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E'en in such wise was wending A great host for our ending; On our life-days e'en so Stole the host of the foe; Till the heavens grew lighter, and light grew the world, And the storm of the fighter upon them was hurled, Then some fled the stroke, and some died and some stood, Till the worst of the storm broke right out from the wood, And the war-shafts were singing the carol of fear, The tale of the bringing the sharp swords anear.
Ye may wend your way in war-attire, and under helmets Hrothgar greet; but let here the battle-shields bide your parley, and wooden war-shafts wait its end." Uprose the mighty one, ringed with his men, brave band of thanes: some bode without, battle-gear guarding, as bade the chief. Beowulf spake, his breastplate gleamed, war-net woven by wit of the smith: "Thou Hrothgar, hail!
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