Classic Poem

Then they laid them down and slumbered: but sorely was one to pay
For the rest he had taken at even, as had happened many a time
Since Grendel watched o'er the gold-hall, and wrought deed on deed of crime,
Till lo, his end was upon him, and on sin came death at the last:
For men saw, ay, and wide was it bruited, that after the ghoul had passed
One lived who yearned to avenge him. Long after the woe of that fray
Grendel's mother, a dam of evil, brooded over her grief alway—
A monster who needs must harbour in the horror of the mere,
The icy flow of its waters, since Cain with the sword-edge sheer
Took the life of his only brother, the very seed of his sire,
And the mark of murder was on him, and he wandered in exile dire,
Outcast from the joy of mortals, and in deserts sought him a place,
Of whom sprang a brood of monsters: and Grendel was one of that race,
A felon outcast and hateful, who encountered in Heorot's stead
One waiting, watchful and eager to cope him in combat dread,
Where, close though the monster gripped him, of his strength he minded him aye
And the gift of bounty God gave him: in the succour of Him Who doth sway
The whole of creation he trusted, and the comfort and aid of His might,
Whereby he o'ercame the monster, ay, brought under the hellish sprite.
In shame fled the foeman of mortals, outcast from joy and grace,
To visit the home death dealt him: but his mother still for a space
Had hate in her soul, and was greedy on her journey of doom to start
And take toll for the death of her offspring. So now was she come unto Hart
And there lay the Ring-Danes aslumber, through the length and breadth of the hall,
And when Grendel's mother made entry, fate turned on the athlings all:
But less than before was the terror, e'en as much as a woman's might
And her grimness are less than a warrior's in the hour when the sword, fair-dight
With its ring, and hammer-hardened, with edge of might and main
Shears clean through the boar on the morion, and is red with the blood of the slain.
—Straightway from above the benches the keen-edged blade in hall
Was snatched, and broad shields amany handfasted: but none of them all
Took thought, when the terror gripped him, of his helm or byrny stout.
—Now for dear life's sake when men marked her, she strove to get her out,
But she fastened on one of the athlings ere she sped on her way to the fen,
The fighter dearest to Hrothgar of all the tale of his men
Betwixt either ocean: none matched him in sleight of the shield nor in fame,
Yet e'en as he slept she slew him: nor was Beowulf there when she came,
For after the gift of the treasure a new dwelling was set apart
For the use of the mighty Geat. But now was there clamour in Hart,
For in bloody wise had she ravened the hand they loved, and care
Was kindled anew in the homesteads, for in sooth 'twas no barter fain
That for both must they render payment, with their dear ones' lives for toll!

—But now was that agéd fighter, the grey king, heavy at soul,
When he knew that the chief of his henchmen, his dearest, lifeless lay.
—Straight was Beowulf brought to his bower, a victor blest in the fray:
Ay, at dawn of day the great captain with his clansmen about him came
To the place where the wise one waited, if after the tiding of shame
The Wielder of all would grant him a fortune changed and bright.
Then along the floor with his henchmen strode the hero fell in fight,
While Ioudly the timbers echoed, that with courteous rede he might hail
The ruler wise of the Ingwines: and he asked him if free from bale
Had the night been, e'en as he willed it. Then Hrothgar his answer spake,
The Helm and Stay of the Scyldings: ‘Not of joy must thou question make!
Fresh woe is come to the Dane-folk: lo, Aeschere is dead
That was Yrmenlaf's elder brother, and with runes of wisdom fed
My mind, and upheld me in council, and stood by my shoulder aye
At the hour when our heads we parried from death in the thick of the fray,
And the champions hurtled together, and through the boar-crests clave.
Ay, the pattern was Aeschere of an earl and an athling brave!
