put his head to rest—around him his warriors
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steelhearted sailors settled down to sleep.
Not one believed they would leave Heorot
sail once again seek out their homeland
the known meadows of their native country.
Too many stories of that tall wine-hall
emptied of Danes by dark night-slaughter
had found their ears. But the Father of men
wove them battle-speed—Weather-Geats prevailed
reprieved from hate-death haled to victory
by the strength of one saved from farewell
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by a tight handgrip. It truly is known
that God manages men of this earth.
He slipped through the darkness under deep nightpall
sliding through shadows. Shield-warriors rested
slumbering guardians of that gabled hall—
all except one. That wandering spirit
could never drag them to cold death-shadow
if the world’s Measurer wished to stop him.
(A waking warrior watched among them
anger mounting aching for revenge.)
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He moved through the mist past moors and ice-streams
Grendel gliding God’s wrath on him
simmering to snare some sleeping hall-thanes
trap some visitors in that tall gift-house.
He moved under cloudbanks crossed the meadowlands
till the wine-hall towered tall gold-gables
rising in night-sky. Not for the first time
he came to Heorot Hrothgar’s gift-hall—
never had he come craving a blood-feast
with worse slaughter-luck waiting there inside.
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He came to the hall hungry for man-flesh
exiled from joy. The ironbound door
smith-hammered hinges sprang at his touch—
raging then for gore he gripped in his hand-vise
the ruined bolt-work wrenched it away
leapt into the hall loomed with blood-rage
aching with life-lust—from his eyes shone forth
a fearful glowering fire-coals smoldering.
Near him he spied sleeping together
close war-brothers waiting peacefully
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prime for plucking. He exploded with fury
growled with greed-hunger glared all around him
burning to separate bodies from life-breath
drain blood-vessels before breaking of day.
His luck left him on that last slaughter-night—
no more after sunrise would he murder and run.
Wakeful and watching wonder in his mind
Hygelac’s nephew held to his bedrest
anxious to measure that monster’s strength.
Nor did that thief think about waiting
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but searched with fire-eyes snared a doomed one
in terminal rest tore frantically
crunched bonelockings crammed blood-morsels
gulped him with glee. Gloating with his luck
he finished the first one his feet and his hands
swallowed all of him. He stepped closer
groped with claw-hands grabbed the next one—
the watchful Geat grabbed back at him
gripped with his fingers that great demon-hand
tightened his grasp tugged steadily.
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Soon that fen-stalker found himself caught
grasped and twisted by a greater handgrip
than any he had known in the earth’s regions
iron finger-clamps—into his mind
fear came nudging—nowhere could he move.
His thoughts yearned away he wished for his mere-den
devil’s company—doubt pulled at him
a new sensation slid into his mind.
Then Hygelac’s thane held to his boasting
mindful of his speech stood quickly then
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tightened his fist—fingers crackled
Grendel pulled back Beowulf followed.
That dark wanderer wished for more room
to be on his way back to the moor-hills
flee to the fens. He felt his knuckles
crushed in that grip. A grim visitor
that fate-marked fiend found in Heorot.
The hall thundered—to hovering Danes
safe hut-dwellers sounds of that battle
clattered and roared. They raged together
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warrior and guest—the walls rumbled.
With great wonder the wine-hall survived
twin horn-gables trembling with combat
towering high above—it held steadily
inside and out with iron log-bonds
forged by smith-hammers. The floor shuddered
strong mead-benches sailed to the walls
burnished banquet-seats bounced and clattered.
Hrothgar’s wisemen hallowed counselors
had never believed that a living creature
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might break Heorot bring down the walls—
only fire’s embrace flames’ greediness
could swallow that hall. Storm-sounds of death
rocked the horn-gables hammered the roof—
shivering Danefolk shook with hell-fear
heard through the walls a wailing sorrow.
God’s demon-foe ground his blood-teeth
howled to be gone home to the ice-streams
far from that hall. Hygelac’s thane
strongest mortal mightiest of hand
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locked that hell-fiend hard within his grasp.
He found no reason to free that monster
spare him to flee far across the moors
nor did he consider that sinful life
useful to anyone. Anxious for their leader
men of the Geats grabbed treasure-swords
lifted them high to help their champion
fight for his life with file-hardened edges.
They were not prepared for this new hand-battling
those hard-swinging swordmen hewing with steel-bites
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slashing about them with shield-breaking cuts
seeking that fiend-soul—they fought without knowing
that the choicest of blades champions’ war-weapons
were helpless to harm that hell’s messenger.
