The weapon-smith wrought it most wondrously done,
Beset with the swine-shapes, so that sithence
The brand or the battle-blades never might bite it.
Nor forsooth was that littlest of all of his mainstays,
Which to him in his need lent the spokesman of Hrothgar,
E'en the battle-sword hafted that had to name Hrunting,
That in fore days was one of the treasures of old,
The edges of iron with the poison twigs o'er-stain'd,
With battle-sweat harden'd; in the brunt never fail'd he
Any one of the warriors whose hand wound about him,