Now a fleeting sprite of carnage hath seized him in Hart and slain,
And I know not what path the monster on her journey of flight hath ta'en,
In her feast and her fill exultant. Thus the feud did she requite
And the death thou gavest Grendel in thy fierce grip yesternight,
Avenging the woes of my people whom too long he did minish and slay:
—Not less than his life he owed thee, and he paid that debt in the fray.
But now cometh another slayer who craves to avenge her son,
And the feud so far hath she carried that many and many a one
Of the thegns who mourn the master that gave him treasure enow
Must feel his heart nigh breaking. Ay, the hand is fallen low
That gave ye all things of your craving—I have heard my people tell,
E'en they that be lords of their homesteads and about the champaign dwell,
That two such spirits infernal they have seen at range on the moor
Huge-stalking over its marches: likewise could they say for sure
That one had a woman's likeness, while the other in shape of a man
Trod in woe the ways of exile: yet never since men began
Was the like of him seen for hugeness. The dwellers of old on earth
Named him Grendel, yet knew not his father, nor could say if ever a birth
Of dark fiends there had been before him. In a hidden land they dwell,
And they haunt amid wind-swept nesses, and by slopes the wolf knows well,
And by fearful ways of the marish, where the mountain stream hath birth
And leaps down through the mist of the nesses, and goes flooding beneath the earth.
Nearby, as men count the mileage, the waters lie whose shore
The gnarled wood overhelmeth with frozen boughs and hoar,
Where each night a fearsome wonder showeth unto the gazer's eyes,
Yea, fire on the flood, nor of mortals liveth any man so wise
That he kenneth the deep's abysses. Though the ranger of the moor,
The hart of the puissant antlers, when the hounds are hot on his spoor
And far and long have men run him, will haste in yon wood to hide,
Yet first will he yield up his being, yea, his soul, at the edge of the tide,
Ere he plunge his head in that water. In sooth 'tis no hallowed place,
For a vapour wan and whirling goes up to the welkin's face,
And fierce eddies the wind awakeneth, till drear the lift is grown,
And the very heaven weepeth. Now help lieth in thee alone!
Not as yet the haunt thou kennest, the harbour of despair,
Wherein thou mayst find that felon: but seek it if thou dare!
And the fight, if away thou winnest, will I guerdon with golden store,
Ay, with rings of the ancient treasure, e'en as once I gave before.’
—Then Beowulf, the bairn of Ecgtheow, outspake: ‘An end of woe,
Wise man! For each wight 'twere better to take vengeance on the foe
For a friend than be greatly mournful. The end of his mortal span
Must we all await, so let each one win all the fame he can
Ere cometh his death. For each warrior so 'twere best when his doom be dreed.
Rise, thou that guardest thy kingdom! Let us hasten and trace with speed
The track of the dam of Grendel. No cover, I swear, shall she gain
In earth's lap nor in mountain forest, nor yet in the deeps of the main
Wheresoever she hie: so, I prithee, thole thy sorrow, every pang,
Till this eve, as I ween that thou mayest.’
Then up that greybeard sprang
And gave thanks unto God Almighty, for of Beowulf's word was he fain.
And straightway was bridled for Hrothgar his steed of the curling mane,
And in state went the wise prince forward, and beside him his warriors good
Footed on with their linden targes. Oft along the ways of the wood
Was seen the slot of the monster, ay, the earth was thick with her spoor,
Where onward ever and onward she hied o'er the darkling moor,
And the best of the thegns who with Hrothgar o'er the home kept guard and sway
She bore with her, lifeless. Onward held the athling's bairn his way:
By steep rocks and narrow defiles and scarce-kenned trails he passed,
And lone pathways, and haunts of the nicor, and nesses sheer and vast.
Onward in front he hastened, and a handful with him hied,
Of the crafty men of his meiny, to spy out that countryside,
Till mountain trees of a sudden o'erslanting nesses grey
He espied, a joyless forest; and, beneath, the water lay
Turbid and blood-bedrabbled. Every Dane waxed sad at soul,
Ay, for each of their thegns and athlings 'twas bitter grief to thole,
When eftsoons upon a sea-cliff they espied Aeschere's head,
And looked on the water seething with the warm blood of the dead.
