Beowulf - Delphi Poets Series

by Beowulf

  Ongeat þā se gōda grund-wyrgenne,

  1520 mere-wīf mihtig; mægen-rǣs forgeaf

  fangs of the flood. Firelight he saw,

  beams of a blaze that brightly shone.

  Then the warrior was ware of that wolf-of-the-deep,

  mere-wife monstrous. For mighty stroke

  1520 he swung his blade, and the blow withheld not.

  hilde-bille, hond swenge ne oftēah,

  þæt hire on hafelan hring-mǣl āgōl

  grǣdig gūð-lēoð. Þā se gist onfand,

  þæt se beado-lēoma bītan nolde,

  1525 aldre sceððan, ac sēo ecg geswāc

  Then sang on her head that seemly blade

  its war-song wild. But the warrior found

  the light-of-battle was loath to bite,

  to harm the heart: its hard edge failed

  1525 the noble at need, yet had known of old

  þēodne æt þearfe: þolode ǣr fela

  hond-gemōta, helm oft gescær,

  fǣges fyrd-hrægl: þæt wæs forma sīð

  dēorum māðme, þæt his dōm ālæg.

  1530 Eft wæs ān-rǣd, nalas elnes læt,

  strife hand to hand, and had helmets cloven,

  doomed men’s fighting-gear. First time, this,

  for the gleaming blade that its glory fell.

  Firm still stood, nor failed in valor,

  1530 heedful of high deeds, Hygelac’s kinsman;

  mǣrða gemyndig mǣg Hygelāces;

  wearp þā wunden-mǣl wrǣttum gebunden

  yrre ōretta, þæt hit on eorðan læg,

  stīð and sty¯l-ecg; strenge getruwode,

  1535 mund-gripe mægenes. Swā sceal man dōn,

  flung away fretted sword, featly jewelled,

  the angry earl; on earth it lay

  steel-edged and stiff. His strength he trusted,

  hand-gripe of might. So man shall do

  1535 whenever in war he weens to earn him

  þonne hē æt gūðe gegān þenceð

  longsumne lof, nā ymb his līf cearað.

  Gefēng þā be eaxle (nalas for fǣhðe mearn)

  Gūð-Gēata lēod Grendles mōdor;

  1540 brægd þā beadwe heard, þā hē gebolgen wæs,

  lasting fame, nor fears for his life!

  Seized then by shoulder, shrank not from combat,

  the Geatish war-prince Grendel’s mother.

  Flung then the fierce one, filled with wrath,

  1540 his deadly foe, that she fell to ground.

  feorh-genīðlan, þæt hēo on flet gebēah.

  Hēo him eft hraðe and-lēan forgeald

  grimman grāpum and him tōgēanes fēng;

  oferwearp þā wērig-mōd wigena strengest,

  1545 fēðe-cempa, þæt hē on fylle wearð.

  Swift on her part she paid him back

  with grisly grasp, and grappled with him.

  Spent with struggle, stumbled the warrior,

  fiercest of fighting-men, fell adown.

  1545 On the hall-guest she hurled herself, hent her short sword,

  Ofsæt þā þone sele-gyst and hyre seaxe getēah,

  brād and brūn-ecg wolde hire bearn wrecan,

  āngan eaferan. Him on eaxle læg

  brēost-net brōden; þæt gebearh fēore,

  1550 wið ord and wið ecge ingang forstōd.

  broad and brown-edged, the bairn to avenge,

  the sole-born son. — On his shoulder lay

  braided breast-mail, barring death,

  withstanding entrance of edge or blade.

  1550 Life would have ended for Ecgtheow’s son,

  Hæfde þā forsīðod sunu Ecgþēowes

  under gynne grund, Gēata cempa,

  nemne him heaðo-byrne helpe gefremede,

  here-net hearde, and hālig god

  1555 gewēold wīg-sigor, wītig drihten;

  under wide earth for that earl of Geats,

  had his armor of war not aided him,

  battle-net hard, and holy God

  wielded the victory, wisest Maker.

  1555 The Lord of Heaven allowed his cause;

  rodera rǣdend hit on ryht gescēd,

  y¯ðelīce syððan hē eft āstōd.

  and easily rose the earl erect.

  XXIV. BĒOWULF SLAYS THE SPRITE.

  Geseah þā on searwum sige-ēadig bil,

  eald sweord eotenisc ecgum þy¯htig,

  1560 wigena weorð-mynd: þæt wæs wǣpna cyst,

  ‘Mid the battle-gear saw he a blade triumphant,

  old-sword of Eotens, with edge of proof,

  warriors’ heirloom, weapon unmatched,

  1560 — save only ’twas more than other men

  būton hit wæs māre þonne ǣnig mon ōðer

  tō beadu-lāce ætberan meahte

  gōd and geatolīc gīganta geweorc.

