-days

  had come for that lord last of earth-moments

  and the dragon as well doomed to depart

  who had lived with treasure for long centuries.

  The old people-king was too proud for war-troops

  had no wish to battle that wondrous night-flyer