—Then ever and aye the war-horn sang its eager rallying-song
And the troop sat down together, and espied on the wave a throng
Of wormkind and strange sea-dragons that made trial of the mere,
And many a nicor basking on the brink of the nesses sheer,
Ay, monsters and serpents amany, that oft on their voyage of bale
Fare forth at the hour of the noontide along the path of the sail
But these, when they heard the clamour and the horn of battle's bray
Swelled up with indignation and in anger hurried away.
But one of the Beats' leader with an arrow reft of life,
That he strove no more with the waters, when the steely shaft of strife
Stuck deep within his entrails. Slower now was the stroke he gave
In the deep, for death o'ercame him. They pressed him hard on the wave
With boar-spears grimly barbéd, and sithence was hauled to the height
That swimmer dread, while the warriors grazed all on the ghastly sprite
Then his noble harness Beowulf did on, and knew not fear,
For his huge hand-woven war-sark must straightway fathom the mere:
Featly 'twas chased, and his body well it kept from the clutch of strife
Lest the grip of a furious foeman should shatter his breast and life
And ever the helm bright-gleaming kept his head from danger free,
Though with surge of teh waves must it mingle, and seek out the depths of the sea.
With lordly bands was it belted and glorious with chasing of gold
E'en as the war-smith had wrought it and wonderously fashioned of old
And had set it about with boar-shapes that by edge nor point was it rent
And 'twas no mean helper in battle that Hrothgar's spokes man lent
To the prince in his peril: Hrunting was the name of that hilted sword,
Cheif was it of all the treastures that were ta'en from the olden hoard
Its steely edges with poison were etched, and in blood of the fray
Was it tempered keen, and ne'er failed it the wight in whose hand it lay
In war, when he ventured a journey of dread to the place of the fight,
Nor was this the first of the seasons when 't must work a deed of might.
Howbeit the bairn of Ecglaf, though a mighty frame he bore,
Recked naught of the boast he had uttered when drunken with wine before;
Since he lent that blade to a swordsman who was far more gallant in strife,
But himself 'neath the welter of waters durst nowise risk his life,
Nor do any deed of valour: so the fame of his derring-do
He lost, ay, all of his glory: with that other it fared not so
When once he had girt him for battle. Then Beowulf, Ecgtheow's son,
Outspake: ‘Great bairn of Healfdene, thou wise and royal one,
That befriendest mortals with bounty, I prithee ere forth I fare
On my journey, alway to mind thee of the pact that erst we sware
That if at thy need I should perish, thou wouldst be to me ever and aye
As a father unto his lost one. If I come not again from the fray,
Be a guardian good to my kinsmen, the thegns that went by my side,
And send unto Hygelac, Hrothgar, beloved one, the jewels of pride
Thou gavest me erst: so the offspring of Hrethel, the Geats’ lord,
By dint of that gold shall be certain, when he spieth the wealth of the hoard,
That I won me a patron right generous, and had joy of his gifts while I might,
And render the olden heirloom unto Unferth, the far-famed wight,
E'en the sword of the wavy chasings: for with Hrunting now will I gain
Glory, or death shall take me.’

This said, with might and main
The prince of the Geats hied forward, nor for answer made delay,
And the surge o'ercovered the hero. Great space was gone of the day
Ere he looked on the bed of that water—But swiftly the ravening sprite
Who a hundred winters had guarded the mere in her greed and might,
Knew that one from above made inroad on the realm of the monster race,
And she caught at the hero and clutched him in the gripe of her fell embrace;
But his flesh from her touch was scatheless, for the byrny girt it o'er,
Nor might she with her loathly talons break through the sark of war,
The corslet of woven ring-mail—When she came to the water's bed
The sea-wolf unto her dwelling with the prince of bounty sped,
Nor e'er might he wield his weapons, though his spirit was eager and fain,
But many a monster vexed him in that voyage beneath the main,
And the tusks of many a sea-beast bit fierce on the battle-sark
And harried the life of the hero. But now doth the athling mark
That some dungeon of horror holds him, and he knoweth not where it may be,
And there may no water scathe him, nor the sudden grip of the sea
Seize him beneath that roofing. Then of flame he spieth a light,
A beacon brightly gleaming; and eftsoons hath the hero sight
Of the wolf whose den is the ocean, the monstrous wife of the mere,
And a stroke with his sword he dealeth, and his hand down-sweepeth sheer,
And the ringéd blade on her forehead sang its greedy song of the fight.
