Straight for her head, singing a war-song,
Greedy for battle. Then the cave-guest saw
That his lightning blade would not bite her body,
Slice through her life. The battle-edge failed
Where before it had split both helmet and head, 1525
Sailed through chain-mail, fixed a man’s fate.
That was the heirloom’s first failure.
Resolute and keen, the kinsman of Hygelac,
Seeking glory, cast off the sword
With the serpentine swirls and inlaid gems, 1530
Dropped the useless steel to the ground.
He trusted the strength of his fierce hand-grip,
As a man must do in his quest for fame
And lasting glory—he must risk his life.
The prince of the War-Geats feared no feud, 1535
Refused no strife. He seized the shoulder
Of Grendel’s mother, swollen with fury,
Battle-hard with rage, threw that life-foe,
That grappling grim-wife to the ground.
She came back for more, gave him a gift 1540
Of harrowing hands, a clench of claws.
Then war-weary, the strongest of foot-warriors,
Hardest of heroes, stumbled and fell.
She sat on her hall-guest, gripping her knife,
Broad and bright-edged, lunging in his lap, 1545
Embracing revenge for the loss of her son.
His corselet clung, a woven war-web,
Guarding his heart against stab and sting,
Protecting his body against penetration.
Then the son of Ecgtheow might have perished, 1550
Ended his life there deep under ground,
If his hardened chain-mail, a web of rings
Had not held strong, and if holy God,
Guarding the right, had not shaped victory
For the greatest of Geats who rose up again. 1555
Then Beowulf saw a battle-rich blade,
Boding bright victory among some armor,
An old sword of giants, a warrior’s glory,
Heavier than any man’s hand-play,
Forged in fire, invincible and adorned. 1560
The Scyldings’ hero seized the ringed hilt,
Lifted its length, heaving its heft.
Fierce in fighting, savage in strength,
Desperate for life, he struck the furious
Blade at her body—it bit through her neck, 1565
Broke the bone-rings, shattered her life.
The edge cut through her fated flesh.
She fell to the floor, the sword sweating blood,
And the warrior rejoiced in a good day’s work.
The pale light flared like heaven’s candle, 1570
An indoor sun brightening the cave.
He gazed round the chamber, circled the hall,
Raised up the old sword, hard by the hilt,
Hygelac’s thane, angry and resolute.
This blade was useful, unlike Unferth’s. 1575
Beowulf had a battle-gift for Grendel—
He wanted to repay his vengeance in the hall,
His devouring of Danes in their witless sleep
Night after night, sometimes a few,
One time fift een, a monstrous gift— 1580
He’d dragged them away like delicious prey.
Beowulf repaid him with swift revenge
As he saw him lying, war-weary, lifeless,
Drained on his death-bed from hall-wounds
At Heorot. Suddenly his blade swung, 1585
Cutting the corpse. The body burst open
In a handful of gore from that hard stroke.
With a sword-slice to his dead body,
Beowulf severed Grendel’s head.
Then wise men watching up on the shore, 1590
Gazing with Hrothgar at the churning waves,
Saw the roiling water stained with blood.
The grizzled elders talked together,
Counseled sagely that no one could come
Out of that lake a conquering hero, 1595
Proclaiming victory to their glorious king—
Surely the sea-wolf had slaughtered him.
Then came the ninth hour. The Scyldings forsook
Their headland watch—Hrothgar went home,
The gold-friend of men. The Geats sat still 1600
Like loyal strangers on the alien shore,
Stared at the water, sick at heart,
Hoping against hope to see their lord.
Meanwhile below, the great battle-sword
Began to melt like a bloody icicle 1605
From the sweat of battle, as the wonder after winter,
When the Father who rules all times and seasons
Unlocks the ice-bonds, the chains of frost—
He is the true Creator. The prince of the Geats
Took no treasures from that cavernous hall 1610
Except the head and the jeweled hilt.
The sword-blade had melted, burning away
Its damascened beauty. The blood was too hot,
The poison of the alien spirit too strong,
The gore of the cave-dread who died too great. 1615
The Geat came swimming who killed the monster,
Slaughtered the she-worm—he plunged up through water.
The currents were cleansed, the lake and its lair,
The liquid roads where the monster played,
Leaving her days of life-loan in the deep. 1620
Then the lord and protector of seamen swam,
Stroking toward shore, rejoicing in his haul,
The burden of the blade he was bringing home.
The Geats leapt to greet him, thanking God
That their hero was whole, safe and sound. 1625
Then was the mail-coat of the conqueror loosened,
The helmet of the hero untied. The lake drowsed,
The waves calmed, the water subsided,
Stained with blood. The men marched back,
Their spirits unburdened, their hearts rejoicing, 1630
Following the footpaths, the old known roads.
The thanes were bold and proud as kings.
