Classic Poem

Young she was, and with gold all glorious, and to Froda's gallantson
Was she promised for bride, for right fitting it had seemed to the Danish king
That is Herd of his realm, yea, he held it for goodly counselling
That by dint of that woman's wedlock he would ward off his portion of woe
And the deadly hate of his foemen: yet seldom the spear lieth low
Long space when a prince hath fallen, though worthy and true be the bride!
For full well might the Heathobard chieftain be smitten sore in his pride,
Ay and every thegn of that people, what time with a lady in hall
He walked, that a Danish princeling should be graced by the nobles all
At whose side the heirloom glistened, keen-tempered, ring-bedight,
That erst was the Heathobards' treasure, when as yet they could wield in might
Their swords, ere they lost at the shield-play their comrades dear and tried,
And their lives—But a hoary spearman, when that object of price he spied,
Cried out as he sat at the ale-cup—all the slaughter of old he knew
That came by the spear on the people, and hatred within him grew,
And in angry mood he made essay of a youthful captain's heart,
And the depth of his soul, and within him garred murderous thoughts to start,
And thus spake he: ‘My comrade, kenn'st thou the precious glaive of war
That thy sire 'neath the mask of battle to his latest onset bore
When the Dane-folk, the valiant Scyldings, beat him down, and held amain
The war-field, on Wytherfild's downfall, when the heroes all were slain?
But now some spawn of those felons his boast of the carnage cries,
And strideth the hall, exulting in his booty, and beareth the prize
That of right were thine own.’ So alway with promptings of deadly power
He eggeth him on and urgeth, until eftsoons cometh the hour
When with life for the deeds of his father that woman's thegn must pay
Lying spattered with gore from the sword-bite: but that other one fleeth away
And liveth, knowing the land-marks. But the oath that the earls had sworn
Now on either side is shattered, when deadly hate and scorn
In Ingeld's breast upwelleth, and beneath the billows of care
Wife-love groweth cooler within him. So I hold that not leal or fair
Is the Heathobards' truce with the Scyldings, and I trow not their troth shall stay.