But swift was it known to the stranger that the war-flame would not bite,
Nor undo her life, but its edges failed their master now in his need,
Yet erstwhile many a mellay of hurtling hands had it dreed
And had cloven the crest of the doomed one, and riven his coat of mail,
Nor till now did that fair sword's glory wax faint and of no avail.
Yet Hygelac's kinsman blenched not, nor laggard waxed in might,
But bethought him ever of glory: and the wave-etched falchion, bright
With many a wondrous chasing, hath he cast in wrath away,
And stark with its steely edges upon the earth it lay.
And now in his strength he trusteth, and the stern gripe of his hands,
E'en as each should do who in combat hath purposed to command
Honour long while to serve him, nor recketh aught of his life.
Even so the prince of the War-Geats hath no sorrow for the strife,
But he grippeth the dam of Grendel by the shoulder and swingeth her round
In his rage and fury of battle, till his dread foe lies on the ground;
Yet swift with her deadly hand-gripe she quits him, and grapples him fast,
And the might of the hero faileth, and he reeleth, and lieth o'ercast,
And over that guest in her chamber she croucheth, and draweth her knife
Bright-edged and massy, and vengeance she meaneth for the life
Of him who was all her offspring. But across his shoulder lay
His sark of the woven ring-mail that guarded his life in the fray,
Staying edge and point from entry. Ay, Ecgtheow's son had passed
From living, the Geats' champion, 'neath that bottom wide and vast
Were it not that the byrny helped him, the steely net of the fray,
And God that is wise and holy held the victory 'neath His sway.
—Lightly he rose, for the Warden of the heavens had doomed it aright,
And a falchion radiant with victory he espied 'mid the gear of the fight
Whose blade of old by the Eotens was hammered and tempered keen
Till 'twas waxen the pride of the warriors, nor of swords was a goodlier seen,
Howbeit 'twas so huge that none other might bear to the bandy of war
That wonder the giants had smithied. So reckless and angered sore
The chief of the vikings handselled the hilt of many a chain,
And he brandished the ringéd falchion, and in fury smote amain,
And straitly her neck it grappled, and through the bone-rings shore,
And clave through the flesh of that doomed one, and she sank adown on the floor,
And the blade ran red with her life-blood, and joy of his work had the wight.

But straightway outflashed a fire-flame, ay, within there glittered a light
Clear as in heaven outgleameth the lamp that lights the sky,
And he gazeth adown the guest-hall, and along by the wall doth he hie,
And the keen-edged blade hath he lifted by the hilts, ay, and Hygelac's thegn
Hath wrath in his heart of valiance, nor lieth the edge in vain
In the grip of the chieftain, for Grendel he seeketh to guerdon well
For the wrong he had wrought on the West-Danes in many a foray fell,
As in you wherein Hrothgar's hearth-mates he slew in their sleep, and ate
Fifteen of the folk of the Scyldings, and other fifteen yet
Bore away, a booty of horror. But for this that fighter dread
Had given him utmost quittance, forasmuch as before him, dead,
He looked on the war-spent Grendel, as the fight had laid him low
In Hart; but his corpse sprang asunder when in death it dreed that blow,
The fearsome stroke of the falchion, and he smote his head from him sheer.

