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  put his head to rest—around him his warriors

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  steelhearted sailors settled down to sleep.

  Not one believed they would leave Heorot

  sail once again seek out their homeland

  the known meadows of their native country.

  Too many stories of that tall wine-hall

  emptied of Danes by dark night-slaughter

  had found their ears. But the Father of men

  wove them battle-speed—Weather-Geats prevailed

  reprieved from hate-death haled to victory

  by the strength of one saved from farewell

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  by a tight handgrip. It truly is known

  that God manages men of this earth.

  He slipped through the darkness under deep nightpall

  sliding through shadows. Shield-warriors rested

  slumbering guardians of that gabled hall—

  all except one. That wandering spirit

  could never drag them to cold death-shadow

  if the world’s Measurer wished to stop him.

  (A waking warrior watched among them

  anger mounting aching for revenge.)

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  He moved through the mist past moors and ice-streams

  Grendel gliding God’s wrath on him

  simmering to snare some sleeping hall-thanes

  trap some visitors in that tall gift-house.

  He moved under cloudbanks crossed the meadowlands

  till the wine-hall towered tall gold-gables

  rising in night-sky. Not for the first time

  he came to Heorot Hrothgar’s gift-hall—

  never had he come craving a blood-feast

  with worse slaughter-luck waiting there inside.

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  He came to the hall hungry for man-flesh

  exiled from joy. The ironbound door

  smith-hammered hinges sprang at his touch—

  raging then for gore he gripped in his hand-vise

  the ruined bolt-work wrenched it away

  leapt into the hall loomed with blood-rage

  aching with life-lust—from his eyes shone forth

  a fearful glowering fire-coals smoldering.

  Near him he spied sleeping together

  close war-brothers waiting peacefully

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  prime for plucking. He exploded with fury

  growled with greed-hunger glared all around him

  burning to separate bodies from life-breath

  drain blood-vessels before breaking of day.

  His luck left him on that last slaughter-night—

  no more after sunrise would he murder and run.

  Wakeful and watching wonder in his mind

  Hygelac’s nephew held to his bedrest

  anxious to measure that monster’s strength.

  Nor did that thief think about waiting

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  but searched with fire-eyes snared a doomed one

  in terminal rest tore frantically

  crunched bonelockings crammed blood-morsels

  gulped him with glee. Gloating with his luck

  he finished the first one his feet and his hands

  swallowed all of him. He stepped closer

  groped with claw-hands grabbed the next one—

  the watchful Geat grabbed back at him

  gripped with his fingers that great demon-hand

  tightened his grasp tugged steadily.

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  Soon that fen-stalker found himself caught

  grasped and twisted by a greater handgrip

  than any he had known in the earth’s regions

  iron finger-clamps—into his mind

  fear came nudging—nowhere could he move.

  His thoughts yearned away he wished for his mere-den

  devil’s company—doubt pulled at him

  a new sensation slid into his mind.

  Then Hygelac’s thane held to his boasting

  mindful of his speech stood quickly then

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  tightened his fist—fingers crackled

  Grendel pulled back Beowulf followed.

  That dark wanderer wished for more room

  to be on his way back to the moor-hills

  flee to the fens. He felt his knuckles

  crushed in that grip. A grim visitor

  that fate-marked fiend found in Heorot.

  The hall thundered—to hovering Danes

  safe hut-dwellers sounds of that battle

  clattered and roared. They raged together

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  warrior and guest—the walls rumbled.

  With great wonder the wine-hall survived

  twin horn-gables trembling with combat

  towering high above—it held steadily

  inside and out with iron log-bonds

  forged by smith-hammers. The floor shuddered

  strong mead-benches sailed to the walls

  burnished banquet-seats bounced and clattered.

  Hrothgar’s wisemen hallowed counselors

  had never believed that a living creature

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  might break Heorot bring down the walls—

  only fire’s embrace flames’ greediness

  could swallow that hall. Storm-sounds of death

  rocked the horn-gables hammered the roof—

  shivering Danefolk shook with hell-fear

  heard through the walls a wailing sorrow.

  God’s demon-foe ground his blood-teeth

  howled to be gone home to the ice-streams

  far from that hall. Hygelac’s thane

  strongest mortal mightiest of hand

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  locked that hell-fiend hard within his grasp.

  He found no reason to free that monster

  spare him to flee far across the moors

  nor did he consider that sinful life

  useful to anyone. Anxious for their leader

  men of the Geats grabbed treasure-swords

  lifted them high to help their champion

  fight for his life with file-hardened edges.

  They were not prepared for this new hand-battling

  those hard-swinging swordmen hewing with steel-bites

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  slashing about them with shield-breaking cuts

  seeking that fiend-soul—they fought without knowing

  that the choicest of blades champions’ war-weapons

  were helpless to harm that hell’s messenger.

