stan-beorh
stea[p]ne; stig under læg
eldum uncuð; þær on innan giong
niða nat-hwylc, se [þe] neh gefeng
hæðnum horde, hond ...
Swa se ðeod-sceaða þreo hund wintra
heold on hrãsa[n] hord-ærna sum
eacen-cræftig, oððæt hyne an abealch
mon on mode; man-dryhtne bær
fæted wæge, frioðo-wære bæd
hlaford sinne. Ða wæs hord rasod,
onboren beaga hord, bene getiðad
feasceaftum men. Frea sceawode
fira fyrn-geweorc forman siðe.
Þa se wyrm onwoc, wroht wæs geniwad;
stonc ða æfter stane, stearc-heort onfand
feondes fot-last;
Se wæs fiftiges fot-gemearces
lang on legere; lyft-wynne heold
nihtes hwilum, nyðer eft gewat
dennes niosian; wæs ða deaðe fæst,
hæfde eorð-scrafa ende genyttod.
Him big stodan bunan ond orcas,
discas lagon ond dyre swyrd,
omige, þurhetone, swa hie wið eorðan fæðm
þusend wintra þær eardodon.
nu se here-wisa hleahtor alegde,
gamen ond gleo-dream. Forðon sceall gar wesan
monig morgen-ceald mundum bewunden,
hæfen on handa, nalles hearpan sweg
wigend weccean, ac se wonna hrefn
fus ofer fægum fela reordian,
earne secgan, hu him æt æte speow,
þenden he wið wulf wæl reafode. |
towering
stone-mound; the entrance beneath it
lay unknown to men. Some man or other
crept inside it, reached out toward
the heathen treasure, took in his hand
Three hundred years that harm to the people
held one of its hoards, dwelt in the arth,
mighty in powers, until a lone man
kindled its fury; he took to his master
the gold-plated flagon, asked guarantees
of peace from his lord. The hoard had been pilfered,
its treasure lessened, and pardon granted
the miserable man; his lord looked upon
the gold of the ancients for the first time.
By then, also, the dragon had wakened
and with it new strife. It slithered and sniffed
along the stone walls, found a footprint.
In length he measured
fifty foot-paces. Once he controlled
the air in joys, had ridden on the wind
throughout the night, then flew back down
to seek his den. Now he lay there,
stiff in death, found no more caves.
Beneath him were piled pitchers and flagons,
dishes in heaps, and well-wrought swords
eaten by rust, just as they had lain
in the deeps of the earth for a thousand years.
now that our king
has laid down laughter, every joy.
The spear must be seized, morning-cold,
hefted in hand, on many dark dawns;
no harp music will wake the warriors,
but the black raven above doomed men
shall tell the eagle how he fared at meat
when with the wolf he stripped the bodies. |
