Beautiful or not?
In Old Enlgish
Him ða Scyld gewatto gescæphwile
felahror feranon frean wære.
Hi hyne þa ætbæronto brimes faroðe,
swæse gesiþas,swa he selfa bæd,
þenden wordum weoldwine Scyldinga;
leof landfrumalange ahte.
Þær æt hyðe stodhringedstefna,
isig ond utfus,æþelinges fær.
Aledon þaleofne þeoden,
beaga bryttan,on bearm scipes,
mærne be mæste.þær wæs madma fela
of feorwegum,frætwa, gelæded.
Nalæs hi hine læssanlacum teodan,
þeodgestreonum,þon þa dydon
þe hine æt frumsceafteforð onsendon
ænne ofer yðeumborwesende.
Þa gyt hie him asettonsegen geldenne
heah ofer heafod,leton holm beran,
geafon on garsecg;him wæs geomor sefa,
murnende mod.Men ne cunnon
secgan to soðe,selerædende,
hæleð under heofenum,hwa þæm hlæste onfeng.
Forth he fared at the fated moment,
sturdy Scyld to the shelter of God.
Then they bore him over to ocean's billow,
loving clansmen, as late he charged them,
while wielded words the winsome Scyld,
the leader beloved who long had ruled....
In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel,
ice-flecked, outbound, atheling's barge:
there laid they down their darling lord
on the breast of the boat, the breaker-of-rings,
by the mast the mighty one. Many a treasure
fetched from far was freighted with him.
No ship have I known so nobly dight
with weapons of war and weeds of battle,
with breastplate and blade: on his bosom lay
a heaped hoard that hence should go
far o'er the flood with him floating away.
No less these loaded the lordly gifts,
thanes' huge treasure, than those had done
who in former time forth had sent him
sole on the seas, a suckling child.
High o'er his head they hoist the standard,
a gold-wove banner; let billows take him,
gave him to ocean. Grave were their spirits,
mournful their mood. No man is able
to say in sooth, no son of the halls,
no hero 'neath heaven, -- who harbored that freight.
Him ða Scyld gewatto gescæphwile
felahror feranon frean wære.
Hi hyne þa ætbæronto brimes faroðe,
swæse gesiþas,swa he selfa bæd,
þenden wordum weoldwine Scyldinga;
leof landfrumalange ahte.
Þær æt hyðe stodhringedstefna,
isig ond utfus,æþelinges fær.
Aledon þaleofne þeoden,
beaga bryttan,on bearm scipes,
mærne be mæste.þær wæs madma fela
of feorwegum,frætwa, gelæded.
Nalæs hi hine læssanlacum teodan,
þeodgestreonum,þon þa dydon
þe hine æt frumsceafteforð onsendon
ænne ofer yðeumborwesende.
Þa gyt hie him asettonsegen geldenne
heah ofer heafod,leton holm beran,
geafon on garsecg;him wæs geomor sefa,
murnende mod.Men ne cunnon
secgan to soðe,selerædende,
hæleð under heofenum,hwa þæm hlæste onfeng.
Forth he fared at the fated moment,
sturdy Scyld to the shelter of God.
Then they bore him over to ocean's billow,
loving clansmen, as late he charged them,
while wielded words the winsome Scyld,
the leader beloved who long had ruled....
In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel,
ice-flecked, outbound, atheling's barge:
there laid they down their darling lord
on the breast of the boat, the breaker-of-rings,
by the mast the mighty one. Many a treasure
fetched from far was freighted with him.
No ship have I known so nobly dight
with weapons of war and weeds of battle,
with breastplate and blade: on his bosom lay
a heaped hoard that hence should go
far o'er the flood with him floating away.
No less these loaded the lordly gifts,
thanes' huge treasure, than those had done
who in former time forth had sent him
sole on the seas, a suckling child.
High o'er his head they hoist the standard,
a gold-wove banner; let billows take him,
gave him to ocean. Grave were their spirits,
mournful their mood. No man is able
to say in sooth, no son of the halls,
no hero 'neath heaven, -- who harbored that freight.