His dark lordly hall, ere yet was the day's while;
The land-dwellers had he in the light [low] encompass'd
With bale and with brand; in his burg yet he trusted,
His war-might and his wall: but his weening bewray'd him.
Then Beowulf was done to wit of the terror
Full swiftly forsooth, that the house of himself,
Best of buildings, was molten in wellings of fire,
The gift-stool of the Geats. To the good one was that
A grief unto heart; of mind-sorrows the greatest.
Weened the wise one, that Him, e'en the Wielder,