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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345977" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Beowulf (Episode 21)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:<br>&quot;Sorrow not, sage! It beseems us better<br>friends to avenge than fruitlessly mourn them.<br>Each of us all must his end abide<br>in the ways of the world; so win who may<br>glory ere death! When his days are told,<br>that is the warrior's worthiest doom.<br>Rise, O realm-warder! Ride we anon,<br>and mark the trail of the mother of Grendel.<br>No harbor shall hide her -- heed my promise! --<br>enfolding of field or forested mountain<br>or floor of the flood, let her flee where she will!<br>But thou this day endure in patience,<br>as I ween thou wilt, thy woes each one.&quot;<br>Leaped up the graybeard: God he thanked,<br>mighty Lord, for the man's brave words.<br>For Hrothgar soon a horse was saddled<br>wave-maned steed. The sovran wise<br>stately rode on; his shield-armed men<br>followed in force. The footprints led<br>along the woodland, widely seen,<br>a path o'er the plain, where she passed, and trod<br>the murky moor; of men-at-arms<br>she bore the bravest and best one, dead,<br>him who with Hrothgar the homestead ruled.<br>On then went the atheling-born<br>o'er stone-cliffs steep and strait defiles,<br>narrow passes and unknown ways,<br>headlands sheer, and the haunts of the Nicors.<br>Foremost he fared, a few at his side<br>of the wiser men, the ways to scan,<br>till he found in a flash the forested hill<br>hanging over the hoary rock,<br>a woful wood: the waves below<br>were dyed in blood. The Danish men<br>had sorrow of soul, and for Scyldings all,<br>for many a hero, 'twas hard to bear,<br>ill for earls, when Aeschere's head<br>they found by the flood on the foreland there.<br>Waves were welling, the warriors saw,<br>hot with blood; but the horn sang oft<br>battle-song bold. The band sat down,<br>and watched on the water worm-like things,<br>sea-dragons strange that sounded the deep,<br>and nicors that lay on the ledge of the ness --<br>such as oft essay at hour of morn<br>on the road-of-sails their ruthless quest, --<br>and sea-snakes and monsters. These started away,<br>swollen and savage that song to hear,<br>that war-horn's blast. The warden of Geats,<br>with bolt from bow, then balked of life,<br>of wave-work, one monster, amid its heart<br>went the keen war-shaft; in water it seemed<br>less doughty in swimming whom death had seized.<br>Swift on the billows, with boar-spears well<br>hooked and barbed, it was hard beset,<br>done to death and dragged on the headland,<br>wave-roamer wondrous. Warriors viewed<br>the grisly guest.<br>Then girt him Beowulf<br>in martial mail, nor mourned for his life.<br>His breastplate broad and bright of hues,<br>woven by hand, should the waters try;<br>well could it ward the warrior's body<br>that battle should break on his breast in vain<br>nor harm his heart by the hand of a foe.<br>And the helmet white that his head protected<br>was destined to dare the deeps of the flood,<br>through wave-whirl win: 'twas wound with chains,<br>decked with gold, as in days of yore<br>the weapon-smith worked it wondrously,<br>with swine-forms set it, that swords nowise,<br>brandished in battle, could bite that helm.<br>Nor was that the meanest of mighty helps<br>which Hrothgar's orator offered at need:<br>&quot;Hrunting&quot; they named the hilted sword,<br>of old-time heirlooms easily first;<br>iron was its edge, all etched with poison,<br>with battle-blood hardened, nor blenched it at fight<br>in hero's hand who held it ever,<br>on paths of peril prepared to go<br>to folkstead of foes. Not first time this<br>it was destined to do a daring task.<br>For he bore not in mind, the bairn of Ecglaf<br>sturdy and strong, that speech he had made,<br>drunk with wine, now this weapon he lent<br>to a stouter swordsman. Himself, though, durst not<br>under welter of waters wager his life<br>as loyal liegeman. So lost he his glory,<br>honor of earls. With the other not so,<br>who girded him now for the grim encounter.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Anonymous+Olde+English">Anonymous Olde English</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345977" data-title="Beowulf (Episode 21) de Anonymous Olde English" data-description="BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:
&quot;Sorrow not, sage! It beseems us better
friends to avenge than fruitlessly mourn them.
Each of us all must his end abide
in the ways of the world; so win who may
glory ere death! When his days are told,
that ..."></div>
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