VI - Page 2

Hygelac stay,
king of my kindred, kind to me! --
brand or buckler to bear in the fight,
gold-colored targe: but with gripe alone
must I front the fiend and fight for life,
foe against foe. Then faith be his
in the doom of the Lord whom death shall take.
Fain, I ween, if the fight he win,
in this hall of gold my Geatish band
will he fearless eat, -- as oft before, --
my noblest thanes. Nor need'st thou then
to hide my head;[3] for his shall I be,
dyed in gore, if death must take me;
and my blood-covered body he'll bear as prey,
ruthless devour it, the roamer-lonely,
with my life-blood redden his lair in the fen:
no further for me need'st food prepare!
To Hygelac send, if Hild[4] should take me,
best of war-weeds, warding my breast,
armor excellent, heirloom of Hrethel
and work of Wayland.[5] Fares Wyrd[6] as she must."

[1] The nicor, says Bugge, is a hippopotamus; a walrus, says ten
Brink. But that water-goblin who covers the space from Old Nick
of jest to the Neckan and Nix of poetry and tale, is all one
needs, and Nicor is a good name for him. [2] His own people, the
Geats. [3] That is, cover it as with a face-cloth. "There will be
no need of funeral rites." [4] Personification of Battle. [5] The
Germanic Vulcan. [6] This mighty power, whom the Christian poet
can still revere, has here the general force of "Destiny."