  He had cast his spell on keenest thane-weapons

  finest treasure-swords though his time was short—

  that final night-visit finished his hall-raids

  destiny struck his damned hell-soul

  banished it forever past boundaries of grace.

  Then that giant ravager rejected by God

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  marked with murder measured by his sins

  finally conceived in his fiend’s mindthoughts

  that his loathsome body would bear no more.

  Hygelac’s thane held fast to him

  tightened his grip—Grendel yearned away

  his arm stretched thin thronging with pain—

  a great death-wound gaped in his shoulder

  sinew-bonds weakened snapped viciously

  bonelockings burst. To Beowulf there

  victory was granted. Grendel fled then

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  sickened with death slouched under fen-slopes

  to his joyless home no hope for his life—

  he knew at last the number of his days.

  To the Danes’ misery a dawning of mercy

  rose from that battle, bright deliverance.

  Heorot was cleansed healed of thane-slaughter

  aching morning-grief, emptied of murder

  by that tall visitor—victory was bright

  joy to his heart. He held to his promise,

  evening boastwords, banished
from that hall

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  dark sorrow-songs consoled the Danes

  for long torture-years terror in the night

  an empty meadhall from evening till dawn.

  He hailed the sunrise hoisted a signal

  a clear token-sign that terror was dead

  nailed Grendel’s arm that great handgrip

  near the high gable-point of Heorot’s roof.

  By morning’s light many a warrior

  gathered watchfully by the gift-hall’s door.

  Chieftains and followers from far and from near

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  gazed at that wonder grisly monster-arm

  hand and knife-claws high death-trophy.

  Grendel’s life-loss gladdened the Danes

  who followed his footprints where he fled to his death

  left his sorrow-tracks staining the moors

  went back to the mere bleak monster-home

  teeming with nicors tomb of the damned.

  The water-top trembled welling with blood

  roiled restlessly with red venom-waves

  hot demon-gore heaved from the depths—

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  Grendel was deathwards doomed man-killer

  laid down his life in that loathsome mere—

  hell received him and his heathen soul.

  They turned away wonder in their hearts—

  old counselors carried by horses

  many a young one mounted beside them

  turned back from the mere. Beowulf’s renown

  filled their mindthoughts—many a Spear-Dane

  mindful of that night remembering hell-years

  swore that no man under mighty heaven

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  from south or north on sea or on land

  was greater in battle than Beowulf the Geat.

  Nor did they blame their bountiful lord

  gladman Hrothgar good man and king.

  HROTHGAR’S MINSTREL now improvises a song of Beowulf, then moves on to the dragon slayer Sigemund (an early legendary Danish hero) and his nephew Fitela, who shared his adventures after the dragon slaying, thus praising the victory over Grendel and anticipating Beowulf’s final battle. This is the earliest literary account of the famous Völsung family (Waelsing in Beowulf), later versions of which portray Sigemund’s son Sigurd (later Siegfried) as the dragon slayer.

  At times the riders ready for contest

  let their war-steeds leap to the race

  where broad meadowlands bright grass-tables

  widened the trail. At times the minstrel

  heavy with memory mindful of the past,

  ancient war-sagas old monster-tales,

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  wove his verse-songs—one word found another

  skillfully bound. He sang at first

  of Beowulf’s valor victory in Heorot

  death of a monster and his dark water-home

  a champion’s tale. He told what he knew

  stories he had heard of Sigemund the Dane

  marvelous moments of mighty sword-feats

  Waelsing’s adventures wide traveling

  secret wanderings seldom disclosed

  except to Fitela faithful companion

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  when he fell to telling tales of his youth

  to his only shield-friend always by his side—

  uncle and nephew in narrow adventures

  seeking forest-fiends strange wood-giants

  ending them with swords. After his deathday

  Sigemund’s renown was sung in battle-songs

  tales of dragon-breath days of sword-slaughter

  glorious rewards. Under gray barrow-stone

  he gambled his life gathered his courage

  fought against his fate, nor was Fitela with him.

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  It chanced that his sword-point struck through the flesh

  pierced that serpent stuck in the barrow-wall—

  that marvelous dragon died of murder.

  Sigemund survived unsinged by that breath

  earned a treasure-mound for his own delight

  a loan from destiny. He loaded a boat

  bore to its bosom the bright slaughter-prize

  that serpent’s goldnest—the steaming dragon

  monstrously hot melted to the ground.

  The wandering Waelsing was widely renowned

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  most hailed of heroes after Heremod fell

  stumbled to his death restored to Sigemund

  the greater glory-name. Good King Heremod

  stooped to evil-days stunned his kingdom

  joined fiend-creatures fared to hell with them

  after his deathfall. Danes mourned for that

  bowed to anguish baleful life-sorrow.