The Complete Old English Poems

by Craig Williamson

  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