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Beowulf Analysis

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LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings

of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,

we have heard, and what honor the athelings


Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,

from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,

awing the earls. Since erst he lay

friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him:

for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve,

till before him the folk, both far and near,

who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,

gave him gifts: a good king he!

To him an heir was afterward born,

a son in his halls, whom heaven sent

to favor the folk, feeling their woe

that erst they had lacked an earl for leader

so long a while; the Lord endowed him,

the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown.

Famed was this Beowulf:[1] far flew the boast of him,

son of Scyld, in the Scandian lands.

So becomes it a youth to quit him well

with his father's friends, by fee and gift,

that to aid him, aged, in after days,

come warriors willing, should war draw nigh,

liegemen loyal: by lauded deeds

shall an earl have honor in every clan.

Forth he fared at the fated moment,

sturdy Scyld to the shelter of God.

Then they bore him over to ocean's billow,

loving clansmen, as late he charged them,

while wielded words the winsome Scyld,

the leader beloved who long had ruled....

In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel,

ice-flecked, outbound, atheling's barge:

there laid they down their darling lord

on the breast of the boat, the breaker-of-rings,[2]

by the mast the mighty one. Many a treasure

fetched from far was freighted with him.

No ship have I known so nobly dight

with weapons of war and weeds of battle,

with breastplate and blade: on his bosom lay

a heaped hoard that hence should go

far o'er the flood with him floating away.

No less these loaded the lordly gifts,

thanes' huge treasure, than those had done

who in former time forth had sent him

sole on the seas, a suckling child.

High o'er his head they hoist the standard,

a gold-wove banner; let billows take him,

gave him to ocean. Grave were their spirits,

mournful their mood. No man is able

to say in sooth, no son of the halls,

no hero 'neath heaven, -- who harbored that freight!

[1] Not, of course, Beowulf the Great, hero of the epic.

[2] Kenning for king or chieftain of a comitatus: he breaks off gold from

the spiral rings -- often worn on the arm -- and so rewards his followers.


Now Beowulf bode in the burg of the Scyldings,

leader beloved, and long he ruled

in fame with all folk, since his father had gone

away from the world, till awoke an heir,

haughty Healfdene, who held through life,

sage and sturdy, the Scyldings glad.

Then, one after one, there woke to him,

to the chieftain of clansmen, children four:

Heorogar, then Hrothgar, then Halga brave;

and I heard that -- was --'s queen,

the Heathoscylfing's helpmate dear.

To Hrothgar was given such glory of war,

such honor of combat, that all his kin

obeyed him gladly till great grew his band

of youthful comrades. It came in his mind

to bid his henchmen a hall uprear,

a master mead-house, mightier far

than ever was seen by the sons of earth,

and within it, then, to old and young

he would all allot that the Lord had sent him,

save only the land and the lives of his men.

Wide, I heard, was the work commanded,

for many a tribe this mid-earth round,

to fashion the folkstead. It fell, as he ordered,

in rapid achievement that ready it stood there,

of halls the noblest: Heorot[1] he named it

whose message had might in many a land.

Not reckless of promise, the rings he dealt,

treasure at banquet: there towered the hall,

high, gabled wide, the hot surge waiting

of furious flame.[2] Nor far was that day

when father and son-in-law stood in feud

for warfare and hatred that woke again.[3]

With envy and anger an evil spirit

endured the dole in his dark abode,

that he heard each day the din of revel

high in the hall: there harps rang out,

clear song of the singer. He sang who knew[4]

tales of the early time of man,

how the Almighty made the earth,

fairest fields enfolded by water,

set, triumphant, sun and moon

for a light to lighten the land-dwellers,

and braided bright the breast of earth

with limbs and leaves, made life for all

of mortal beings that breathe and move.

So lived the clansmen in cheer and revel

a winsome life, till one began

to fashion evils, that field of hell.

Grendel this monster grim was called,

march-riever[5] mighty, in moorland living,

in fen and fastness; fief of the giants

the hapless wight a while had kept

since the Creator his exile doomed.

On kin of Cain was the killing avenged

by sovran God for slaughtered Abel.

Ill fared his feud,[6] and far was he driven,

for the slaughter's sake, from sight of men.

Of Cain awoke all that woful breed,

Etins[7] and elves and evil-spirits,

as well as the giants that warred with God

weary while: but their wage was paid them!

