Beowulf
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mellowed murder-thoughts measured her commands
since first she was given, gold-endowed princess,
to that young champion chosen for his queen
sent across the waves by her sorrowing father
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to Offa the king come to his meadhall
to share the gift-throne. She soon bent to him
welcomed hall-thanes hailed peace-offerings
used her wealth there for young and for old.
With high love-thoughts she held to her king
who of all mankind, as men have told me,
was strongest of throne-men from sandshore to sandshore
on the earth’s broadland—Offa was spear-keen
tall thane-master in thronging of war
generous gift-king great with gold-treasures
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strength for his homeland. His son was Eomer
hall-worthy king-child Hemming’s kinsman
Garmund’s grandson good warrior-prince.
Over the shore-sand with his shoal of warriors
Beowulf went marching measured the sea-rim
wide cliff-beaches. The world-candle shone
southward to the sea. They stepped to the path
mounted the sea-wall where their mighty lord
Ongentheow’s bane bountiful hall-king
helm of the Geats held his gift-throne
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shared his gold-hoard. Good news-tidings
of Beowulf’s beaching were borne to Hygelac—
strong and treasure-proud sailors were landsafe
home with their lives—linden-shield thanes
stepped to the hall hailed their people-king.
Soon were benches bared to receive them
the roomy wine-hall ready for feasting.
The beloved sailor sat by his king
nephew by his uncle urged by welcome-words
glad hearth-greetings from Hrethel’s son
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hearthlord of the Geats. The good peace-queen
moved throughout the hall Haereth’s daughter-child
bore among the benches bright ale-vessels
served them with her hands. Then Hygelac spoke
asked for news-words from his nephew beside him
eager for tidings of that trip to Denmark
Sea-Geats sailing to that sorrowful hall:
“What luck did you have beloved Beowulf
when you foolishly left on that long sea-sail
seeking adventure over salty water
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monsters in Heorot? Did you help the Danes
win for Hrothgar a healthier meadhall
for that thane-deprived king? My thoughts troubled me
seethed with sorrow for that senseless voyage
a bad bargain. I begged you to stay
ignore that fiend foul murder-guest
to let the Shield-Danes look to their feud
deal with Grendel. To God I give thanks
that I see you now sound and war-proud.”
Beowulf spoke son of Ecgtheow:
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“That great struggle, good Hygelac,
is no secret now how I snared Grendel
a grim grip-battle in that great meadhall
home of the Spear-Danes where that hell’s demon
ruled in darkness with death and thane-grief
through long sorrow-years. I stopped that murder
so that no other creature of the kin of Grendel
on this broad earthyard may boast of that fight—
there were dawn-sounds of victory vengeance in Heorot
for greed and murder. I greeted Hrothgar
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when I first entered that ill-fated hall.
Soon that wise one war-son of Healfdene
was healed from mourning found hope in my words
made room by his sons a seat by the gift-throne.
Joy was sung there—seldom have I known
hall-thanes happier under heaven’s arch-vault
such great mead-laughter. Then the good folk-queen
weaver of peace-thoughts walked through the hall
greeted the young ones gave arm-bracelets
to cheerful warriors as she went to her seat.
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At times in the hall Hrothgar’s daughter-child
offered ale-vessels to the old counselors—
hall-thanes thanked her hailed her by name
fair Freawaru as she fetched the hall-drink,
passed among the benches. She is promised, I hear,
gold-worthy maiden, to great Froda’s son.
The helm of the Danes hopes for peace now
bargains with Heathobards a bride for a truce
buys with his daughter, his dear girl-child,
a settlement of strife. Seldom it happens
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after spilling of blood that swords will relax
blood-spears stay idle though the bride prevail.
Then the young hall-king Heathobards’ leader
and his thanes around him may think sorrow-thoughts
when he walks with his queen in the wide meadhall—
a Danish warrior walks in their company
wears at his girdle a great treasure-sword
gold-hilted warblade wonder-smith’s heirloom
Heathobard weapon, worn to that battle
on that sorrowful day when their spear-king fell
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laid down his life with his loved ones around him.
Then an old battle-thane can bear it no more
stares at that Sword-Dane as he struts past him
remembers with mourning morning-cold death
grim spear-slaughter, speaks to a young one
reminds him of honor urges him on
wakening war-thoughts with words of revenge:
‘Do you see, young friend, the sword on that Dane
that weapon your father wore to his death
on his last earth-day, that old treasure-sword
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he bore to the field when he fell to Shield-Danes
who won that war-day after Withergyld lay
sank with his sword on that sorrowful meadow?