—Eftsoons the trusty henchmen who with Hrothgar watched the mere
Saw the tossing flood grow turbid, and blood-stained all the lake,
And the grey old men, as together of that goodly one they spake,
Weened that never aflush with victory would the athling come again
To seek out their mighty master: ay, full many deemed he was slain
By the wolf whose lair is the waters. But now was the ninth hour come,
And the Danes, those wights of valour, forsook the ness, and home
Had journeyed the lord of largesse: but ever the guests sat on
And stared at the face of the water, all weary and woe-begone.
They yearned, yet hope they durst not, to behold their lord again.
—But eftsoons in gory droppings the falchion beginneth to wane
Beneath the blood of the monster: and in sooth 'tis a marvel to see
How it melteth e'en as the ice doth, when the Father's hand flings free
The fetters the frost hath riven, and looseneth the bonds of the wave,
The Lord Who hath power of all seasons, and alone is mighty to save,
But the prince of the Geats took not of treasures more from the lair,
Though many an one he saw there, but the head and the swordhilt, fair
With many a precious jewel: yet erst was molten the sword,
Ay, the blade consumed with its chasing, so hot was the blood that poured
From the venomed veins of the hell-sprite that within was reft of her life.
—Then swiftly 'gan swim the hero who but now endured in the strife
The onset fell of his foemen, and up he struck through the mere.
But clean were waxen those waters, ay, their stretches all grew clear
When from life and its days fast-fleeting the ranging demon broke
—So sturdily swam to the mainland the Shield of all sailor-folk,
And blithe was his heart of the booty he had won from the deep, the gains
Of wondrous worth he had with him: and the chosen few of his thegns
Made toward him, thanking the Saviour, and had joy of the their lord, that again
They saw him scatheless and lusty. From the strong one now amain
Were byrny and morion loosened: but the lake all drowsy lay,
And its waters beneath the welkin were red with the blood of the fray.
But eftsoons with hearts exultant they sped again on their track,
And measured the well-known mileage of the highway stretching back,
And though dire for each was the burden, those kingly-brave ones bore
The head in their might from the sea-cliff: but it needed the strength of four
With utmost effort striving, to bear on the shaft of bale
That head to the hall of bounty: and now there be come to its pale
Fourteen men of the Geats, lusty fighters each and all,
And their valiant chieftain amid them trod the turf by the revellers' hall,
And the lord of the thegns, the hero of matchless strength in fight,
Entered in and greeted Hrothgar, with glory all bedight.
Then the head of Grendel was carried o'er the hall-floor by the hair
'Mid the drinkers, a grisly marvel for the queen and the athlings there,
And each warrior gazed in wonder on that sight of terror and dread

But Beowulf, the bairn of Ecgtheow, forthwith his tiding said:
‘Greeting, thou son of Healfdene, thou lord of the Scyldings brave!
With joyous heart have we brought thee this booty from out the wave
For a token sure of our triumph, that now thine eyes behold.
Well-night my life hath it cost me, for beneath the waves I tholed
An emprise of toil and peril, and full near had been shent for aye
My prowess, howbeit God helped me. No vantage from out the fray
Might I win by the aid of Hrunting, although leal were that blade and tried,
But by grace of the Ruler of mortals fair-hanging I espied
On the wall a falchion gigantic and old—for He guideth aright
Oftenwhile the lorn and the friendless—so that glaive I swung with might
And them that had guard of the dwelling I smote and slew in the fray
By the fortune fair that was given me: but the falchion melted away,
The steel of the wondrous chasing, what time outleapt the gore,
The seething blood of the battle: but the hilt away I bore,
Riving it from my foemen. So I punished their deeds of hate,
And the death-throes of the Dane-folk with fair quittance of their fate,
And I vow that henceforth thou mayst slumber secure in Heorot's hold
With thy warrior band, ay, each noble of thy nation, young and old,
And no longer, lord of the Scyldings, needst thou dread that doom will light
On thy earls from out of the quarter whence erst thou hadst affright.'
