Wiglaf Sendeth Tiding to the Host: the Words of the Messenger

Then he bade them that war-work give out at the barriers Up over the sea-cliff, whereas then the earl-host The morning-long day sat sad of their mood, The bearers of war-boards, in weening of both things, Either the end-day, or else the back-coming Of the lief man. Forsooth he little was silent Of the new-fallen tidings who over the ness rode, But soothly he said over all there a-sitting: Now is the will-giver of the folk of the Weders, The lord of the Geats, fast laid in the death-bed, In the slaughter-rest wonneth he by the Worm's doings. And beside him yet lieth his very life-winner All sick with the sax-wounds; with sword might he never On the monster, the fell one, in any of manners Work wounding at all. There yet sitteth Wiglaf, Weohstan's own boy, over Beowulf king, One earl over the other, over him the unliving; With heart-honours holdeth he head-ward withal Over lief, over loath. But to folk is a weening Of war-tide as now, so soon as unhidden To Franks and to Frisians the fall of the king Is become over widely. Once was the strife shapen Hard 'gainst the Hugs, sithence Hygelac came Faring with float-host to Frisian land, Whereas him the Hetware vanquish'd in war, With might gat the gain, with o'er-mickle main; The warrior bebyrny'd he needs must bow down: He fell in the host, and no fretted war-gear Gave that lord to the doughty, but to us was aye sithence The mercy ungranted that was of the Merwing. Nor do I from the Swede folk of peace or good faith Ween ever a whit. For widely 'twas wotted That Ongentheow erst had undone the life Of Hæthcyn the Hrethel's son hard by the Raven-wood, Then when in their pride the Scylfings of war Erst gat them to seek to the folk of the Geats. Unto him soon the old one, the father of Ohthere, The ancient and fearful gave back the hand-stroke, Brake up the sea-wise one, rescued his bride. The aged his spouse erst, bereft of the gold, Mother of Onela, yea and of Ohthere; And follow'd up thereon his foemen the deadly, Until they betook them and sorrowfully therewith Unto the Raven-holt, reft of their lord. With huge host then beset he the leaving of swords All weary with wounds, and woe he behight them, That lot of the wretched, the livelong night through; Quoth he that the morrow's morn with the swords' edges He would do them to death, hang some on the gallows For a game unto fowl. But again befell comfort To the sorry of mood with the morrow-day early; Whereas they of Hygelac's war-horn and trumpet The voice wotted, whenas the good king his ways came Faring on in the track of his folk's doughty men.