Traveled long roads to Hrothgar’s home
To marvel at the monster’s tracks. His leave-taking,
His life-going, brought sorrow to no one 840
Who saw the footprints of the ungloried guest,
How the weary one dragged himself off defeated
To the lake of demons, fated, fleeing,
Leaving his bloody life-tracks behind.
The lake-water boiled with blood— 845
The fiendish waters swirled with gore,
The red roil of battle, the hot clutch of blood.
Death-doomed, deprived of life-joy,
He laid down his life in the murky fen,
His heathen soul in his stronghold. Hell seized him. 850
Hall-thanes tracked him to the foul mere,
Then turned back joyfully, traveled home
To Heorot, young and old on their horses,
Speaking in high spirits about Beowulf,
Praising his deeds, spreading his fame. 855
Time and again they talked of his power,
Saying that no one between the seas,
Under the expanse of heaven, the sky’s sweep,
Was a bolder shield-bearer, a braver warrior
More worthy of a kingdom to rule— 860
But they didn’t blame Hrothgar, unpraise him,
Find fault with their dear lord and friend—
He was a good king. Sometimes they spurred
Their horses on, galloping on good roads,
Sometimes held back their bridling bays 865
While the king’s song-shaper, story-teller,
The one who remembered old songs,
Who could weave old rhythms with new words,
Chanted Beowulf’s story, securing his glory,
Weaving courage and wisdom in a weft of song. 870
He sang too of Sigemund, son of Wæls,
His wide travels and great glories,
Strange stories known and unknown,
His crimes and feuds craftily hidden
From the children of men, except Fitela, 875
His nephew and friend to whom he talked,
For they fought together, battled like brothers,
Blood-companions in countless battles,
Slaying a swath of giants with their swords.
No small glory sprang up for Sigemund 880
After his death-day. Hardened by battle,
He killed a dragon, destroyed the worm,
The old treasure-hoarder, guardian of gold.
Under the gray stones, into that cold cave,
The prince’s son went without Fitela, 885
Alone in his courage, daring the dragon.
What fate offered, he took—shook his sword,
Stabbed the scaly worm to the wall,
Pinned the bright beast to the stone
With his edge of iron, its skin shining. 890
The dragon was dead, the serpent skewered.
The awesome striker, son of Wæls,
Sigemund had sought the ring-hoard alone.
He brought treasure to the boat’s belly
Where he could rejoice over gems, fathom gold. 895
The old worm melted in its own heat.
He was the most hailed hero after Heremod—
Whose strength and daring, whose battle-courage
Was finally drained in a twisted war.
He was betrayed by giants into enemy hands— 900
His end was quick. His surging sorrows
Beat his spirit till he became a source of sadness,
A gathering of grief to his thanes and people.
Wise men mourned then their lost lord,
For they had hoped from the oldest days 905
That this stout-hearted warrior might prevail,
Offer an end to affliction, relief from ruin,
A remedy for evil. A king’s son should prosper,
Take the role of his father, rule wisely his people,
Protect the land and its treasure-hoard, 910
Shaping a shelter-hall for the Scyldings.
Beowulf was dearer to all his people, a better
Friend than Heremod, who was seized by sin.
Sometimes they spurred their horses, racing
Down sandy roads. The morning sun 915
Also hastened across heaven. Warriors walked
Bold-hearted back to the high hall Heorot
To see the strange wonder. The king came
From the queen’s bed, the guardian of gold,
Keeper of ring-wealth, fast in his fame, 920
With his company of men, and his queen too
With her wealth of women on the meadhall path.
Hrothgar spoke, stood on the porch steps,
Staring at the eaves under the roof,
Glistening with gold and Grendel’s claw. 925
“Thank God for this saving sight!
I’ve endured evil, a bundle of grief
At Grendel’s hand. May the Guardian of heaven
Keep working wonders. Not long ago
I never expected relief from my sorrow 930
When the greatest of halls stood stained
With bright blood, shining with slaughter,
A stretch of woe to all wise counselors
Who despaired of defending the people’s place
Against demons, sprites, and dark shadows 935
Haunting Heorot, a nightwork of woe.
Now a great warrior has wrought relief,
And through God’s hand, healed Heorot,
Found out evil and cunningly fixed it,
Where we failed with our unsound plans. 940
Your mother may say—whoever she was
Who bore such a son among mankind—
That God was gracious to her, kind in creating
A boy, a blessing. Now Beowulf, best of men,
I hold you humbly in my heart like a son, 945
And cherish your coming. Keep well this kinship.
No treasure I own cannot be yours.
Often I have given gifts to honor
Weaker warriors, a trust of treasure.
Now you have done such glorious deeds 950
That your fame will never falter.”
Then Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, spoke:
“With kind hearts and cold courage,
We have entered this struggle against the unknown,
Ungrasped power, and snapped its strength. 955
I wish you might have seen him yourself,
The feast-weary fiend, scales dragging,
Falling in the hall, dead-tired.
