,
The old under the earth: it was no easy cheaping
To go and to gain for any of grooms.
Sat then on the ness there the strife-hardy king
While farewell he bade to his fellows of hearth,
The gold-friend of the Geats; sad was gotten his soul,
Wavering, death-minded; weird nigh beyond measure,
Which him old of years gotten now needs must be greeting, 2420
Must seek his soul's hoard and asunder must deal
His life from his body: no long while now was
The life of the Atheling in flesh all bewounden.
Now spake out Beowulf, Ecgtheow's bairn:
Many a one in my youth of war-onsets I outliv'd,
And the whiles of the battle: all that I remember.
Seven winters had I when the wielder of treasures,
The lord-friend of folk, from my father me took,
Held me and had me Hrethel the king,
Gave me treasure and feast, and remember'd the friendship. 2430
For life thence I was not to him a whit loather,
A berne in his burgs than his bairns were, or each one,
Herebeald, or Haethcyn, or Hygelac mine.
For the eldest there was in unseemly wise
By the mere deed of kinsman a murder-bed strawen,
Whenas him did Haethcyn from out of his horn-bow,
His lord and his friend, with shaft lay alow:
His mark he miss'd shooting, and shot down his kinsman,
One brother another with shaft all bebloody'd;
That was fight feeless by fearful crime sinned, 2440
Soul-weary to heart, yet natheless then had
The atheling from life all unwreak'd to be ceasing.
So sad-like it is for a carle that is aged
To be biding the while that his boy shall be riding
Yet young on the gallows; then a lay should he utter,
A sorrowful song whenas hangeth his son
A gain unto ravens, and naught good of avail
May he, old and exceeding old, anywise frame.
Ever will he be minded on every each morning
Of his son's faring otherwhere; nothing he heedeth 2450
Of abiding another withinward his burgs,
An heritage-warder, then whenas the one
By the very death's need hath found out the ill.
Sorrow-careful he seeth within his son's bower
The waste wine-hall, the resting-place now of the winds,
All bereft of the revel; the riders are sleeping,
The heroes in grave, and no voice of the harp is,
No game in the garths such as erewhile was gotten.

XXXV. BEOWULF TELLS OF PAST FEUDS,
AND BIDS FAREWELL TO HIS FELLOWS:
HE FALLS ON THE WORM, AND THE BATT