of his days; death without measure nigh:
Unto my son now should I be giving
My gear of the battle, if to me it were granted
Any ward of the heritage after my days 2730
To my body belonging. This folk have I holden
Fifty winters; forsooth was never a folk-king
Of the sitters around, no one of them soothly,
Who me with the war-friends durst wend him to greet
And bear down with the terror. In home have I abided
The shapings of whiles, and held mine own well.
No wily hates sought I; for myself swore not many
Of oaths in unright. For all this may I,
Sick with the life-wounds, soothly have joy.
Therefore naught need wyte me the Wielder of men 2740
With kin murder-bale, when breaketh asunder
My life from my lyke. And now lightly go thou
To look on the hoard under the hoar stone,
Wiglaf mine lief, now that lieth the Worm
And sleepeth sore wounded, beshorn of his treasure;
And be hasty that I now the wealth of old time,
The gold-having may look on, and yarely behold
The bright cunning gems, that the softlier may I
After the treasure-weal let go away
My life, and the folk-ship that long I have held. 2750

XXXVIII. BEOWULF BEHOLDETH THE TREASURE AND PASSETH AWAY.

Then heard I that swiftly the son of that Weohstan
After this word-say his lord the sore wounded,
Battle-sick, there obeyed, and bare forth his ring-net,
His battle-sark woven, in under the burg-roof;
Saw then victory-glad as by the seat went he,
The kindred-thane moody, sun-jewels a many,
Much glistering gold lying down on the ground,
Many wonders on wall, and the den of the Worm,
The old twilight-flier; there were flagons a-standing,
The vats of men bygone, of brighteners bereft, 2760
And maim'd of adornment; was many an helm
Rusty and old, and of arm-rings a many
Full cunningly twined. All lightly may treasure,
The gold in the ground, every one of mankind
Befool with o'erweening, hide it who will.
Likewise he saw standing a sign there all-golden
High over the hoard, the most of hand-wonders,
With limb-craft belocked, whence light a ray gleamed.
Whereby the den's ground-plain gat he to look on,
The fair works scan throughly. Not of the Worm there 2770
Was aught to be seen now, but the edge had undone him.
Heard I then that in howe of the hoard was bereaving,
The ol