The Complete Old English Poems

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The Complete Old English Poems Page 74

by Craig Williamson


  Back the good that we’ve given him here,

  The joy and honor he’s had since childhood.” 1185

  Then she turned to the bench where her sons sat,

  Hrethric and Hrothmund, with other brave boys,

  Next to the good man, Beowulf the Geat.

  Beowulf was brought the welcome cup

  Of words and wine, feasting and friendship, 1190

  And twisted gold, arm-bands and rings,

  Chain-mail and the world’s greatest

  War-collar worn by any man on earth—

  No finer treasure, no greater gift

  Under heaven since Hama carried off 1195

  The neck-ring of the Brosings to that bright city,

  The beautiful jewel and its rich setting.

  He wanted silver instead of strife, gold not gore.

  He fled from the killing craft of Eormenric

  And found in the feud his last reward. 1200

  This collar was the one that Hygelac wore,

  Grandson of Swerting, when he rallied his troops

  Under his war-banner to protect his hoard

  And bring back booty, the spoils of slaughter.

  Fate took him for his pride in provoking 1205

  A feud with the Frisians and the savage Franks.

  He wore that neck-gem with precious stones

  Over the bowl of the sea. His body fell

  Beneath his shield, a king in the clutch

  Of the dreaded Franks, his chain-mail, 1210

  His neck-ring and life in their last embrace.

  Then common warriors plundered the bodies,

  Harvesting gain from the ground of slaughter,

  Reaping treasure in the field of corpses.

  The hall resounded. Then Wealhtheow rose 1215

  And spoke to the company: “Enjoy this collar,

  My beloved Beowulf, this beautiful neck-ring,

  My lucky young warrior, the mail-coat

  And treasures, war-shirts for strength.

  Be crafty, courageous—be proud and prosper— 1220

  Be kind in counsel to my precious sons.

  I’ll reward you for that. You’ve earned the praise

  Of generations across windy seas and cliff-walls.

  May you thrive and enjoy these treasures.

  Be gentle to my sons, bringer of joy— 1225

  Here warriors hold true to each other in the hall,

  Loyal to the lord, devoted to duty,

  Gracious in heart, their minds on mead.

  Downing their drink, they do as I ask.”

  Wealhtheow went back to sit by her lord 1230

  At this best of banquets. Warriors drank wine

  Which tasted finer than the dark fate

  Destined again to stalk the hall

  At the end of evening when King Hrothgar

  Retired to his rest in a separate room. 1235

  Countless men cleared the benches,

  Spread out their pillows and padded bedding,

  Just as before. One beer-drinker,

  Unsuspecting, sank into bedrest,

  Doomed to die. Each sleeper set at his head 1240

  His war-shield, bright battle-wood,

  And above on the bench, his high-ridged helmet,

  His ring-mail shirt woven with iron,

  And his sharp-shafted war-wood.

  Their custom was clear: be ready to strike 1245

  In bed or in battle, at home or away,

  Whenever their lord looked in dire need—

  That was a loyal band, a trusted troop.

  So they sank into sleep. One paid a high price

  For his night’s rest, a monstrous replay 1250

  Of times when Grendel haunted the gold-hall,

  Unleashing evil until his end,

  Crushed in sin. Too soon it was clear

  He had an avenger bent on killing—

  Her hatred teeming at the loss of her son— 1255

  Grendel’s mother, a monster-woman,

  Awesome, appalling, a walking dread,

  Who lived in the lake’s liquid terror,

  In the cold currents after Cain killed

  His only brother, the sword-slayer 1260

  Of his father’s son. So Cain was outlawed,

  Marked for murder, fleeing from joy,

  Wandering the wasteland. Then monsters woke

  From that demon seed, ghosts and ghouls—

  Grendel was one, a savage outcast, 1265

  A fierce foe, who found in Heorot

  A waking warrior, watchful, warlike,

  Waiting for battle. Each reached out

  With a savage grip. One was ready

  With his yawning strength, a gift from God. 1270

  He trusted the Lord, his Maker’s mercy,

  And his powerful grip. He finished the fiend,

  Humbled the hall-guest, the hell-ghost.

