"Beowulf", translated by Burton Raffel, 33-43

Reproach pounded in his breast, gloomy
And dark, and the world seemed a different place.

Beowulf
Offered them only his sword, ended
So many jackal lives that the few
Who were able skulked silently home, glad
To leave him.

But Swedish exiles came, seeking
Protection; they were rebels against Onela,
Healfdane’s son-in-law and the best ring-giver
His people had ever known.

But nothing could be done, no vengeance, no death
To repay that death, no punishment, nothing.

Watching his child swing on the gallows,
Lamenting, helpless, while his flesh and blood
Hangs for the raven to pluck.

The place
Where his son once dwelled, before death compelled him
To journey away, is a windy wasteland,
Empty, cheerless; the childless father
Shudders, seeing it.

And only one of them
Remained, stood there, miserable, remembering,
As a good man must, what kinship should mean.

Beowulf spoke, in spite of the swollen,
Livid wound, knowing he’d unwound
His string of days on earth, seen
As much as God would grant him; all worldly
Pleasure was gone, as life would go,
Soon:

Beowulf spoke, in spite of the swollen,
Livid wound, knowing he’d unwound
His string of days on earth, seen
As much as God would grant him; all worldly
Pleasure was gone, as life would go,
Soon:

Flushed with victory he groped his way,
A brave young warrior, and suddenly saw
Piles of gleaming gold, precious
Gems, scattered on the floor, cups
And bracelets, rusty old helmets, beautifully
Made but rotting with no hands to rub
And polish them.

Afraid,
While it spit its fires, to fight in their lord’s
Defense, to throw their javelins and spears,
They came like shamefaced jackals, their shields
In their hands, to the place where the prince lay dead,
And waited for Wiglaf to speak.

But he waited, Ongentho
With his mass of soldiers, circled around
The Geats who’d survived, who’d escaped him, calling
Threats and boasts at that wretched band
The whole night through.

He who held our enemies away,
Kept land and treasure intact, who saved
Hrothgar and the Danes—he who lived
All his long life bravely.

The best
Of Beowulf’s followers entered behind
That gleaming flame: seeing gold
And silver rotting on the ground, with no one
To guard it, the Geats were not troubled with scruples
Or fears, but quickly gathered up
Treasure and carried it out of the tower.

The Geats stayed,
Moaning their sorrow, lamenting their lord;
A gnarled old woman, hair wound
Tight and gray on her head, groaned
A song of misery, of infinite sadness
And days of mourning, of fear and sorrow
To come, slaughter and terror and captivity.