[1] That is, "The Hart," or "Stag," so called from decorations in the

gables that resembled the antlers of a deer. This hall has been carefully

described in a pamphlet by Heyne. The building was rectangular, with

opposite doors -- mainly west and east -- and a hearth in the middle of the

single room. A row of pillars down each side, at some distance from

the walls, made a space which was raised a little above the main floor,

and was furnished with two rows of seats. On one side, usually south,

was the high-seat midway between the doors. Opposite this, on the other

raised space, was another seat of honor. At the banquet soon to be

described, Hrothgar sat in the south or chief high-seat, and Beowulf oppo-

site to him. The scene for a flying (see below, v.499) was thus very

effectively set. Planks on trestles -- the "board" of later English litera-

ture -- formed the tables just in front of the long rows of seats, and were

taken away after banquets, when the retainers were ready to stretch them-

selves out for sleep on the benches.

[2] Fire was the usual end of these halls. See v. 781 below. One thinks

of the splendid scene at the end of the Nibelungen, of the Nialssaga, of

Saxo's story of Amlethus, and many a less famous instance.

[3] It is to be supposed that all hearers of this poem knew how Hrothgar's

hall was burnt, -- perhaps in the unsuccessful attack made on him by his

son-in-law Ingeld.

[4] A skilled minstrel. The Danes are heathens, as one is told presently;

but this lay of beginnings is taken from Genesis.

[5] A disturber of the border, one who sallies from his haunt in the fen

and roams over the country near by. This probably pagan nuisance is now

furnished with biblical credentials as a fiend or devil in good standing, so

that all Christian Englishmen might read about him. "Grendel" may

mean one who grinds and crushes.

[6] Cain's.

[7] Giants.


WENT he forth to find at fall of night

that haughty house, and heed wherever

the Ring-Danes, outrevelled, to rest had gone.

Found within it the atheling band

asleep after feasting and fearless of sorrow,

of human hardship. Unhallowed wight,

grim and greedy, he grasped betimes,

wrathful, reckless, from resting-places,

thirty of the thanes, and thence he rushed

fain of his fell spoil, faring homeward,

laden with slaughter, his lair to seek.

Then at the dawning, as day was breaking,

the might of Grendel to men was known;

then after wassail was wail uplifted,

loud moan in the morn. The mighty chief,

atheling excellent, unblithe sat,

labored in woe for the loss of his thanes,

when once had been traced the trail of the fiend,

spirit accurst: too cruel that sorrow,

too long, too loathsome. Not late the respite;

with night returning, anew began

ruthless murder; he recked no whit,

firm in his guilt, of the feud and crime.

They were easy to find who elsewhere sought

in room remote their rest at night,

bed in the bowers,[1] when that bale was shown,

was seen in sooth, with surest token, --

the hall-thane's[2] hate. Such held themselves

far and fast who the fiend outran!

Thus ruled unrighteous and raged his fill

one against all; until empty stood

that lordly building, and long it bode so.

Twelve years' tide the trouble he bore,

sovran of Scyldings, sorrows in plenty,

boundless cares. There came unhidden

tidings true to the tribes of men,

in sorrowful songs, how ceaselessly Grendel

harassed Hrothgar, what hate he bore him,

what murder and massacre, many a year,

feud unfading, -- refused consent

to deal with any of Daneland's earls,

make pact of peace, or compound for gold:

still less did the wise men ween to get

great fee for the feud from his fiendish hands.

But the evil one ambushed old and young

death-shadow dark, and dogged them still,

lured, or lurked in the livelong night

of misty moorlands: men may say not

where the haunts of these Hell-Runes[3] be.

Such heaping of horrors the hater of men,

lonely roamer, wrought unceasing,

harassings heavy. O'er Heorot he lorded,

gold-bright hall, in gloomy nights;

and ne'er could the prince[4] approach his throne,

-- 'twas judgment of God, -- or have joy in his hall.

Sore was the sorrow to Scyldings'-friend,

heart-rending misery. Many nobles

sat assembled, and searched out counsel

how it were best for bold-hearted men

against harassing terror to try their hand.

