Authors: Frederick Rebsamen
 | blade for a champion best of war-weapons |
1560 | gleaming with goldwork greater in steel-weight |
 | than any other man could manage in warfare. |
 | He seized it by the hilt, that heavy wonder-sword |
 | grasped in his hands the gold-gleaming handle |
 | raised it in anger rage in his heart |
 | swung at her neck with his strong handgrip |
 | till it bit through the flesh burst fiend-muscles |
 | broke through bone-ringsâthe blade cut through |
 | felled her to the floor fated hell-creatureâ |
 | the sword was blooded and Beowulf rejoiced. |
1570 | Light came rushing radiant and warm |
 | as God's bright candle glows in the heavens |
 | glittering above. He gazed about him |
 | moved along the wall wielding his giant-sword |
 | with a great hilt-grip, Hygelac's shield-thane |
 | towering with rageâyet ready for vengeance |
 | he stepped through the cavern searched for Grendel |
 | anxious to repay that prowling visitor |
 | for years of torture in that tall meadhall |
 | twelve long winters of woeful murder |
1580 | when he fell upon Hrothgar's hearth-companions |
 | slew them in their sleep swallowed them down, |
 | fifteen warriors of the folk of Denmark, |
 | and carried from the hall to his cold water-den |
 | the same number. He saw him then |
 | Grendel slumped there with a great shoulder-wound |
 | wearied by his crimes waiting for judgment |
 | lifeless at last after long murder-years |
 | horror in Heorot. With a hard swordswing |
 | Beowulf slashed at him struck through his neck |
1590 | ended that hall-feud for Healfdene's son. |
 | Watching at the mere top the waiting Shield-Danes |
 | Hrothgar's counselors cold in their hearts |
 | saw a welling of blood waves of death-gore |
 | rise to the surface. Sorrowful advisers |
 | battle-weary thanes borne down by grief |
 | carried to their king a care-heavy messageâ |
 | they hoped no longer that the leader of the Geats |
 | might rise in victory through that roiling water |
 | return to his menâthey murmured in sorrow |
1600 | grieved that the she-wolf had slaughtered him below. |
 | The sun swung low. They left the mere thenâ |
 | those mourning Sword-Danes sought with their king |
 | their good meadhall. Their guests stayed on |
 | sick with horror stared at the blood-froth. |
 | They wished without hope that their hero would surface |
 | dive up to them. Deep below the earth |
 | that broad wonder-blade wasted and quivered |
 | withered in that bloodâit wavered and dripped |
 | melted and shrunk like shining icicles |
1610 | when the Ruler of heaven unwraps frost-bindings |
 | warms water-ropes, Wielder of us all, |
 | of times and seasons the true Measurer. |
 | The lord of the Geats looked at the treasures |
 | heaped and glittering in that grisly fiend-hallâ |
 | from the wealth before him he wanted no more |
 | than Grendel's head and that golden swordhiltâ |
 | the blade had vanished burned down to nothing |
 | melted in the heat of that hell-spirit's blood. |
 | Soon he was swimming straight up to earthlight |
1620 | shot through the surface of that seething mere. |
 | That peaceful pond was purged of evil |
 | opened to sunlight when those alien spirits |
 | paid for their loan-days with their pitiful lives. |
 | He came then to land leader of the Geats |
 | proud of the booty he bore in his hands |
 | great hell-mysteries haled from the depths. |
 | His thanes received him thankful to their God |
 | for bringing him back from that baleful journey |
 | safe from his fight with that foul death-mother. |
1630 | His hard mask-helmet hand-woven corselet |
 | were quickly removed. The mere grew quiet |
 | calm monster-pond colored with fiend-blood. |
 | They left that devil's hole led by their champion, |
 | no mourning in their minds, measured the trackways |
 | the known moorpaths. Marching Geat-thanes |
 | bore the great head, grim death-plunder, |
 | climbed through the mist past the cold rockstream |
 | followed the pathwayâfour good warriors |
 | bore on their spearshafts, struggling with the weight, |
1640 | Grendel's gore-head through green forest-trees. |
 | Fourteen spear-fighters filed across the meadow |
 | marched upon the hall with its high gold-gables |
 | Geats all togetherâtheir good warleader |
 | towered among them trod the meadowgrass. |
 | Once more he approached the proud wine-hall |
 | champion of the Geats great monster-bane |
 | to hail the king there Hrothgar the Dane. |
 | Hefted by the hair the head of that murderer |
 | was borne into the hall where beer-drinkers waitedâ |
1650 | Shield-Danes gathered there with their good hall-queen |
 | to gaze upon hell that huge fiend-head. |
 | Beowulf spoke son of Ecgtheow: |
 | “From Grendel's mere, gladman Hrothgar |
 | bountiful lord, we bring gifts to you |
 | tokens of victory tidings of relief. |
 | I barely endured that deep monster-fight |
 | under dark blood-water where death came pressing |
 | stabbing at my heartâI would still be there |
 | if the great Shaper had not shielded my life. |
1660 | No help was Hrunting with hell's sorcery |
 | that battle-sharp blade could not bite her fleshâ |
 | then the great Wielder Glory-King of all |
 | gave me a wonder-blade granted to my sight |
 | a huge giant-sword hanging by the wall. |
 | I reached for the hilt raised it quickly |
 | slashed at that she-wolf sliced through her neck |
 | ended her misery. Then that old wonder-blade |
 | burned and dwindled, dark murder-blood |
 | melted it away. This marvelous swordhilt |
1670 | I bring back to you. Both man-killers |
 | are banished from Heorot hall of the Danes. |
 | I promise you this night, proud land-master, |
 | you may sleep soundly sorrowing no more. |
 | All of your warriors women and children |
 | youth and elders aged counselors |
 | all of your subjects may slumber in peace |
 | reprieved from night-murder, prowling thane-killers.” |
 | Then that ancient swordhilt old gold-treasure |
 | strange work of giants wonder-smith's pattern |
1680 | was placed in the hands of Healfdene's sonâ |
 | after long winters, leaving the Danes |
 | with nightbale and tears, terror was sleeping. |
 | Those murdering moor-stalkers mother and fiend-son |
 | kept to their cavern under cold forest-stream. |
 | That old treasure-hilt ancient wonderwork |
 | came into the hands of Heorot's treasure-king |
 | the best battle-lord in the breadth of Denmark. |
 | Hrothgar was gladdened gazed upon the hilt |
 | curious sword-handleâcut into the gold |
1690 | was a tale of evil that old earth-struggle |
 | when great flood-waters fell upon earth-giants |
 | carried them awayâthe Wielder of all |
 | God of creation crushed their wickedness |
 | with welling water-rush washed them from earth. |
 | Written in rune-marks on that rich swordhilt, |
 | gleaming goldplate garnished with serpents, |
 | was a curious name, who caused that sword |
 | to be shaped and hammered smithied in yoredays |
 | a weapon for the mighty. Then the wise Dane-lord |
1700 | Healfdene's son spoke his mindthoughts: |
 | “It can well be said by sons of this earth |
 | by those who remember moments of the past, |
 | clashing of spearshields that this keen battle-thane |
 | was born for glory! Beowulf my friend |
 | your fame is founded far across the waves |
 | where wise men gather. Guard it carefully |
 | strength with wisdom. I will stand by my word |
 | make good my promises. To your Geat-friends now |
 | you will come with counsel courage for their hearts |
 | through long comfort-years. |
1710 | Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Not so kind was Heremod |
 | to the kin of Ecgwela care-heavy Shield-Danesâ |
 | he brought them no joy but baleful murder |