He had cast his spell on keenest thane-weapons
finest treasure-swords though his time was short—
that final night-visit finished his hall-raids
destiny struck his damned hell-soul
banished it forever past boundaries of grace.
Then that giant ravager rejected by God
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marked with murder measured by his sins
finally conceived in his fiend’s mindthoughts
that his loathsome body would bear no more.
Hygelac’s thane held fast to him
tightened his grip—Grendel yearned away
his arm stretched thin thronging with pain—
a great death-wound gaped in his shoulder
sinew-bonds weakened snapped viciously
bonelockings burst. To Beowulf there
victory was granted. Grendel fled then
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sickened with death slouched under fen-slopes
to his joyless home no hope for his life—
he knew at last the number of his days.
To the Danes’ misery a dawning of mercy
rose from that battle, bright deliverance.
Heorot was cleansed healed of thane-slaughter
aching morning-grief, emptied of murder
by that tall visitor—victory was bright
joy to his heart. He held to his promise,
evening boastwords, banished
from that hall
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dark sorrow-songs consoled the Danes
for long torture-years terror in the night
an empty meadhall from evening till dawn.
He hailed the sunrise hoisted a signal
a clear token-sign that terror was dead
nailed Grendel’s arm that great handgrip
near the high gable-point of Heorot’s roof.
By morning’s light many a warrior
gathered watchfully by the gift-hall’s door.
Chieftains and followers from far and from near
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gazed at that wonder grisly monster-arm
hand and knife-claws high death-trophy.
Grendel’s life-loss gladdened the Danes
who followed his footprints where he fled to his death
left his sorrow-tracks staining the moors
went back to the mere bleak monster-home
teeming with nicors tomb of the damned.
The water-top trembled welling with blood
roiled restlessly with red venom-waves
hot demon-gore heaved from the depths—
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Grendel was deathwards doomed man-killer
laid down his life in that loathsome mere—
hell received him and his heathen soul.
They turned away wonder in their hearts—
old counselors carried by horses
many a young one mounted beside them
turned back from the mere. Beowulf’s renown
filled their mindthoughts—many a Spear-Dane
mindful of that night remembering hell-years
swore that no man under mighty heaven
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from south or north on sea or on land
was greater in battle than Beowulf the Geat.
Nor did they blame their bountiful lord
gladman Hrothgar good man and king.
HROTHGAR’S MINSTREL now improvises a song of Beowulf, then moves on to the dragon slayer Sigemund (an early legendary Danish hero) and his nephew Fitela, who shared his adventures after the dragon slaying, thus praising the victory over Grendel and anticipating Beowulf’s final battle. This is the earliest literary account of the famous Völsung family (Waelsing in Beowulf), later versions of which portray Sigemund’s son Sigurd (later Siegfried) as the dragon slayer.
At times the riders ready for contest
let their war-steeds leap to the race
where broad meadowlands bright grass-tables
widened the trail. At times the minstrel
heavy with memory mindful of the past,
ancient war-sagas old monster-tales,
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wove his verse-songs—one word found another
skillfully bound. He sang at first
of Beowulf’s valor victory in Heorot
death of a monster and his dark water-home
a champion’s tale. He told what he knew
stories he had heard of Sigemund the Dane
marvelous moments of mighty sword-feats
Waelsing’s adventures wide traveling
secret wanderings seldom disclosed
except to Fitela faithful companion
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when he fell to telling tales of his youth
to his only shield-friend always by his side—
uncle and nephew in narrow adventures
seeking forest-fiends strange wood-giants
ending them with swords. After his deathday
Sigemund’s renown was sung in battle-songs
tales of dragon-breath days of sword-slaughter
glorious rewards. Under gray barrow-stone
he gambled his life gathered his courage
fought against his fate, nor was Fitela with him.
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It chanced that his sword-point struck through the flesh
pierced that serpent stuck in the barrow-wall—
that marvelous dragon died of murder.
Sigemund survived unsinged by that breath
earned a treasure-mound for his own delight
a loan from destiny. He loaded a boat
bore to its bosom the bright slaughter-prize
that serpent’s goldnest—the steaming dragon
monstrously hot melted to the ground.
The wandering Waelsing was widely renowned
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most hailed of heroes after Heremod fell
stumbled to his death restored to Sigemund
the greater glory-name. Good King Heremod
stooped to evil-days stunned his kingdom
joined fiend-creatures fared to hell with them
after his deathfall. Danes mourned for that
bowed to anguish baleful life-sorrow.
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