  Grendel fled, separated from joy,

  Seeking his death-home, the bane of men. 1275

  His greedy mother, grim as the gallows,

  Rushed ravenous to avenge her son.

  She came to Heorot where the Ring-Danes slept,

  Handing twisted fate to trusting warriors.

  Grendel’s mother made her way in. 1280

  Her terror was only less than Grendel’s

  By this much—as the terror of a woman-warrior

  Might be less than a man’s, the shock of a war-wife

  As her hammer-forged blade stained with blood,

  The red-sweat of battle, severs the ridge 1285

  Of a man’s boar-helmet and splits his head.

  Suddenly in the hall, hard swords were drawn,

  Shields grabbed with hands, too late for helmets,

  Too late for corselets. She snatched a man!

  She was in and out, quick on the take, 1290

  In a rush to revenge and return home.

  She fled to the fen. He was Hrothgar’s man,

  His favorite retainer between the seas,

  A beloved shield-warrior. She savored him too,

  A man ripped from bed, stripped of his sleep. 1295

  She touched his heart, feeding on his fame.

  Beowulf, the honored Geat, was gone.

  After the great feast and the gift-giving,

  He had been offered another lodging.

  Cries rent the hall, an uproar in Heorot. 1300

  She had seized her son’s claw, his blood-crusty hand—

  That was no slaking of sorrow but a bad exchange

  With brutal payment of kith and kin on both sides.

  Then the grizzled king, a once-great warrior,

  Was fiercely troubled, torn by grief, 1305

  When he heard his chief thane, his dearest friend,

  Was dead. Beowulf was brought to the high hall

  For vengeance and valor. In the dawn light

  He and his seafarers came to the hall,

  Where the wise king waited, wondering 1310

  Whether God Almighty would ever grant

  A better fortune, a chance at peace,

  After he heard the wail, reliving old woe.

  Beowulf the worthy warrior walked across

  The bloody floor with his band of men. 1315

  The hall-slats resounded, the boards shook.

  He approached the wise king, asking

  If he’d had a restful night with pleasant dreams.

  Hrothgar responded, protector of the Scyldings:

  “Don’t talk of dreams. My life’s a nightmare! 1320

  Sorrow haunts this hall again, stalking the Danes.

  Æschere is dead, Yrmenlaf’s brother,

  My rune-reader, wise counselor,

  Shield-warrior, and shoulder-companion.

  We guarded each other’s back in battle 1325

  When troops clashed, blade against boar-crest.

  He was all an earl should be, from st
art to finish,

  Always good. Now some unsteady spirit,

  Some restless, ravenous hall-beast

  Has been his slayer. Who knows 1330

  Where the savage feeder has taken his body,

  Feasting on flesh. She’s avenged her son,

  Finished the feud you started with your grip,

  Hard hands on the monster who’d winnowed

  My people too long. His life languished 1335

  In your hands. Now another has come,

  The second night-stalker, hall-wrecker,

  Borne by feud, bent on vengeance,

  And many may feel who grieve for their king,

  Their generous gift-giver, and mourn his counselor, 1340

  That her coming follows hard upon your killing—

  It galls our hearts. She’s stolen my right-hand man

  Who supported your coming and sustained your dreams.

  I’ve heard rumors, what land-dwellers

  And hall-counselors say, that they’ve seen 1345

  Two monsters on the moors, wasteland wanderers,

  Ghastly spirits or grim beasts,

  And one has a shape most like a woman,

  While the other’s like a man, a miserable wretch,

  Outlawed in exile, except bigger than a man— 1350

  That one they’ve called Grendel from distant days.

