Боги не сделают за нас то, что мы должны сделать сами.

Страны дальние
хороши для того,
кто и сам неплох.

О мёртвом веки вечные нельзя грустить живым.

Я к ней со всей душою, она ж меня, мой друг,
Связала и повесила на крюк в стене, как тюк.

Судьба от смерти того спасает,
кто сам бесстрашен!

Мы, люди, умираем, а верность - никогда.

«Стал поминальной тризной весёлый, пышный пир.
За радость испокон веков страданьем платит мир»

“We are retainers
From Hygelac’s band. Beowulf is my name.
If your lord and master, the most renowned
Son of Halfdane, will hear me out
And graciously allow me to greet him in person,
I am ready and willing to report my errand.”

So they went on their way. The ship rode the water,
Broad-beamed, bound by its hawser
And anchored fast. Boar-shapes flashed
Above their cheek-guards, the brightly forged
Work of goldsmiths, watching over
Those stern-faced men. They marched in step,
Hurrying on till the timbered hall
Rose before them, radiant with gold.
Nobody on earth knew of another
Building like it. Majesty lodged there,
And its light shone over many lands.

... Когда душа болит,
Ничто её быстрее и лучше не целит,
Чем преданная дружба и верная любовь.

They said that of all the kings upon the earth
He was the man most gracious and fair-minded,
Kindest to his people and keenest to win fame.

“Now shall flame consume
Our leader in battle, the blaze darken
Round him who stood his ground in the steel-hail,
When the arrow-storm shot from bowstrings
Pelted from the shield-wall. The shaft hit home.
Feather-fledged, it finned the barb in flight.”

There, on the sand, where his soul had left him,
They found him at rest, their ring-giver
From days gone by. The great man
Had breathed his last. Beowulf the King
Had indeed met with a marvelous death.

We must hurry now
To take a last look at the king
And launch him, lord and lavisher of rings,
On the funeral road. His royal pyre
Will melt no small amount of gold:
Heaped there in the hoard, it was bought at heavy cost,
And that pile of rings he paid for at the end
With his own life will go up in flames,
Be furled in fire: treasure no follower
Will wear in his memory, nor lovely woman
Link and attach as a torque around her neck--

“So this bad blood between us and the Swedes,
This vicious feud, I am convinced,
Is bound to revive; they will cross our borders
And attack in force once they find out
That Beowulf is dead. In days gone by
When our warriors fell and we were undefended
He kept our coffers and our kingdoms safe.
He worked for the people, but as well as that
He behaved like a hero.

“You are the last of us, the only one left
Of the Waegmundings. Fate swept us away,
Sent my whole brave high-born clan
To their final doom. Now I must follow them.”
That was the warrior’s last word.
He had no more to confide. The furious heat
Of the pyre would assail him. His soul fled from his breast
To its destined place among the steadfast ones.

Inspired again
By the thought of glory, the war-king threw
His whole strength behind a sword-stroke
And connected with the skull. And Naegling snapped.
Beowulf’s ancient iron-gray sword
Let him down in the fight. It was never his fortune
To be helped in combat by the cutting-edge
Of weapons made of iron.

That final day was the first time
When Beowulf fought and fate denied him
Glory in battle.

Yet the prince of the rings was too proud
To line up with a large army
Against the sky-plague. He had scant regard
For the dragon as a threat, no dread at all
Of its courage or strength, for he had kept going
Often in the past, through perils and ordeals
Of every sort, after he had purged
Hrothgar’s hall, triumphed in Heorot
And beaten Grendel.