Whiles they vowed in their heathen fanes

altar-offerings, asked with words[5]

that the slayer-of-souls would succor give them

for the pain of their people. Their practice this,

their heathen hope; 'twas Hell they thought of

in mood of their mind. Almighty they knew not,

Doomsman of Deeds and dreadful Lord,

nor Heaven's-Helmet heeded they ever,

Wielder-of-Wonder. -- Woe for that man

who in harm and hatred hales his soul

to fiery embraces; -- nor favor nor change

awaits he ever. But well for him

that after death-day may draw to his Lord,

and friendship find in the Father's arms!

[1] The smaller buildings within the main enclosure but separate from

the hall.

[2] Grendel.

[3] "Sorcerers-of-hell."

[4] Hrothgar, who is the "Scyldings'-friend" of 170.

[5] That is, in formal or prescribed phrase.


THUS seethed unceasing the son of Healfdene

with the woe of these days; not wisest men

assuaged his sorrow; too sore the anguish,

loathly and long, that lay on his folk,

most baneful of burdens and bales of the night.

This heard in his home Hygelac's thane,

great among Geats, of Grendel's doings.

He was the mightiest man of valor

in that same day of this our life,

stalwart and stately. A stout wave-walker

he bade make ready. Yon battle-king, said he,

far o'er the swan-road he fain would seek,

the noble monarch who needed men!

The prince's journey by prudent folk

was little blamed, though they loved him dear;

they whetted the hero, and hailed good omens.

And now the bold one from bands of Geats

comrades chose, the keenest of warriors

e'er he could find; with fourteen men

the sea-wood[1] he sought, and, sailor proved,

led them on to the land's confines.

Time had now flown;[2] afloat was the ship,

boat under bluff. On board they climbed,

warriors ready; waves were churning

sea with sand; the sailors bore

on the breast of the bark their bright array,

their mail and weapons: the men pushed off,

on its willing way, the well-braced craft.

Then moved o'er the waters by might of the wind

that bark like a bird with breast of foam,

till in season due, on the second day,

the curved prow such course had run

that sailors now could see the land,

sea-cliffs shining, steep high hills,

headlands broad. Their haven was found,

their journey ended. Up then quickly

the Weders'[3] clansmen climbed ashore,

anchored their sea-wood, with armor clashing

and gear of battle: God they thanked

for passing in peace o'er the paths of the sea.

Now saw from the cliff a Scylding clansman,

a warden that watched the water-side,

how they bore o'er the gangway glittering shields,

war-gear in readiness; wonder seized him

to know what manner of men they were.

Straight to the strand his steed he rode,

Hrothgar's henchman; with hand of might

he shook his spear, and spake in parley.

"Who are ye, then, ye armed men,

mailed folk, that yon mighty vessel

have urged thus over the ocean ways,

here o'er the waters? A warden I,

sentinel set o'er the sea-march here,

lest any foe to the folk of Danes

with harrying fleet should harm the land.

No aliens ever at ease thus bore them,

linden-wielders:[4] yet word-of-leave

clearly ye lack from clansmen here,

my folk's agreement. -- A greater ne'er saw I

of warriors in world than is one of you, --

yon hero in harness! No henchman he

worthied by weapons, if witness his features,

his peerless presence! I pray you, though, tell

your folk and home, lest hence ye fare

suspect to wander your way as spies

in Danish land. Now, dwellers afar,

ocean-travellers, take from me

simple advice: the sooner the better

I hear of the country whence ye came."

[1] Ship.

[2] That is, since Beowulf selected his ship and led his men to the harbor.

[3] One of the auxiliary names of the Geats.

[4] Or: Not thus openly ever came warriors hither; yet...


To him the stateliest spake in answer;

the warriors' leader his word-hoard unlocked:--

"We are by kin of the clan of Geats,

and Hygelac's own hearth-fellows we.

To folk afar was my father known,

noble atheling, Ecgtheow named.

Full of winters, he fared away

aged from earth; he is honored still

through width of the world by wise men all.

To thy lord and liege in loyal mood

we hasten hither, to Healfdene's son,

people-protector: be pleased to advise us!

To that mighty-one come we on mickle errand,

to the lord of the Danes; nor deem I right

that aught be hidden. We hear -- thou knowest

if sooth it is -- the saying of men,

that amid the Scyldings a scathing monster,

dark ill-doer, in dusky nights

shows terrific his rage unmatched,

hatred and murder. To Hrothgar I

in greatness of soul would succor bring,

so the Wise-and-Brave[1] may worst his foes, --

if ever the end of ills is fated,

of cruel contest, if cure shall follow,

and the boiling care-waves cooler grow;

else ever afterward anguish-days

he shall suffer in sorrow while stands in place

high on its hill that house unpeered!"