  No one knows of his father, if some man-dark shape

  Begot the fiend, the spore and sport

  Of savage lust. The two roam a remote land,

  A cruel country, wolf-slopes, wild headlands, 1355

  Windswept roads, fen-paths in the marsh,

  Where a mountain stream slithers under hills,

  Not many miles from here where the mere

  Hunkers down under trees, under frost-covered wood,

  With roots snaking down in dark water. 1360

  There you can see a stark wonder each night—

  Fire walks on water, flame on the flood.

  No wise man living can fathom its depths,

  Sound its source. Though the heath-stepper,

  A stag with strong horns, is harried by hounds 1365

  To flee through that forest, he would rather die,

  Lay his life on the shore, than plunge in that lake

  To protect his head. That’s no gentle place,

  No shielding strand. Surging waves

  Roust black, ravenous storms, 1370

  Raising dark waters to the heavens,

  When the wind howls, stirs up evil,

  Marsh-mist, and the sky weeps.

  You’re the only help for this horror,

  Our hope and protection. It’s a dread land 1375

  Beyond your knowing, a place of peril

  Where you might find our evil enemy

  Who stalks in sin. Seek her if you dare.

  I will give you a reward for revenge,

  Fair recompense for the feud, twisted gold 1380

  From the treasure-hoard, if you return.”

  Beowulf spoke, son of Ecgtheow:

  “Grieve not, wise warrior and good king.

  It’s better to avenge a friend than endure

  Headlong mourning. Each man must discover 1385

  His own death someday. A good man gathers

  Glory before he’s gone, a warrior’s tribute.

  Arise great guardian of the Danes’ kingdom—

  Let’s go look at the tracks of Grendel’s kin.

  I promise you this: she can’t hide 1390

  In the earth’s embrace, a deadly den,

  In mountain-woods, or ocean caves,

  Wherever she flees. Have patience,

  Bide time, and bear sorrow as a man should.”

  Then the old Danish lord leapt up, 1395

  Thanking God for that great speech.

  Hrothgar’s horse, his braided steed,

  Was saddled and bridled. The wise prince rode

  In stately splendor with a band of shield-warriors

  Marching behind. The monster’s tracks were plain 1400

  On the forest paths; they followed her going

  On the marked ground. Over the murky moor,

  She carried the corpse of Hrothgar’s thane,

  The lifeless counselor, the best retainer

  Who shared with Hrothgar home and hall. 1405

  The noble prince rode over rocky slopes,

  Steep stone-paths, narrow one-man roads,

  Into the unknown moor-homes, marsh-lairs

  Of water-monsters and sea-snakes.

  He went with his counselors, crafty men, 1410

  Scouted the land till they found some trees,

  A stunted grove leaning over gray cliffs,

  A joyless wood. Water was below,

  Bloody and roiling, a turmoil of gore;

  To the Danes it was terror and torment, 1415

  A goad in the mind, a grief in the heart,

  When they found Æschere’s head

  Sitting on the sea-cliff. The lake boiled with blood,

  Surged with hot gore as the warriors looked on.

  The war-horn sounded a surging battle-song; 1420

  The foot-troops sat down, gazing in wonder.

  They watched in the water strange worm-shapes,

  Sea-serpents swimming, exploring the lake,

  And water-monsters lying on the headland shores

  Like beasts of the deep who wake in the morning 1425

  And wander the sea-roads, sorrowing ships,

  A wilding of worms. The fierce ones fled,

  Thrashing with rage at the bright, sudden sound

  Of the battle-horn. A bow-bearing Geat

  Cut one of them off from his life with a shot— 1430

  A stitch of iron in his monstrous heart.

  He swam a little slower as death stroked by—

  Shortly he was hard-pressed and hampered by spears,

  By barbed boar-shafts, like a pig in the waves,

  Riding the pikes, assailed by enemies, 1435

  Hauled to the shore—that wave-walking worm,

  Alien beast, wonder of the water.

  Men gazed at that guest, that grim horror.

