Then the warrior-king was careful of glory, He soundly smote with sword-for-the-battle, That it stood in the head by hatred driven; Nægling was shivered, the old and iron-made Brand of Beowulf in battle deceived him. ’Twas denied him that edges of irons were able To help in the battle; the hand was too mighty Which every weapon, as I heard on inquiry, Outstruck in its stroke, when to struggle he carried The wonderful war-sword: it waxed him no better. Then the people-despoiler—third of his onsets— Fierce-raging fire-drake, of feud-hate was mindful, Charged on the strong one, when chance was afforded, Heated and war-grim, seized on his neck With teeth that were bitter; he bloody did wax with Soul-gore seething; sword-blood in waves boiled. The Weder-lord cut the worm in the middle. They had felled the enemy (life drove out then Puissant prowess), the pair had destroyed him, Land-chiefs related: so a liegeman should prove him, A thaneman when needed. To the prince ’twas the last of His era of conquest by his own great achievements, The latest of world-deeds. The wound then began Which the earth-dwelling dragon erstwhile had wrought him To burn and to swell. He soon then discovered That bitterest bale-woe in his bosom was raging, Poison within. The atheling advanced then, That along by the wall, he prudent of spirit Might sit on a settle; he saw the giant-work, How arches of stone strengthened with pillars The earth-hall eternal inward supported.