They bore Grendel’s head from the mere-cliffs,
A weight for the warriors—it took four to haul
Grendel’s head to the gold-hall stuck on spears, 1635
A toil of trouble. Straightway they came,
A gathering of Geats, a strength of retainers,
Toward Hrothgar’s hall, fourteen warriors,
Their great lord with them, who moved across fields,
A troop together, home to the meadhall. 1640
The prince of the Geats, bravest of battle,
Gathered in glory, surrounded by thanes,
Came to the hall to greet King Hrothgar.
They bore Grendel’s head by the hair
To the hall floor where the Danes drank, 1645
Dragged that left-over flesh to the table,
A ball of terror to the men and the queen—
A dead gaze, a stark sight.
Beowulf spoke, son of Ecgtheow:
“Now—son of Healfdene, Lord of the Scyldings, 1650
See what we’ve brought—a gift from the mere,
A token of glory to gaze upon.
I did not walk readily under water,
Battle calmly in the monster’s cave,
Keep my life easily in that lake-lair. 1655
I’d have perished if not for the power of God.
That great sword Hrunting, gift of Unferth,
Was not much good, though famous enough,
But the Ruler of men, who often guides
A warrior alone, gave me eyes to see 1660
An heirloom on the wall, an old sword of giants,
So I found a better weapon to wield.
When the time was right
, I slew those demons,
Monstrous house-mates. Then that battle-blade,
The serpentined sword, melted down to the hilt, 1665
As the blood spewed out, hottest of battle-sweats.
I brought back the hilt from the cave-hoard,
Paid the monsters in kind for their killing,
The slaughter of Scyldings, the death of Danes—
It was only right. I promise you this: 1670
Tonight you can rest without fear in Heorot,
Thanes all together, both young and old,
Prince of the Scyldings, lord of your people.
Death will not haunt you as it did of old.”
Then the golden hilt, the old work of giants, 1675
Was given to the hand of the grizzled king.
It passed that day to the prince of the Danes
From the hoard of demons after their fall,
Created by craftsmen, shaped by smiths.
When that grim-hearted foe of God, 1680
And his monster-mother, guilty of murder,
Left this world, the beautiful hilt
Came to the best of earthly kings
Between the seas. Hrothgar spoke.
He gazed at the hilt, an heirloom treasure, 1685
On which was engraved in images and runes
The origin of strife, the first feud,
When the sea surged and the flood slew
The race of giants—they knew suffering,
Always alien to eternal God. 1690
He gave them the deep water’s reward.
So rune-staves told this ancient story
On the gold hilt, once grip and guard
Of the greatest sword, the sharpest steel,
Naming its owner with serpentine shapes, 1695
Worm-like runes. Then wise Hrothgar spoke,
The son of Healfdene—the thanes listened.
“Now a man who knows truth, acts rightly,
And rules with justice, a protector of the land
And all its people, recalling the past, 1700
Will say that this is the best man ever born.
You have harvested glory, great Beowulf—
Your name is renowned to the ends of earth.
You keep courage tempered with wisdom,
The surest of strengths. Your fame spreads far. 1705
A king keeps his promise—I honor my vow.
You will be your people’s pride and joy,
Comfort and keep, for a long time.
You’re not like Heremod, the king before Scyld,
Who slew the sons of Ecgwela, nurturing slaughter, 1710
Not justice and joy. A plague to the Danes,
Quick to anger, he killed his mates,
His hearth-companions. He turned notorious,
Trading hall-mirth for murder, though God alone
Gave him power to rule, sustained his strength. 1715
The heart in his breast was bloodthirsty—
He gave no rings for honor and glory
To his people the Danes, serving only himself.
He lived without joy, an ache and affliction
To his own people. Learn from his story: 1720
Be manly and munificent—shape worth from wealth.
I give you this story from my treasure of years.
It’s a wonder how God with his great heart
Deals out to mankind wisdom and land,
Nature and nobility, in his all-wielding power. 1725
Sometimes he lets a good man’s mind dwell
In desire or delight, gives him hearth and home,
A kingdom to rule, prosperous and proud,
Subjects to govern, a stronghold to guard,
Till lost in unwisdom, driven by folly, 1730
He cannot imagine an end to joy.
He lives in fullness so the fool believes
That nothing can touch him, no turning of fate,
Neither sudden illness nor old age,
Neither sword-strife nor ancient sorrow. 1735
Neither heart’s hatred nor dark dread
Can twist his comfort—the world is his will—
Until his pride puffs up, his arrogance increases,
So the soul’s guardian sleeps, the watcher wanes.
His sleep is too sound, bound up by care, 1740
And the soul-slayer wakes with his treacherous bow.
The man’s heart is shot with a bitter shaft,
His mind poisoned without protection,
The savage suggestion of a dark demon,
An insidious evil. He’s without defense. 1745
He thinks he owns too little and rules too few.