  Hē gefēng þā fetel-hilt, freca Scildinga,

  1565 hrēoh and heoro-grim hring-mǣl gebrægd,

  to bandy-of-battle could bear at all —

  as the giants had wrought it, ready and keen.

  Seized then its chain-hilt the Scyldings’ chieftain,

  bold and battle-grim, brandished the sword,

  1565 reckless of life, and so wrathfully smote

  aldres orwēna, yrringa slōh,

  þæt hire wið halse heard grāpode,

  bān-hringas bræc, bil eal þurh-wōd

  fǣgne flǣsc-homan, hēo on flet gecrong;

  1570 sweord wæs swātig, secg weorce gefeh.

  that it gripped her neck and grasped her hard,

  her bone-rings breaking: the blade pierced through

  that fated-one’s flesh: to floor she sank.

  Bloody the blade: he was blithe of his deed.

  1570 Then blazed forth light. ’Twas bright within

  Līxte se lēoma, lēoht inne stōd,

  efne swā of hefene hādre scīneð

  rodores candel. Hē æfter recede wlāt,

  hwearf þā be wealle, wǣpen hafenade

  1575 heard be hiltum Higelāces þegn,

  as when from the sky there shines unclouded

  heaven’s candle. The hall he scanned.

  By the wall then went he; his weapon raised

  high by its hilts the Hygelac-thane,

  1575 angry and eager. That edge was not useless

  yrre and ān-rǣd. Næs sēo ecg fracod

  hilde-rince, ac hē hraðe wolde

  Grendle forgyldan gūð-rǣsa fela

  þāra þe hē geworhte tō West-Denum

  1580 oftor micle þonne on ǣnne sīð,

  to the warrior now. He wished with speed

  Grendel to guerdon for grim raids many,

  for the war he waged on Western-Danes

  oftener far than an only time,

  1580 when of Hrothgar’s hearth-companions

  þonne hē Hrōðgāres heorð-genēatas

  slōh on sweofote, slǣpende fræt

  folces Denigea fy¯f-ty¯ne men

  and ōðer swylc ūt of-ferede,

  1585 lāðlīcu lāc. Hē him þæs lēan forgeald,

  he slew in slumber, in sleep devoured,

  fifteen men of the folk of Danes,

  and as many others outward bore,

  his horrible prey. Well paid for that

  1585 the wrathful prince! For now prone he saw

  rēðe cempa, tō þæs þe hē on ræste geseah

  gūð-wērigne Grendel licgan,

  aldor-lēasne, swā him ǣr gescōd

  hild æt Heorote; hrā wīde sprong,

  1590 syððan hē æfter dēaðe drepe þrowade,

  Grendel stretched there, spent with war,

  spoiled of life, so scathed had left him

  Heorot’s battle. The body sprang far

  when after death it endured the blow,

  1590 sword-stroke savage, that severed its head.

  heoro-sweng heardne, and hine þā hēafde becearf,<
br />
  Sōna þæt gesāwon snottre ceorlas,

  þā þe mid Hrōðgāre on holm wliton,

  þæt wæs y¯ð-geblond eal gemenged,

  1595 brim blōde fāh: blonden-feaxe

  Soon, then, saw the sage companions

  who waited with Hrothgar, watching the flood,

  that the tossing waters turbid grew,

  blood-stained the mere. Old men together,

  1595 hoary-haired, of the hero spake;

  gomele ymb gōdne ongeador sprǣcon,

  þæt hig þæs æðelinges eft ne wēndon,

  þæt hē sige-hrēðig sēcean cōme

  mǣrne þēoden; þā þæs monige gewearð,

  1600 þæt hine sēo brim-wylf ābroten hæfde.

  the warrior would not, they weened, again,

  proud of conquest, come to seek

  their mighty master. To many it seemed

  the wolf-of-the-waves had won his life.