  Then Beowulf put on his battle-clothes

  Without fuss, without fear of losing his life. 1440

  His chain-mail—hard, broad, hand-woven—

  Would breach the sea—it knew how to keep

  His bone-house whole so his fierce foe’s

  Hand-crush could not reach his heart,

  Or the anger of enemies tear out his life. 1445

  A shining helmet guarded his head—

  It could slice dark water, strike the depths,

  Lunge for the lake-floor. It was cunningly made,

  Crafted by smiths, adorned with gold,

  Encrusted with gems, with emblematic boars, 1450

  So no sword or blade could bite through its iron.

  Not the least of his strengths, his battle-aids,

  Was what Unferth gave him in his time of need—

  Hrunting was the name of that ancient sword,

  That iron-edged blade and heirloom treasure— 1455

  It was engraved with waves, serpentine swirls

  Like deadly snakes, tempered with gore.

  Never had it failed any warrior wielding it

  Who greeted terror with his battle-hand

  In a meeting of monsters in their unholy home. 1460

  This was not the first time it carried courage.

  Surely Unferth, Ecglaf’s son, crafty and strong,

  When he lent this sword to a better warrior,

  Beowulf the Geat, was not thinking much

  Of what he had said, boasting in the hall 1465

  And drunk on wine, a cowardly slanderer.

  Unferth was a taunter who took no risks.

  He never wanted to walk under water.

  He never thought to brave broiling wav
es.

  He gave up glory for loathing at the lake, 1470

  Unlike the other who carried courage to the edge.

  Beowulf spoke, son of Ecgtheow:

  “Remember great Hrothgar, son of Healfdene,

  Wise king, gold-friend of men,

  What we agreed, now that I’m ready to go: 1475

  If I should leave life, discover death in this dive,

  You would stand as my father, guardian and shield

  Of my thanes and retainers, if slaughter takes me.

  The gifts you’ve given me, gracious Hrothgar,

  Rewards for the hall-strife, send on to Hygelac, 1480

  So the lord of the Geats, son of Hrethel,

  Will know from that gathering of gold and wealth

  That I found here a good ring-giver

  Whose favor I enjoyed. And let Unferth,

  Known for sharp words, take home my sword, 1485

  The hard-edged heirloom with its serpentine stain,

  Its wave-patterned blade. With his sword Hrunting,

  I will gather glory or die in death’s clutch.”

  After these words, the man of the Geats,

  Without waiting for an answer, dove down— 1490

  The sea-surge welcomed the warrior,

  Seized and swallowed the brave swimmer.

  He drifted down, the daylight fading

  As he touched lake-bottom. Soon that sea-creature

  Who ruled the realm for a hundred years, 1495

  Grim and greedy, ravenous for slaughter,

  Saw that warrior winding through water,

  Pushing down from the land-light above,

  Seeking her strange home. She seized the intruder

  With her fierce claws, but she broke no bones, 1500

  Pierced no hide—the warrior was whole,

  Protected by mail from the monster’s hand,

  Shielded by rings from those savage fingers.

  No claw could cut that coat. When Beowulf came

  To the murky floor, the sea-wolf seized him, 1505

  Dragging him home to her desperate lair,

  So despite his courage, he could not swing his sword,

  Wield his weapon. He was battered by sea-beasts

  Who tore at his mail-coat with terrible tusks,

  Attacking the alien warrior. Then Beowulf saw 1510

  He was in a hall-cavern which held back water;

  The cave-roof held up the floor of the sea

  So the warrior would not suffocate in the waves,

  The fierce grip of the flood. He saw a fire-light,

  Pale and blazing, both bleak and bright. 1515

  Then the good man greeted the mere-woman,

  Monstrous, mighty, outlaw of the deep.

  He gave her a sword-gift, thrust and stroke,

  Held nothing back from his sharp greeting,

  So that ring-patterned blade was swinging 1520

 

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