In the fiftieth year of Beowulf's reign a great terror fell upon the land: terror of a monstrous fire-dragon, who flew forth by night from his den in the rocks, lighting up the blackness with his blazing breath, and burning houses and homesteads, men and cattle, with the flames from his mouth. The glare from his fiery scales was like the dawn-glow in the sky, but his passage left behind it every night a trail of black, charred desolation to confront the rising sun. Yet the dragon's wrath was in some way justified, since he had been robbed, and could not trace the thief. Centuries before Beowulf's lifetime a mighty family of heroes had gathered together, by feats of arms, and by long inheritance, an immense treasure of cups and goblets, of necklaces and rings, of swords and helmets and armour, cunningly wrought by magic spells; they had joyed in their cherished hoard for long years, until all had died but one, and he survived solitary, miserable, brooding over the fate of the dearly loved treasure. At last he caused his servants to make a strong fastness in the rocks, with cunningly devised entrances, known only to himself, and thither, with great toil and labour of aged limbs, he carried and hid the precious treasure. As he sadly regarded it, and thought of its future fate, he cried aloud: "Hold thou now fast, O earth, now men no longer can, The treasure of mighty earls. From thee brave men won it In days that are long gone by, but slaughter seized on them, Death fiercely vanquished them, each of my warriors, Each one of my people, who closed their life-days here After the joy of earth. None have I sword to wield Or bring me the goblet, the richly wrought vessel. All the true heroes have elsewhere departed! Now must the gilded helm lose its adornments, For those who polished it sleep in the gloomy grave, Those who made ready erst war-gear of warriors. Likewise the battle-sark which in the fight endured Bites of the keen-edged blades midst the loud crash of shields Rusts, with its wearer dead. Nor may the woven mail After the chieftain's death wide with a champion rove. Gone is the joy of harp, gone is the music's mirth. Now the hawk goodly-winged hovers not through the hall, Nor the swift-footed mare tramples the castle court: Baleful death far has sent all living tribes of men."