Astride his steed, the strand-ward answered,

clansman unquailing: "The keen-souled thane

must be skilled to sever and sunder duly

words and works, if he well intends.

I gather, this band is graciously bent

to the Scyldings' master. March, then, bearing

weapons and weeds the way I show you.

I will bid my men your boat meanwhile

to guard for fear lest foemen come, --

your new-tarred ship by shore of ocean

faithfully watching till once again

it waft o'er the waters those well-loved thanes,

-- winding-neck'd wood, -- to Weders' bounds,

heroes such as the hest of fate

shall succor and save from the shock of war."

They bent them to march, -- the boat lay still,

fettered by cable and fast at anchor,

broad-bosomed ship. -- Then shone the boars[2]

over the cheek-guard; chased with gold,

keen and gleaming, guard it kept

o'er the man of war, as marched along

heroes in haste, till the hall they saw,

broad of gable and bright with gold:

that was the fairest, 'mid folk of earth,

of houses 'neath heaven, where Hrothgar lived,

and the gleam of it lightened o'er lands afar.

The sturdy shieldsman showed that bright

burg-of-the-boldest; bade them go

straightway thither; his steed then turned,

hardy hero, and hailed them thus:--

"Tis time that I fare from you. Father Almighty

in grace and mercy guard you well,

safe in your seekings. Seaward I go,

'gainst hostile warriors hold my watch."

[1] Hrothgar.

[2] Beowulf's helmet has several boar-images on it; he is the "man of

war"; and the boar-helmet guards him as typical representative of the

marching party as a whole. The boar was sacred to Freyr, who was the

favorite god of the Germanic tribes about the North Sea and the Baltic.

Rude representations of warriors show the boar on the helmet quite as

large as the helmet itself.


STONE-BRIGHT the street:[1] it showed the way

to the crowd of clansmen. Corselets glistened

hand-forged, hard; on their harness bright

the steel ring sang, as they strode along

in mail of battle, and marched to the hall.

There, weary of ocean, the wall along

they set their bucklers, their broad shields, down,

and bowed them to bench: the breastplates clanged,

war-gear of men; their weapons stacked,

spears of the seafarers stood together,

gray-tipped ash: that iron band

was worthily weaponed! -- A warrior proud

asked of the heroes their home and kin.

"Whence, now, bear ye burnished shields,

harness gray and helmets grim,

spears in multitude? Messenger, I,

Hrothgar's herald! Heroes so many

ne'er met I as strangers of mood so strong.

'Tis plain that for prowess, not plunged into exile,

for high-hearted valor, Hrothgar ye seek!"

Him the sturdy-in-war bespake with words,

proud earl of the Weders answer made,

hardy 'neath helmet:--"Hygelac's, we,

fellows at board; I am Beowulf named.

I am seeking to say to the son of Healfdene

this mission of mine, to thy master-lord,

the doughty prince, if he deign at all

grace that we greet him, the good one, now."

Wulfgar spake, the Wendles' chieftain,

whose might of mind to many was known,

his courage and counsel: "The king of Danes,

the Scyldings' friend, I fain will tell,

the Breaker-of-Rings, as the boon thou askest,

the famed prince, of thy faring hither,

and, swiftly after, such answer bring

as the doughty monarch may deign to give."

Hied then in haste to where Hrothgar sat

white-haired and old, his earls about him,

till the stout thane stood at the shoulder there

of the Danish king: good courtier he!

Wulfgar spake to his winsome lord:--

"Hither have fared to thee far-come men

o'er the paths of ocean, people of Geatland;

and the stateliest there by his sturdy band

is Beowulf named. This boon they seek,

that they, my master, may with thee

have speech at will: nor spurn their prayer

to give them hearing, gracious Hrothgar!

In weeds of the warrior worthy they,

methinks, of our liking; their leader most surely,

a hero that hither his henchmen has led."

[1] Either merely paved, the strata via of the Romans, or else thought of

as a sort of mosaic, an extravagant touch like the reckless waste of gold

on the walls and roofs of a hall.


HROTHGAR answered, helmet of Scyldings:--

"I knew him of yore in his youthful days;

his aged father was Ecgtheow named,

to whom, at home, gave Hrethel the Geat

his only daughter. Their offspring bold

fares hither to seek the steadfast friend.