His grim mind is bent toward treasure.
He hoards everything, gives nothing,
Honors no one but himself, forgets fate—
Forgets that his glory was given by God 1750
Who offers honor. Finally he falls.
His flesh-house crumbles—it was just a loan.
His end approaches. Another succeeds him,
A generous king who never hoards,
A ring-giver who rules without fear, 1755
Who hands out treasure without mourning.
Guard against the soul’s bowman, beloved
Beowulf, best of men. Avoid evil,
Seek eternal gain, pursue no unyielding pride,
Be great and giving. Power is fleeting. 1760
For a time you may have might and glory,
Yet soon illness or the edge of a sword
Will sap your strength, or the fire’s clutch,
Or the flood’s surge, or the sword’s reach,
Or the spear’s flight, or the horror of old age, 1765
Or the dimming of eyes, the coming of dark.
Then death will suddenly seize you, my warrior.
I’ve ruled the Ring-Danes for fifty years,
Kept them safe from swords and spears
Throughout middle-earth, ruling under heaven, 1770
Till I thought no enemy could touch me.
Well, fate’s twists and turns have found me—
Sorrow turned out joy from my homeland
When that old foe invited himself in,
The dreaded Grendel with his unexpected gift 1775
Of sorrow to my spirit, suffering to my soul.
I thank God that I’ve come to see,
After such long strife, his bloody head,
His gaping gaze with my own eyes.
Come now to the seat of joyous feasting, 1780
War-worthy hero of the Geats—
We’ll share many treasures before morning.”
The Geat was heart-glad, accepted his seat
As the wise king suggested. The food was served
To the brave warriors sitting down to feast 1785
For a second night—just as before.
Night’s dark helmet dimmed the hall;
The retainers rose, the gray-haired Scylding
Sought his bed. It pleased the Geat,
The glorious shield-warrior, that he could rest. 1790
A hall-thane came, attended to his needs
With awe and reverence, led the weary warrior
And sea-crosser who was far from his country
To a separate lodging and a well-deserved sleep,
As was the tired sea-traveler’s due. 1795
Then the warrior with a great heart rested;
The hall towered over him, vaulted with gold.
The guest slept till the blithe-hearted, black raven
Sang in the sun, declaring the dawn,
Heaven’s joy. The bright light hastened, 1800
Shining over shadows. Warriors rose,
Eager to travel home to their people.
Bold-hearted Beowulf longed for his ship.
He ordered Hrunting, that precious blade,
Returned to Unferth, son of Ecglaf, 1805
&n
bsp; Said thanks for the loan, calling the sword
A good battle-friend, war-crafty.
He found no fault with that good weapon,
No blame with the blade: he was generous with praise.
The warriors in armor prepared to depart, 1810
Eager for home. Dear to the Danes,
The Geatish prince approached the high seat
Of Hrothgar, greeted the great king.
Beowulf spoke, son of Ecgtheow:
“Now we seafarers, guests from afar, 1815
Ask leave to speak: we must return to Hygelac.
You treated us well, provided properly.
If I can accomplish any more on earth
To earn your heart’s love, your people’s praise,
Than the battle-deeds I’ve already done, 1820
Just send for Beowulf—I’ll be back.
If over the sea-roads, I hear that any neighbors
Or even hall-thanes, those hanging around,
Threaten to harm you, I’ll bring you war-heroes,
A thousand thanes, to stifle that strife. 1825
I know that Hygelac, lord of the Geats,
Guardian of his people, though young as a ruler,
Would support my coming in words and works,
Declarations and deeds, so I can keep my promise,
Continue to help and honor the Danes 1830
With power and protection, and a forest of spears,
When you need good men. If your son Hrethric,
Heir apparent, wants to visit the Geatish court,
He’ll find many friends there. Foreign lands
Are best sought by sons who stay strong!” 1835
Hrothgar spoke, answering his friend:
“A sage God sent these words to your spirit;
I’ve never heard a young warrior speak so wisely.
You are strong in might, sharp in mind,
Wise in words. If in fortune’s twists, 1840
Your king Hygelac, son of Hrethel,
Should ever be slain by a grim war-spear,
A battle-sword, or some unknown sickness,
And your lord is gone, the Geatish prince
And people’s protector, yet you remain alive, 1845
The Sea-Geats could not find a better man
To select as king to hold their land,
To guard their hoard and protect the kingdom,
Should you consider ruling the land of your kinsmen.
The longer I know you, the better I like you, 1850
My beloved Beowulf—your heart pleases me.
You have brought us together, Geats and Spear-Danes,
Built a common kinship, a bridge between nations,
A tying of tribes, so that strife may sleep,
And old hostilities may be put to rest. 1855
While I live and hold this kingdom together,
We will share treasures with your seafaring people,
The Complete Old English Poems Page 75
