Colin Gurrie has done a moving adaptation/translation of 40 lines of Beowulf that occur about three-quarters of the way through. The old man is not named, nor mentioned in any other part of the poem, but Gurrie thinks the lament is the key to understanding the main theme: strength inevitably declines into nothingness.
He’s lived too long. He’s sure of that now.
Sea spray flecks his cheek. He’s close to where he found the barrow. Just one mile more, although a mile for an old man bearing a heavy load is no small distance.
He utters no word of complaint — who would he say it to, anyway? — and keeps going.
It wasn’t always like this. Once it was good. He was young and the world seemed to be young with him. The hoofbeat of horses, the screech of hawks flying overhead, the sound of the harp, he can hear them all still when he closes his eyes.
And then there is nothing. Not even the servants who used to polish his armour. They’re all gone now. Taken by death, or bloody battle.
And yet some things still remain. The golden cups, the sword that once won him glory. Things. Just things. There’s no one left to swing the sword, no one to carry the cup.
He has lived too long. A warrior is not meant to walk bent with age. He should have died before, a good death on the field of battle. And yet he lived, when better men did not.
He carries his bag to the barrow. The mound is empty now, but he will fill it. He’ll fill it with a lifetime of treasure, an immense inheritance he would sooner bequeath to his son or his sister-son. But they are gone, so it goes to the earth, the mother of us all.
He stands before the mound, and places the sack down. He takes out a single cup and holds it up before the barrow, as if he were drinking her health. Then he speaks his word of bequest.
“Hold these treasures, Earth, now that men no longer can.” He looks at the cup, and down at the treasures. “These things once came from you. So have them again. The bright helm will tarnish. The sword will grow dull. The coat of mail that even iron could not bite will be, at last, devoured by rust.”
He places each item carefully in the barrow, giving each its place of honour. And, as he sets them carefully down under the earth, he says the names of the friends who once carried them, of those who lived not nearly long enough.
The wind carries his words into the far distance. Whether anyone heard them, not even a wise man can say.
The essay about reading Beowulf also links back to something of the mythic part of its origin-story, the Ash-lad (cf the name Cinderella, a female variant of the story), the unnoticed, uninspiring, often third son who goes on to great deeds. The modern poet Robert Bly took up the theme in Iron John, explaining why this still appeals in our culture, whether about males of females. It is about coming-of-age, whether one is Harry Potter, Anne-of-Green Gables, or a Disney Princess. We are all the orphan or third son making our way in the world when we start out. Let's see what we might make of ourselves.
The Beowulf poet sees it all as a long decline, but we still must take up the task. The Giants will defeat the Gods in the Gotterdammerung, yet I am still on the side of the gods and will fight on.
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