I wanted to catch him quick, hold him
Hard with a hand-grip, cradle him 960
In a death-bed, a slaughter-couch,
So he might find a savage sleep,
His ghost lifting from the body-bed;
He was bound to stay in my unyielding grip
Unless his flesh could flee. I wanted 965
Him dead, no bones about it—
But I couldn’t hold him, the restless enemy,
Against God’s will. He slipped my grasp.
To save his life he left his hand behind,
His arm and shoulder—a nice touch! 970
The token claw gave him cold comfort,
No hope of life, that loathed spoiler,
Tortured by sin; but pain grabbed him
In a hard grasp, a wailing wound,
A misery-grip. There he must wait, 975
Stained with crime, till bright God
Brings judgment for his dark deeds.”
After this, Unferth son of Ecglaf,
Boasted less of his battle-works,
His courage quiet, while all warriors 980
Gazed on the claw, the fiend’s fingers,
Nailed near the roof by Beowulf’s strength.
Each claw-nail, each hand-spur
In the heathen’s ban
ged up death-grip,
Was stiff as steel. The old talk was dead— 985
Men claimed no hard thing could pierce him,
No ancient iron, no trusted blade,
Could cut his bloody battle-fist.
Then Heorot was ordered adorned by hands.
Men and women readied the wine-hall, 990
Decorated for guests. Gold-threaded tapestries
Draped the walls, bright weavings,
A web of wonder for the eyes of men.
The beautiful building had been blasted,
Its iron hinges shattered by terror’s touch, 995
When the monster, stained by sin,
Outlawed from men, jerked into flight
To run for his life. Only the roof stood
Untouched, unharmed, unbloodied in the end.
Death offers no easy escape to anyone 1000
On the road from birth, no matter the need:
Earth-dwellers, world-walkers,
Soul-bearers, the sons of men—
Each of us seeks the place prepared
Where after feasting in the pleasure-hall, 1005
The flesh lies down in death’s bed,
With a blanket of earth for a long unwaking.
That was the time for a victory-feast—
King Hrothgar, Healfdene’s son,
Hailed the warriors in. I’ve never heard 1010
Of a greater group of kinsmen and thanes,
Gathered about their treasure-giver,
With such noble bearing. Glorious warriors
Feasted at mead-benches, drinking their fill,
With Hrothgar and Hrothulf, bold-minded men. 1015
The heart of Heorot was filled with friends—
That was before some of the Scyldings,
Betraying their brothers, took treachery in.
Then Hrothgar gave Beowulf a victory-banner,
Woven with gold, a helmet and mail-coat, 1020
Healfdene’s jeweled sword, ancient to onlookers.
Beowulf drank mead with no need for shame
Before his bowmen with such rich gifts.
Not many have given four finer treasures
As a sign of friendship, gleaming with gold. 1025
The helmet’s rim, a costly crown,
Was wrapped with wire, wound in wealth,
A guardian roof-ridge for a warrior’s head,
So that no keen sword, no hammered leaving
Of a smith’s sharp files, no battle-hardened blade, 1030
Could cut him down, pierce his protection,
When the shield-warrior met his fierce foe.
Then the gift-giver, protector of men,
Ordered eight horses onto the hall floor,
Bridled in gold. One of the saddles 1035
Was crafted with gems, cunningly wrought—
That was the battle-seat of the great king,
When glorious Hrothgar, Healfdene’s son,
Sought sword-play. His war-mood never faltered—
His fame was tested and forged in battle 1040
Where men fought in a field of corpses.
The lord of the Danes, in the line of Ing,
Their ancient king, offered ownership
To Beowulf of both horses and weapons,
Urged him wisely to use them well. 1045
That gift-giver repaid his battle-rush
With horses and treasure so no truth-teller
Could find fault. He also gave seafarers sitting
On mead-benches who came with Beowulf
Heirloom treasures and ordered wergild 1050
Paid for the Geat that Grendel killed
In vicious sin—surely he might have slain
More men if wise God and a man’s courage
Hadn’t hindered his desire, forestalling fate.
God rules the race of men, both then and now, 1055
So understanding is always best, the soul’s seeing.
Whoever lives long through days of feud and strife
Will come to endure both love and loathing,
Get an eyeful of both good and evil on this earth.
Then sound and music were mixed in the hall, 1060
Harp-songs before Hrothgar, battle-son of Healfdene;
The joy-wood was touched, a tale spun out,
As the king’s shaper, the song-weaver,
Wove strands of story to men on mead-benches
Of days when Finn, surrounded by his sons, 1065
Slid into slaughter, a surprise attack,
And how Hnaef of the Half-Danes fought and fell
In that Frisian strife. His sister Hildeburh
Could not praise the faith of those Finnish giants.