Then into the hand of that veteran of the fray, the fighter hoar,
Was given the golden sword-hilt that the giants had smithied of yore:
For now that the fiends had fallen it passed to the Dane-lord's hold,
That work of the smiths of wonder. When the being evil-souled,
The foeman of God, the felon with murder-guilt oppressed,
Had perished, and with him his mother, it was given to the bravest and best
Of the kings of the world who in Scandia betwixt the oceans twain
Dealt bounty forth from the treasure—Then Hrothgar spoke amain:
—He gazed on the olden heirloom, the hilt whereon was graved
The rise of the ancient struggle, when none from the flood were saved
Of the giant kin, but the waters engulfed them, and direly they dreed.
Foes unto the Lord Almighty were that folk: but their final meed
God sent them through surge of the waters. On the sword-guards of shining gold
Was it scored in runic graving, ay, clearly set forth and told
For whom erst was fashioned that falchion, fair-chased with many a snake,
And writhen of hilt—

Then that wise one, Healfdene's son, outspake
While all men else were silent: ‘Lo, this may the ancient say
Who ruleth the lives of his people in justice and truth alway,
The lord of the land who is mindful of all things done of yore,
That right noble was this earl's lineage! Thy fame doth mount and soar
Far over the earth, friend Beowulf, ay, o'er every tribe and race,
But thy glory thou modestly wieldest, and thy might with spirit of grace,
And my favour now will I show thee, e'en as erst the pact we made,
And a joy shalt thou be to thy people, and shalt furnish its fighters aid
Entire and long-enduring. Not thus did Heremod deal
With the Scyldings, the sons of Ecgwela: he was waxen not for their weal,
But all for the scathe and ruin and death of the Danish clan.
Wrath-swollen, his comrades in wassail he slaughtered, ay, many a man
Who in war had stood by his shoulder, till forlorn, he forsook the delight
Of mankind, that chief most haughty. Yea, albeit the Lord of might
Had lifted him high over all men in strength and glory brave,
Yet his soul waxed savage within him, and never a ring he gave
To the Danes to win him honour. Unblessed his life-days ran,
And the burden of warfare vexed him, ay, the long-drawn hate of his clan.
So learn of his fate, I rede thee, and fast unto virtue hold,
—Lo, this lay have I made for thy guidance, who with winters am waxen old.
Wondrously God Almighty, in His spirit's bounteous grace,
Giveth to mankind wisdom and land and lordly place,
All things in the world He wieldeth, and whiles He letteth the wight
Of lineage high in dalliance fulfil his heart's delight,
And grants him the glebe's rich joyance in the dear land of his birth,
And sway of his folk's high fortress: ay, many a march of the earth
He gives him to hold, a kingdom so wide that the fool in his heart
Weens that ne'er shall his joy have ending. Amid plenty he hath his part,
Age hinders him not, nor illness; no grief beclouds his soul;
Strife breedeth nowhere sword-hate: at his will doth the wide world roll,
Nor a worse thing yet he knoweth, till within him waxeth vast
His pride, increasing alway while the warder sleepeth fast,
The shepherd of his spirit. Too sound doth that slumber lie
On his eyes, and with grief is it wedded, and the slayer is all too nigh
Who shooteth his shafts of hatred. To the heart is he struck 'neath the crest
By the bolt of ill, nor can ward him from the foul fiend's hideous hest
Too little he deemeth the portion that o'er long had lain in his hold,
Greed grows in his heart malignant, nor ever a ring of gold
Doth he give in the proud old fashion. What the future hath in store
He slights and spurns, exulting in the riches that of yore
God, the Wielder of glory, gave him, till the season followeth
When his fleeting body droopeth and falleth to its death,
And there cometh another who dealeth jewels forth in bounty free,
E'en the olden hoard of the chieftain, and no fear at all hath he.
So Beowulf, belovéd and best one, shun the wrath that bringeth bane,
And cleave to the life of blessing that winneth eternal gain.