—But now speak I again of Grendel, that the course of the champions' fray
Thou mayst learn, O giver of treasure. When the heaven's jewel bright
Over all the glebe had glidden, on hurried the angry sprite
That worketh his hate at nightfall, and sought us out in the room
Which, as yet unscathed, we were guarding. There must Hondscio dree his doom:
Fey unto death was he waxen, and first was he of the slain,
That warrior belted for battle: ay, the doom of that mighty thegn
Was the deadly maw of Grendel, and the body he swallowed and shent
Of the man we had loved so dearly: and not yet was the slayer content,
Though his fangs were ruddy with slaughter, to hie from that hall of gold,
But ever on bale he brooded, and more in his clutch would he hold.
—Lusty and fierce, he essayed me, and gripped me with eager hands:
A wallet wide and wondrous, tight-writhen with cunning bands,
Hung down by his side: 'twas all fashioned by devil's craft and guile
Of dragon's fells; and he lusted, that felon fierce and vile,
To thrust me therein, though blameless, and with me many a wight,
But he might not so, when a sudden in fury I leapt upright.
Too long were it now to tell thee how the scourge of thy folk I paid
In full for the woe he had wrought them: but the reckoning that there I made
Was all for thy nation's honour.—He freed him, and got him back
And had joy of his life for a little: howbeit for guard of his track
His right hand tarried in Heorot, and, baffled and weary-souled,
He fell to the floor of ocean. Full many a platter of gold
And many a costly jewel the lord of the Scylding folk
For that doing of slaughter paid me, at the hour when morning broke
And we sat us down to the banquet. But now was there singing and glee,
And much questioned the hoary Scylding, and much rede of the past spake he,
And whiles a chief woke joyance from the harp of timbers glad,
And whiles he chanted a saga of happenings sooth and sad,
And anon the great-souled ruler told a wondrous tale aright,
Or that warrior whom eld had mastered made mourn for his youthful might
And his strength in the fray: and within him his heart surged up once more
When, hoary with years, he bethought him of many a doing of yore.
Thus the livelong day we had pleasure in the hall, till night closed again
Upon men, and the dam of Grendel for her wrong was of vengeance fain,
And set forth with grief in her bosom. Death, yea, and the Weders' hate;
Had taken her son, and vengeance to the full she wrought for his fate,
That monstrous wife; yea, a warrior with hand of might she slew,
And the soul sped forth from Aeschere, that redesman tried and true.
Nor ever his death-done body might the Dane-folk burn with fire
At dawn, nor lay down the body of him they had loved on the pyre,
For with fiendish hands had she ravened the corpse 'neath the stream of the hills.
—Now most cruel was this unto Hrothgar of all the tale of the ills
That long while had harried the war-lord. Then the monarch, sad at soul,
By thine own dear life besought me in hero-wise to thole
Peril of death 'neath the waters, and an emprise of glory brave,
And for this he promised me guerdon. So the guardian grim of the wave
I sought in the deeps of her ravin, as afar the peoples know,
And there for a while we struggled, hand gripped in hand, till, lo,
The wave with blood upbillowed, and within that hall of the mere
The head of the dam of Grendel I smote off with the sword-edge sheer,
And won free with my life, though hardly; for not yet was my doom decreed,
And for this the son of Healfdene, that helpeth his earls at need,
Gave me many a gift—Thus the monarch ensued the olden rite,
And nothing I lost of my wages, the meed I had earned by my might.
But jewels enow he gave me, Healfdene's son, for mine own,
And to thee now, thou ruler of heroes, I yield them in joy, for alone
In thee lieth all my fealty, and Hygelac, few for my kin
May I count save thyself.’ Then the banner of the boar he bade bring in,
And the helm that towereth in battle, and the byrny grey, and the sword
Whose glory is bright in the mellay, and thereafter he spake this word:
‘'Twas the wise prince Hrothgar gave me this war-gear, and bade me bring
Thee the tale of its first bequeathing, and he said that the Scylding king
Heorogar, long while owned it, yet nowise unto his heir
Brave Heoroward, would he leave it, girt about his breast to wear,
Though leal was he aye to his father.—So of all take thou thy delight.’
Now men say that four coursers followed in the track of that treasure bright,
Close-matched and apple-tawny, and all these hath he given him for prize,
Both the jewels and steeds; so a kinsman should behave, nor in any wise
Weave a net of guile for his fellow, nor by secret malice and spite
Plot the death of his trusty comrade. Now to Hygelac the hardy in fight
Was his nephew leal, ay, and each one for the other's joy had care;
And to Hygd have I heard that he offered the necklace, that wonder rare,
That of Wealhtheow, royal of lineage, he had ta'en: and three steeds thereto
Slender and richly saddled: and her breasts all glorious grew
When she took that circlet and wore it.

Thus Ecgtheow's bairn of might
Waxed ever in deeds of valiance, and kept aye his honour bright.
At the ale he slew not his comrades, nor savage waxed his heart,
But with mightiest human prowess the hero kept the part
Of bounty the Lord had given him. Low for long had been his place:
And the sons of the Geats weened not that he held in him any grace;
Small favour the war-lord showed him at the bench where men quaff the mead,
Lubbard they reckoned him alway, an athling who never a deed
Of valour or might could compass: but at last to the glorious wight
Came requital for all that scorning.—Then the Shield of his earls in fight,
The monarch mighty in warfare, bade fetch the heirloom old
Of Hrethel into the guest-hall: 'twas overchased with gold,
And in sword-kind among the Geats 'twas the goodliest treasure of all.
On Beowulf's lap hath he laid it, and hath given him a throne and a hall,
And of land, hides seven thousand. Their share of the glebe they held
By heritance 'mid their people, yea, earth and its titles of eld,
But the kingdom itself was Hygelac's, for of lordlier strain was he bred.