  1600 The ninth hour came. The noble Scyldings

  Þā cōm nōn dæges. Næs ofgēafon

  hwate Scyldingas; gewāt him hām þonon

  gold-wine gumena. Gistas sētan,

  mōdes sēoce, and on mere staredon,

  1605 wiston and ne wēndon, þæt hīe heora wine-drihten

  left the headland; homeward went

  the gold-friend of men. But the guests sat on,

  stared at the surges, sick in heart,

  and wished, yet weened not, their winsome lord

  1605 again to see.

  selfne gesāwon. Þā þæt sweord ongan

  æfter heaðo-swāte hilde-gicelum

  wīg-bil wanian; þæt wæs wundra sum,

  þæt hit eal gemealt īse gelīcost,

  1610 þonne forstes bend fæder onlǣteð,

  Now that sword began,

  from blood of the fight, in battle-droppings,

  war-blade, to wane: ’twas a wondrous thing

  that all of it melted as ice is wont

  when frosty fetters the Father loosens,

  1610 unwinds the wave-bonds, wielding all

  onwindeð wæl-rāpas, sē þe geweald hafað

  sǣla and mǣla; þæt is sōð metod.

  Ne nom hē in þǣm wīcum, Weder-Gēata lēod,

  māðm-ǣhta mā, þēh hē þǣr monige geseah,

  1615 būton þone hafelan and þā hilt somod,

  seasons and times: the true God he!

  Nor took from that dwelling the duke of the Geats

  precious things, though a plenty he saw,

  save only the head and that hilt withal

  1615 blazoned with jewels: the blade had melted,

  since fāge; sweord ǣr gemealt,

  forbarn brōden mǣl: wæs þæt blōd tō þæs hāt,

  ǣttren ellor-gǣst, sē þǣr inne swealt.

  Sōna wæs on sunde, sē þe ǣr æt sæcce gebād

  1620 wīg-hryre wrāðra, wæter up þurh-dēaf;

  burned was the bright sword, her blood was so hot,

  so poisoned the hell-sprite who perished within there.

  Soon he was swimming who safe saw in combat

  downfall of demons; up-dove through the flood.

  1620 The clashing waters were cleanséd now,

  wǣron y¯ð-gebland eal gefǣlsod,

  ēacne eardas, þā se ellor-gāst

  oflēt līf-dagas and þās lǣnan gesceaft.

  Cōm þā tō lande lid-manna helm

  1625 swīð-mōd swymman, sǣ-lāce gefeah,

  waste of waves, where the wandering fiend

  her life-days left and this lapsing world.

  Swam then to strand the sailors’-refuge,

  sturdy-in-spirit, of sea-booty glad,

  1625 of burden brave he bore with him.

  mægen-byrðenne þāra þe hē him mid hæfde.

  Ēodon him þā tōgēanes, gode þancodon,

  þry¯ðlīc þegna hēap, þēodnes gefēgon,

  þæs þe hī hyne gesundne gesēon mōston.

  1630 Þā wæs of þǣm hrōran helm and byrne

  Went then to greet him, and God they thanked,

  the thane-band choice of their chieftain blithe,

  that safe and sound they could see him again.

  Soon from the hardy one helmet and armor

  1630 deftly they doffed: now drowsed the mere,

  lungre āly¯sed: lagu drūsade,

  wæter under wolcnum, wæl-drēore fāg.

  Fērdon forð þonon fēðe-lāstum

  ferhðum fægne, fold-weg mǣton,

  1635 cūðe strǣte; cyning-balde men

  water ‘neath welkin, with war-blood stained.

  Forth they fared by the footpaths thence,

  merry at heart the highways measured,

  well-known roads. Courageous men

  1635 carried the head from the cliff by the sea,

  from þǣm holm-clife hafelan bǣron

  earfoðlīce heora ǣghwæðrum

  fela-mōdigra: fēower scoldon

  on ðæm wæl-stenge weorcum geferian

  1640 tō þǣm gold-sele Grendles hēafod,

  an arduous task for all the band,

  the firm in fight, since four were needed

  on the shaft-of-slaughter strenuously

  to bear to the gold-hall Grendel’s head.

  1640 So presently to the palace there

  oð þæt semninga tō sele cōmon

  frome fyrd-hwate fēower-ty¯ne

  Gēata gongan; gum-dryhten mid

  mōdig on gemonge meodo-wongas træd.

  1645 Þā cōm in gān ealdor þegna,

  foemen fearless, fourteen Geats,

  marching came. Their master-of-clan

  mighty amid them the meadow-ways trod.

  Strode then within the sovran thane

  1645 fearless in fight, of fame renowned,

  dǣd-cēne mon dōme gewurðad,

  hæle hilde-dēor. Hrōðgār grētan:

  Þā wæs be feaxe on flet boren

  Grendles hēafod, þǣr guman druncon,

  1650 egeslīc for eorlum and þǣre idese mid: wlite-sēon wrǣtlīc weras onsāwon.

  hardy hero, Hrothgar to greet.