Now this man-child of a murdering Dane
walks beneath this roof wearing that battle-blade
that is yours by birth, boasting of murder
proud of that heirloom pilfered from your kin.’
He whispers and urges whips him with words
with mourning messages memories of tears
till the queen’s hall-thane is quiet at last
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stilled by a swordbite sleeps forever
stripped of his life—his slayer escapes
slips through the night to the known woodland.
Then the truce is broken battle is renewed
oathwords forgotten. Ingeld remembers
longs for his father—love for his wife
is cooled by that longing for kin and companions.
I have small hope now for Heathobards’ friendship
peace with the Danes in the days to come
truce through marriage.
I will tell you more
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of my fight with Grendel give you my story
describe clearly for my king and friend
that hard hand-battle. When heaven’s gem
glided under earth came an angry guest
blood-minded monster to that mighty wine-hall
where we all waited wardens of the night.
He seized Hondscioh slaughtered him there
our doomed companion—he died quickly
good soldier-friend—Grendel murdered him
crunched him greedily gulped all of him
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crammed into his mouth that doom-marked warrior.
None the sooner for that would he stop his murdering
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loody-toothed killer baleful visitor—
not yet was he ready to run from that hall
but sure of his strength he seized my fingers
in his great claw-hand. A glove hung on him
wide and deep-fingered woven by elf-smiths
death-bloodied trap trimmed skillfully
with hides of dragons hell’s murder-work.
He hoped to stuff me in that huge corpse-bag
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cram me inside carry me from Heorot
one more victim—I waited no longer
stood to greet him grappled his hand.
It’s too long to tell how I tamed that monster
gave him revenge with my good handgrip—
in that high meadhall Hygelac my lord
I memoried your name. He managed to escape
held to life-breath for a little more time
left behind him high beneath the gable
his hand on the wall wandered in sorrow
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to that foul fen-mere fell to his death.
For that grim battle-rush the guardian of the Danes
heaped me with heirlooms horses and armor
many a goldgift when morning-sun rose
and benches brightened with banquet in Heorot.
There was song and laughter—the Spear-Danes’ king
stretched his memory for stories of childhood.
At times the old one touched his harpstrings
strummed the songwood sang of the past
moments of heartgrief high victories
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remnants of his youth from reaches of his mind.
At times he brooded bound by his years
an old sword-warrior sorrowing for friends
worn with winters welling with memories
yearning for dead ones young hearth-fellows.
In that high meadhall we held to our feasting
drank from treasure-cups till dark shadow-pall
sank through the light. Then sorrow came calling
greedy for thane-blood Grendel’s hell-mother
from her cold moor-cavern mourning for her son
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dead forest-fiend. That dark-minded she-wolf
avenged her monster-child vile fen-stalker
killed for her offspring. It was kind Aeschere
counselor for kings cold with slaughter-death.
Nor could they find him when night-shadows paled
bear up his body for burning on high
lift him to the pyre beloved companion
for funeral flames. She fetched his corpse
through the dark forest-track to her deep water-den.
That was for Hrothgar the hardest of griefs
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sorrows he suffered through slow winters.
Then the king asked me for kindness once more
begged me to plunge through that poisonous water
search for the source of his soul’s misery
pay for that loss. He promised me treasures.
I swam to the bottom of that bloodstained pond
dived past hell-demons to that deep monster-home
where that devil’s she-wolf dragged me inside.
For a while we wrestled raged through that cavern—
the mere welled with gore from Grendel’s mother
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as I carved her head off in that cavern of death
with a huge giant-sword—from hell’s earth-cave
I rose with my life unready for death.
Then that son of Healfdene in his hall once more
brought marvelous treasures to mark my victory.
That king of the Danes kept his promises—
I lost no reward for my work that day,
gold for my strength, for he gave me victory-gifts,
Healfdene’s offspring, to my own desire.
I bring them to you best of hall-kings
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give them with pleasure—my place is in Götland
my life at your service—little do I have
of kin in this earthyard closer than my lord.”
He bore to his guardian the golden boar-banner
bright-burnished helmet hand-linked mailcoat
gold-handled sword. The Geat-champion spoke:
“Hrothgar gave to me this great treasure-sword
a warleader’s weapon—words come with it
borne from the king with this best of heirlooms.
He said that Heorogar held it for his own,
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lord of the Shield-Danes, for long battle-years.
Nor would he give it to his good male-child,
beloved Heoroweard, though his heart was strong.