Cherish not pride, great chieftain! Though now thy might and power
Flourish a little season, yet right soon shall come the hour
When sickness or else the sword-blade shall reave from thee thy might
Or the clutch of flame, or the surge of flood, or else the arrow's flight,
Or the sword-gripe, or eld abhorréd; or else the light and glow
Of thine eyes shall dim and darken, until Death lay thee low
In a trice, thou mighty chieftain! Beneath yon vault of sky
Fifty winters I ruled the Ring-Danes, and scatheless kept them aye
In war from many a nation this Middlegard around;
Yea, with sword and spear did I help them, so that never a foe I found
'Neath the circuit and sway of heaven; till, lo, on the earth of my sire
Change came to me, yea, after joyance dismay, when the foeman dire
Of man from of old, e'en Grendel, had made him perforce my guest,
And alway my heart by those forays was with mighty grief opprest.
Yet thanks be to the Ruler Eternal that before I part from life
I can gaze on the head blood-boltered at the end of the olden strife.
Go now to thy seat, great fighter, and of feasting and joy be fain,
Gems enow shall we part amongst us when the morn comes round again!'

—Blithe at heart now waxeth the Geat, and forward apace he hies,
And finds him a place at the settle, as had bidden the monarch wise.
And anew, as anon, was the banquet fair-set for the fighters stark
Where adown the hall they were seated. The cover of night grew dark
And deepened above the warriors, till arose each lusty wight,
For the hoary chief of the Scyldings was fain of his bed for the night,
And right eager for rest was the Geat, that fighter stern in fray,
And weary was he with wandering from his kingdom far away.
So a hall-thegn hied before him, and his going 'gan outward lead,
A wight who by courteous custom should fulfil the chieftain's need,
Even such as farers o'er ocean in that olden day might prove.
So Greatheart falleth on slumber, while stretching vast above
Riseth the roof gold-spangled. Sleeping inward the stranger lies
Till the blithe black raven clamours of the rapture of the skies,
And o'er earth comes the bright sun stealing—Now, the fighters are quick and fain,
Ay, eager is waxen each warrior to hie him home again,
And the valiant guest for far voyaging hath will to seek his keel
—Then the hero hath bidden Unferth once more to take the steel,
E'en Hrunting, that sword belovéd, and thanks for the loan doth he pay,
And laudeth its worth and valiance, ay, nameth it ‘friend-in-the-fray.’
No slander he spoke of that sword-edge, so high was his heart and brave.
—Now when utterly armed is each hero, and eager to cross the wave,
The athling dear to the Dane-folk is come to the lofty seat
Where sitteth that other war-lord, and Hrothgar doth he greet,
Ay, Beowulf the bairn of Ecgtheow his tiding thus 'gan say:
‘Fain would we tell thee, we sailors from a country far away,
That we will to revisit Hrothgar. Thou hast given us welcome fair;
Here have all things gone to our liking, and if ever a mightier share
I may win of thy love, great monarch, on this earth than thou gav'st me before,
With eager heart will I fling me on any work of thy war.
And if ever I learn o'er the floodways that thy neighbours gar thee fear
As thy haters were wont aforetime, I will bring for thy succour here
Thegns a thousand, each a hero: and of Hygelac eke I trow,
The Geats' ruler and shepherd, that though he be young as now
By deed and word will he aid me to work thy weal alway
When I bring thee my ashen spearshaft for thy valour's help and stay
In the day of thy dearth of warriors: and should Hrethric the athling wend
On a quest to the court of the Geats, he shall find there many a friend.
And 'twere well that each wight on travel unto far-off lands should hie
Who hath trust in himself.’ Then Hrothgar unto Beowulf made reply:
‘Verily God in His wisdom hath sent thy soul this word!
For never a saying more prudent from so young a wight have I heard.
