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  he flung the sword then far across the cave

  flushed with anger no failure in his heart—

  he remembered his handgrasp mindful of Grendel

  his great gripstrength. A good war-thane

  fighting for fame following name-glory

  will trust his courage no care for his life.

  He grabbed her then Grendel’s hell-mother

  grappled her shoulders in his great handvise

  tugged at her arms with angry heartstrength

  1540

  twisted her backwards bent her to the floor.

  She clamped his arms in her cold fiendgrip

  returned his tugging with tight claw-fingers—

  she toppled him over with towering strength

  raging with fire-eyes felled him to the floor

  leapt on his chest lifted her shortsword

  broad murder-knife burning to avenge

  her only offspring. Over his breastcage

  a hand-locked mailcoat harbored his life

  countered the piercing of point and edge.

  1550

  He would soon have died there deep under the earth

  Ecgtheow’s son strong Geat-champion

  but his hard battle-coat held against that thrust—

  close-woven steelmesh clenched against swordbite

  kept him from death—the Deemer of this world

  decided that contest the King of mankind

  strengthened that warrior as he stood to his feet.

  He saw then glittering a great hoard-weapon

  smith-wrought by giants a sword for victory

  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-rings—the blade cut through

  felled her to the floor fated hell-creature—

  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 rage—yet 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 message—

  they hoped no longer that the leader of the Geats

  might rise in victory through that roiling water

  return to his men—they murmured in sorrow

  1600

  grieved that the she-wolf had slaughtered him below.

  The sun swung low. They left the mere then—

  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 blood—it 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-hall—

  from the wealth before him he wanted no more

  than Grendel’s head and that golden swordhilt—

  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 pathway—four 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 together—their 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 waited—

  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 heart—I 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 flesh—

  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

  ende
d 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 son—

  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-handle—cut into the gold

  1690

  was a tale of evil that old earth-struggle

  when great flood-waters fell upon earth-giants

  carried them away—the 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

  Not so kind was Heremod

  to the kin of Ecgwela care-heavy Shield-Danes—

  he brought them no joy but baleful murder

  dark death-sorrows to his Danish followers.

  With hot rage-thoughts he ravaged his people

  hearth-companions till hate severed him,

  jealous slaughter-king, from the joys of men

  though the great Measurer marked him for honor

  lifted him on high haled him to a throne

  a towering meadhall. To his mind came rushing

  1720

  blood-hungry thoughts—no bracelets or rings

  he gave to his warriors but woeful misery

  shame and sorrow sharp death-grieving

  endless murdering. Mark carefully

  this lesson of anguish—old in winters

  I warn you by this. It is wondrous to see

  how almighty God in his endless wisdom

  grants unto a man a mind to rule with

  kingdom and meadhall to keep until death.

  At times the Measurer maker of us all

  1730

  brings moments of pleasure to a proud earth-king

  gives to that warrior worldly power-goods

  hall and homeland to hold for his own

  renders him ruler of rich meadow-lands

  a broad kingdom—he cannot foresee

  in his own unwisdom an end to such wealth.

  He dwells in happiness no hindrance bothers him

  no illness or age or evil reckoning

  darkens his mind no deep serpent-thoughts

  edge-hate in his heart—but all this loan-world

  1740

  bends to his will welcomes him with gold

  till high throne-thoughts throng into his mind

  gather in his head. Then the guardian sleeps

  the soul’s warden—it slumbers too long

  while a silent slayer slips close to him

  shoots from his bow baleful arrows.

  Deep into his heart hard under shield-guard

  strikes the arrowhead—no armor withstands

  that quiet marksman cold mind-killer.