Classic Poem

Lo, oft have we heard how the folk-kings of the Danes in the years long sped
Won glory, and how their athlings wrought deeds of might and dread.
Times amany Scyld the Sheaf-child from the troops of his foemen tore,
From many a tribe, the settles where they quaffed the mead of yore:
Since friendless at first they found him, terror and grief had he known,
But solace for this had he gotten, and in fame beneath heaven grown,
Till all folk who over the whale-path dwell about the marge of the sea
Must hearken and yield him tribute: a goodly king was he!
And in time was a man-child born him, to his garth was there given an heir,
God sent him for joy of the people, for He knew the terror and care
They had felt long while of their foemen, that folk who lacked a lord,
So the Wielder of life and glory world-blessing upon him poured:
And fair was the fame of Beowulf, ay, ever the glory grew
Of the bairn that Scyld had begotten, and through Scedeland it flew.
Even so should a youngling guerdon his father's friends with gold,
Winning by gifts of glory that when he is waxen old
Boon-friends to his side shall rally, and the people aid him in war,
For by deeds of praise shall men prosper with the nations of every shore.

Now Scyld the fighter undaunted at the hour of his destiny
Fared into the fold of his Master: and down to the surging sea
Was he borne by his loving clansmen, as the Scyldings' Friend had prayed
When he wielded words, and men loved him, and the realm long while he swayed.
And there in the hyth was waiting the craft of the prow entwined
That should ferry the prince, ice-sheeted, and fain of the outward wind,
And low in the womb of the vessel they laid their dear, dear king,
And he lay by the mast, that great one that had given them many a ring:
And thither they brought rich guerdon, ay, jewels fetched from afar,
Never heard I of vessel more comely with weapons and weeds of war,
With byrnies and bills: and of treasure great store on his bosom lay
That into the keeping of ocean should fare with him far away.
Not now with less gifts of the folk-wealth was he furnished, than erst they gave
Who had sent him forth as a weanling, to voyage alone on the wave,
And high o'er his head they set him a banner of gold most fair,
And they gave him up to the Spearman and the surging waves to bear,
But sad were their hearts and weary, nor could men who in hall have state
Nor heroes under the heavens tell what hands received that freight.