Blameless she lost both brother and son 1070
In that shield-play—they fell to their fates,
Slain by spears. She was struck with grief.
Hoc’s daughter mourned that shaft of fate
When morning came, and under the sky
She saw the slaughter of kith and kin, 1075
All those she loved most, her family joy—
Cold corpses. That fight seized
Finn’s thanes, all but a remnant,
So the Frisian prince could not continue
To battle the Danes or Hengest their leader 1080
Who survived Hnæf—or even protect his own men.
So Finn and Hengest fixed a truce:
A hall-space would be cleared for the Danes,
Ruled jointly, so that mighty King Finn,
Son of Folcwalda, from its high seat 1085
Might share the gift-giving with rings to each,
And treasure to the two tribes, gold to Frisians
And Danes alike; he might honor the others
As well as his own, bring joy to both,
However hard in the shared beer-hall. 1090
Both sides pledged peace, secured a settlement.
They swore oaths. Finn promised without fail,
Without feigning, to honor all survivors
On both sides, as his counselors advised,
So that no warrior by words or works 1095
Should break the truce, destroy the treaty,
Undermine the peace. No one would mention
Out of malice that the princeless Danes
Had to follow Finn in the Frisian hall,
The slayer of Hnæf, their own ring-giver, 1100
Since fate forced this truce upon them.
If any Frisian warriors wanted to remember
The murderous feud or recall it with words,
Then the sword’s edge should settle it.
Hnæf’s funeral pyre was prepared 1105
And ancient gold hauled from the hoard.
The best of the Scylding battle-warriors
Was laid on the pyre. He was not alone.
In plain sight were plenty of mail-coats,
Bloody and stained, iron-hard helmets 1110
With boar-images bathed in gold and gore.
Retainers from both sides lay ravaged,
Warriors at rest with their gaping wounds,
The cringing dead in a pile of slaughter.
Then Hildeburh asked that her son be borne 1115
Beside her beloved brother, his uncle Hnæf,
On the funeral pyre. Their bones and flesh
Blazed and burned. She keened over corpses,
Grieving in song. The dead drifted up
In sound and smoke; the ravaging flame 1120
Raged over the barrow, reaching heaven.
Heads melted, wounds burst, blood sprang out,
Sizzling from sword-bites. The flame gobbled all,
Greediest of ghosts, war-heroes on both sides—
Their glory was gone, their strength sapped. 1125
Some of Finn’s warriors went home without friends,
But Hengest and Finn lived in the hall unwillingly
/> With their own retainers, with their own memories
Of summer-slaughter through the savage winter.
Hengest dreamed of his homeland, unable to sail 1130
His ring-prowed ship over storm-wind roads,
Winter-waves locked in the bond of ice—
Until spring came to the halls of men
As it still does today, unlocking light,
A wonder of weather biding its time. 1135
Winter was gone, the earth was fair.
The exile was eager to seek his homeland,
Yet he dreamed more of revenge than return,
More of settling grief than sailing home—
If only he could fight Finn, answer with iron 1140
That unending feud. So he did not refuse
The world-wide custom of hard revenge
When Hunlafing laid in his lap that intimate edge,
That flashing sword known to the Frisians.
So Finn too felt the sword’s touch, 1145
A cruel death in his own hall—
After Guthlaf and Oslaf, Hunlaf’s kin,
Reminded Hengest of that grim slaughter
After the sea-voyage, in that guest-hall,
Fixed the blame for that family feud 1150
On the Frisians. The blood’s revenge
Cannot be contained in a restless heart.
Then the hall was decorated red
With the blood of foes. Finn was dead,
His company killed, his queen taken 1155
Home to the Danes. The Scyldings
Took all the hall-treasures, heirlooms,
Tapestries and gems, home with Hildeburh,
Over the sea to her own people.
The shaper finished his song of victory, 1160
Of family feud. Joy rose up,
Bright bench-sounds; cup-bearers
Brought wine in beautiful jugs.
Then Wealhtheow walked in with her gold crown,
Sat down between two good men, 1165
Uncle and nephew, Hrothgar and Hrothulf,
Each true at the time, their trust unbroken.
Also Unferth was there, admired by many,
The king’s mouthpiece. Men knew his heart
Held courage and cunning—he’d killed his kin 1170
Without mercy. Wealhtheow spoke:
“Take this cup, my noble king,
Giver of treasure, gold-friend of men.
Be kind in your words, generous to the Geats
With gifts and treasures from all the tribes. 1175
I’ve heard you would treat Beowulf like a son.
Heorot is purged, the ring-bright hall.
Use well your gifts and give rewards
While you may, but leave your kingdom
To kinsmen when you go, to folk and family. 1180
I know gracious Hrothulf will honor our sons,
Keep the kingdom for them if he outlives you,
Lord of the Scyldings. I hope he’ll give them
The Complete Old English Poems Page 73
