tuulikki:

Excerpt from Benjamin Bagby’s performance of Beowulf

Him ða Scyld gewat         to gescæphwile
felahror feran         on frean wære.
Hi hyne þa ætbæron         to brimes faroðe,
swæse gesiþas,         swa he selfa bæd,

þenden wordum weold         wine Scyldinga;
leof landfruma         lange ahte.
þær æt hyðe stod         hringedstefna,
isig ond utfus,         æþelinges fær.
Aledon þa         leofne þeoden,

beaga bryttan,         on bearm scipes,
mærne be mæste.         þær wæs madma fela
of feorwegum,         frætwa, gelæded;
ne hyrde ic cymlicor         ceol gegyrwan
hildewæpnum         ond heaðowædum,

billum ond byrnum;         him on bearme læg
madma mænigo,         þa him mid scoldon
on flodes æht         feor gewitan.
Nalæs hi hine læssan         lacum teodan,
þeodgestreonum,         þon þa dydon
 
þe hine æt frumsceafte         forð onsendon
ænne ofer yðe         umborwesende.
þa gyt hie him asetton         segen geldenne
heah ofer heafod,         leton holm beran,
geafon on garsecg;         him wæs geomor sefa,

murnende mod.         Men ne cunnon
secgan to soðe,         selerædende,
hæleð under heofenum,         hwa þæm hlæste onfeng.

Forth he fared at the fated moment,
sturdy Scyld to the shelter of God.
Then they bore him over to ocean’s billow,
loving clansmen, as late he charged them,
while wielded words the winsome Scyld,
the leader beloved who long had ruled….
In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel,
ice-flecked, outbound, atheling’s barge:
there laid they down their darling lord
on the breast of the boat, the breaker-of-rings,
by the mast the mighty one. Many a treasure
fetched from far was freighted with him.
No ship have I known so nobly dight
with weapons of war and weeds of battle,
with breastplate and blade: on his bosom lay
a heaped hoard that hence should go
far o’er the flood with him floating away.
No less these loaded the lordly gifts,
thanes’ huge treasure, than those had done
who in former time forth had sent him
sole on the seas, a suckling child.
High o’er his head they hoist the standard,
a gold-wove banner; let billows take him,
gave him to ocean. Grave were their spirits,
mournful their mood. No man is able
to say in sooth, no son of the halls,
no hero ‘neath heaven, — who harbored that freight!