In might thou art strong, and in spirit art ripe, and thy speech is wise,
And I ween that if ever it happen that the bairn of Hrethel dies
By sickness or deadly combat, if the spear or the edge of steel
Lay low thy king and master that watcheth the people's weal,
And thou livest alway, and willest to rule o'er the realm of thy kin,
Nowise could it fall to the Geats a goodlier one to win
For their king and their folk-hoard's keeper. The longer I make essay
Of thy spirit, Beowulf belovéd, the better it liketh me aye.
For so hast thou wrought and willed it that alway peace shall reign
'Twixt the folk of the Geats and the Spear-Danes, and never shall come again
The strife and scathe that aforetime they suffered. Ay, all of our gold
And gems shall we share in common while this mighty realm I hold;
O'er the gannet's bath shall the hero greet his fellow with guerdon fair,
And the writhen prow o'er the billow bring love and bounty rare.
Close-knit, I ween, are my people, to meet both friend and foe
After honour's olden fashion.’ Twelve presents of price also
The son of Healfdene hath given him in hall, the athlings' friend,
And hath bidden him, hale with that booty, to his own dear people wend
And come once again right swiftly. Eftsoons the royal Dane,
The monarch of lordly lineage, hath kissed the peerless thegn,
And his neck he claspeth, and weepeth, that wise one old and hoar,
For he knew that the issue was twofold, and 'twas like that nevermore
Would they gather, lusty in conclave, nor would either's eye have sight
Of the other; and now unto Hrothgar so dear was waxen the wight
That he might not assuage the billows of his breast, for deep desire,
In the core of his heart imprisoned, burnt along his blood like fire
For the man he held so precious.—Thence over the grassy sward
Trod Beowulf, proud of his treasure, and the glory of the hoard,
While at anchor the ocean-farer the will of her lord abode.
But often the bounty of Hrothgar was praised as they trod the road,
For alway that king was perfect, till the joy of his youthful might
Was riven by eld, who to mortals worketh often foul despite.

So came to the flood that meiny of stout-hearted youths and hale,
Each girt about with the byrny, the limb-sark of woven mail,
And the coast-ward was ware, as aforetime, of the earls' return, but now
Spake no harsh word for a greeting to the guests from the seacliff's brow,
But galloped apace to meet them, and swore that the Weder-race
Would welcome the bright-mailed warriors who went down to their ship apace.
And there on the strand the long-ship broad-beamed, of the writhen stem,
Was laden with weeds of the battle, with steeds and with many a gem,
And the mast towered high o'er the offerings of Hrothgar's treasure A sword
Gold-chased hath the hero given to the vessel's watcher and ward,
So that increase of grace at the mead-bench he won by the glorious steel,
That olden heirloom—Then outward they drave in the coursing keel
To the deep, and left the Dane-land. To the mast was a seaweft lashed,
A sail fast set with courses: the timbers thrilled and crashed:
No head-wind across the ocean the craft from her journey kept,
But with neck afoam o'er the billows the brave sea-courser leapt,
And the stem with its ropes well-writhen sped yarely across the deep,
Till they looked on the dear known headlands of the Geats, and the nesses steep,
And the keel sped on 'neath the storm-wind, and shot up, and lay fast on the sand.
But quickly the harbour's warden was ready upon the strand,
Who keenly and long for those loved ones had gazed far out on the bay,
And lest ever the might of the breakers wrest that fair wave-wood away
To the beach hath he anchored with hawsers the craft of the spacious hold,
And he biddeth upbear the treasure of the athlings, their gems and their gold,
Nor to Hygelac, the lord of bounty, Hrethel's offspring, was 't far to win,
For aye at his home by the sea-wall was he dwelling with all his kin.
Brave was that house, and a hero was its king, sitting high in hall,
And young was Hygd, and wise-hearted, and fair customs knew she all,
Though but winters few in that castle had she lived since she left her sire,
E'en Hareth: yet niggard she was not, but fulfilled the Geats' desire
With many a precious jewel.