“Then bruised in his bosom he with bitter-toothed missile Is hurt ’neath his helmet: from harmful pollution He is powerless to shield him by the wonderful mandates Of the loath-cursèd spirit; what too long he hath holden Him seemeth too small, savage he hoardeth, Nor boastfully giveth gold-plated rings, The fate of the future flouts and forgetteth Since God had erst given him greatness no little, Wielder of Glory. His end-day anear, It afterward happens that the bodily-dwelling Fleetingly fadeth, falls into ruins; Another lays hold who doleth the ornaments, The nobleman’s jewels, nothing lamenting, Heedeth no terror. Oh, Beowulf dear, Best of the heroes, from bale-strife defend thee, And choose thee the better, counsels eternal; Beware of arrogance, world-famous champion! But a little-while lasts thy life-vigor’s fullness; ’Twill after hap early, that illness or sword-edge Shall part thee from strength, or the grasp of the fire, Or the wave of the current, or clutch of the edges,