The war-gear of the sea-folk all gather'd together.
The ash-holt grey-headed; that host of the iron
With weapons was worshipful. There then a proud chief
Of those lads of the battle speer'd after their line:
Whence ferry ye then the shields golden-faced,
The grey sarks therewith, and the helms all bevisor'd,
And a heap of the war-shafts? Now am I of Hrothgar
The man and the messenger: ne'er saw I of aliens
So many of men more might-like of mood.
I ween that for pride-sake, no wise for wrack-wending