Сокровища Нибелунгов. Предания германских народов средневековой Европы

They came against him and his conquering nation,
And with cruel force cut him down
So that afterwards
The wide kingdom
Reverted to Beowulf. He ruled it well
For fifty winters, grew old and wise
As warden of the land
Until one began
To dominate the dark, a dragon on the prowl

My liking for you
Deepens with time, dear Beowulf.
What you have done is to draw two peoples,
The Geat nation and us neighboring Danes,
Into shared peace and a pact of friendship
In spite of hatreds we have harbored in the past.

Then, in fury, he flung his sword away.
The keen, inlaid, worm-looped-patterned steel
Was hurled to the ground: he would have to rely
On the might of his arm. So must a man do
Who intends to gain enduring glory
In a combat. Life doesn’t cost him thought.

Beowulf got ready,
Donned his war-gear, indifferent to death;

Benches were pushed back, bedding gear and bolsters
Spread across the floor, and one man
Lay down to his rest, already marked for death.

So now, Beowulf,
adopt you in my heart as a dear son.
Nourish and maintain this new connection,
You noblest of men; there’ll be nothing you want for,
No worldly good that won’t be yours.
I have often honored smaller achievements,
Recognized warriors not nearly as worthy,
Lavished rewards on the less deserving.
But you have made yourself immortal
By your glorious action. May the Lord of Ages
Continue to keep and requite you well.”

At times the war-band broke into a gallop,
Letting their chestnut horses race
Wherever they found the going good
On those well-known tracks. Meanwhile, a thane
Of the king’s household, a carrier of tales,
A traditional singer deeply schooled
In the lore of the past, linked a new theme
To a strict metre. The man started
To recite with skill, rehearsing Beowulf’s
Triumphs and feats in well-fashioned lines,
Entwining his words.

Then an extraordinary
Wail arose, and bewildering fear
Came over the Danes. Everyone felt it
Who heard that cry as it echoed off the wall,
A God-cursed scream and strain of catastrophe,
The howl of the loser, the lament of the hell-serf
Keening his wound. He was overwhelmed,
Manacled tight by the man who of all men
Was foremost and strongest in the days of this life.

“Never, since my hand could hold a shield
Have I entrusted or given control
Of the Dane’s hall to anyone but you.
Ward and guard it, for it is the greatest of houses.
Be on your mettle now, keep in mind your fame,
Beware of the enemy. There’s nothing you wish for
That won’t be yours if you win through alive.”

Often, for undaunted courage,
Fate spares the man it has not already marked.