  And next by the hair into hall was borne

  Grendel’s head, where the henchmen were drinking,

  an awe to clan and queen alike,

  1650 a monster of marvel: the men looked on.

  XXV. HROTHGAR’S GRATITUDE: HE DISCOURSES.

  Bēowulf maðelode, bearn Ecgþēowes:

  “Hwæt! wē þē þās sǣ-lāc, sunu Healfdenes,

  “lēod Scyldinga, lustum brōhton,

  1655 “tīres tō tācne, þē þū hēr tō lōcast.

  Beowulf spake, bairn of Ecgtheow: —

  “Lo, now, this sea-booty, son of Healfdene,

  Lord of Scyldings, we’ve lustily brought thee,

  sign of glory; thou seest it here.

  1655 Not lightly did I with my life escape!

  “Ic þæt unsōfte ealdre gedīgde:

  “wigge under wætere weorc genēðde

  “earfoðlīce, æt-rihte wæs

  “gūð getwǣfed, nymðe mec god scylde.

  1660 “Ne meahte ic æt hilde mid Hruntinge

  In war under water this work I essayed

  with endless effort; and even so

  my strength had been lost had the Lord not shielded me.

  Not a whit could I with Hrunting do

  1660 in work of war, though the weapon is good;

  “wiht gewyrcan, þēah þæt wǣpen duge,

  “ac mē geūðe ylda waldend,

  “þæt ic on wāge geseah wlitig hangian

  “eald sweord ēacen (oftost wīsode

  1665 “winigea lēasum) þæt ic þy¯ wǣpne gebrǣ.

  yet a sword the Sovran of Men vouchsafed me

  to spy on the wall there, in splendor hanging,

  old, gigantic, — how oft He guides

  the friendless wight! — and I fought with that brand,
<
br />   1665 felling in fight, since fate was with me,

  “Ofslōh þā æt þǣre sæcce (þā mē sǣl āgeald)

  “hūses hyrdas. Þā þæt hilde-bil

  “forbarn, brogden mǣl, swā þæt blōd gesprang,

  “hātost heaðo-swāta: ic þæt hilt þanan

  1670 “fēondum ætferede; fyren-dǣda wræc,

  the house’s wardens. That war-sword then

  all burned, bright blade, when the blood gushed o’er it,

  battle-sweat hot; but the hilt I brought back

  from my foes. So avenged I their fiendish deeds,

  1670 death-fall of Danes, as was due and right.

  “dēað-cwealm Denigea, swā hit gedēfe wæs.

  “Ic hit þē þonne gehāte, þæt þū on Heorote mōst

  “sorh-lēas swefan mid þīnra secga gedryht,

  “and þegna gehwylc þīnra lēoda,

  1675 “duguðe and iogoðe, þæt þū him ondrǣdan ne þearft,

  And this is my hest, that in Heorot now

  safe thou canst sleep with thy soldier band,

  and every thane of all thy folk

  both old and young; no evil fear,

  1675 Scyldings’ lord, from that side again,

  “þēoden Scyldinga, on þā healfe,

  “aldor-bealu eorlum, swā þū ǣr dydest.”

  Þā wæs gylden hilt gamelum rince.

  hārum hild-fruman, on hand gyfen,

  1680 enta ǣr-geweorc, hit on ǣht gehwearf

  aught ill for thy earls, as erst thou must!”

  Then the golden hilt, for that gray-haired leader,

  hoary hero, in hand was laid,

  giant-wrought, old. So owned and enjoyed it

  1680 after downfall of devils, the Danish lord,

  æfter dēofla hryre Denigea frēan,

  wundor-smiða geweorc, and þā þās worold ofgeaf

  grom-heort guma, godes andsaca,

  morðres scyldig, and his mōdor ēac;

  1685 on geweald gehwearf worold-cyninga

  wonder-smiths’ work, since the world was rid

  of that grim-souled fiend, the foe of God,

  murder-marked, and his mother as well.

  Now it passed into power of the people’s king,

  1685 best of all that the oceans bound

  þǣm sēlestan be sǣm twēonum

  þāra þe on Sceden-igge sceattas dǣlde.

  Hrōðgār maðelode, hylt scēawode,

  ealde lāfe, on þǣm wæs ōr writen

  1690 fyrn-gewinnes: syððan flōd ofslōh,

  who have scattered their gold o’er Scandia’s isle.

  Hrothgar spake — the hilt he viewed,

  heirloom old, where was etched the rise

  of that far-off fight when the floods o’erwhelmed,

  1690 raging waves, the race of giants

  gifen gēotende, gīganta cyn,

  frēcne gefērdon: þæt wæs fremde þēod