And seamen, too, have said me this, --

who carried my gifts to the Geatish court,

thither for thanks, -- he has thirty men's

heft of grasp in the gripe of his hand,

the bold-in-battle. Blessed God

out of his mercy this man hath sent

to Danes of the West, as I ween indeed,

against horror of Grendel. I hope to give

the good youth gold for his gallant thought.

Be thou in haste, and bid them hither,

clan of kinsmen, to come before me;

and add this word, -- they are welcome guests

to folk of the Danes."

[To the door of the hall

Wulfgar went] and the word declared:--

"To you this message my master sends,

East-Danes' king, that your kin he knows,

hardy heroes, and hails you all

welcome hither o'er waves of the sea!

Ye may wend your way in war-attire,

and under helmets Hrothgar greet;

but let here the battle-shields bide your parley,

and wooden war-shafts wait its end."

Uprose the mighty one, ringed with his men,

brave band of thanes: some bode without,

battle-gear guarding, as bade the chief.

Then hied that troop where the herald led them,

under Heorot's roof: [the hero strode,]

hardy 'neath helm, till the hearth he neared.

Beowulf spake, -- his breastplate gleamed,

war-net woven by wit of the smith:--

"Thou Hrothgar, hail! Hygelac's I,

kinsman and follower. Fame a plenty

have I gained in youth! These Grendel-deeds

I heard in my home-land heralded clear.

Seafarers say how stands this hall,

of buildings best, for your band of thanes

empty and idle, when evening sun

in the harbor of heaven is hidden away.

So my vassals advised me well, --

brave and wise, the best of men, --

O sovran Hrothgar, to seek thee here,

for my nerve and my might they knew full well.

Themselves had seen me from slaughter come

blood-flecked from foes, where five I bound,

and that wild brood worsted. I' the waves I slew

nicors[1] by night, in need and peril

avenging the Weders,[2] whose woe they sought, --

crushing the grim ones. Grendel now,

monster cruel, be mine to quell

in single battle! So, from thee,

thou sovran of the Shining-Danes,

Scyldings'-bulwark, a boon I seek, --

and, Friend-of-the-folk, refuse it not,

O Warriors'-shield, now I've wandered far, --

that I alone with my liegemen here,

this hardy band, may Heorot purge!

More I hear, that the monster dire,

in his wanton mood, of weapons recks not;

hence shall I scorn -- so Hygelac stay,

king of my kindred, kind to me! --

brand or buckler to bear in the fight,

gold-colored targe: but with gripe alone

must I front the fiend and fight for life,

foe against foe. Then faith be his

in the doom of the Lord whom death shall take.

Fain, I ween, if the fight he win,

in this hall of gold my Geatish band

will he fearless eat, -- as oft before, --

my noblest thanes. Nor need'st thou then

to hide my head;[3] for his shall I be,

dyed in gore, if death must take me;

and my blood-covered body he'll bear as prey,

ruthless devour it, the roamer-lonely,

with my life-blood redden his lair in the fen:

no further for me need'st food prepare!

To Hygelac send, if Hild[4] should take me,

best of war-weeds, warding my breast,

armor excellent, heirloom of Hrethel

and work of Wayland.[5] Fares Wyrd[6] as she must."

[1] The nicor, says Bugge, is a hippopotamus; a walrus, says ten Brink.

But that water-goblin who covers the space from Old Nick of jest to the

Neckan and Nix of poetry and tale, is all one needs, and Nicor is a good

name for him.

[2] His own people, the Geats.

[3] That is, cover it as with a face-cloth. "There will be no need of

funeral rites."

[4] Personification of Battle.

[5] The Germanic Vulcan.

[6] This mighty power, whom the Christian poet can still revere, has here

the general force of "Destiny."


HROTHGAR spake, the Scyldings'-helmet:--

"For fight defensive, Friend my Beowulf,

to succor and save, thou hast sought us here.

Thy father's combat[1] a feud enkindled

when Heatholaf with hand he slew

among the Wylfings; his Weder kin

for horror of fighting feared to hold him.

Fleeing, he sought our South-Dane folk,

over surge of ocean the Honor-Scyldings,

when first I was ruling the folk of Danes,

wielded, youthful, this widespread realm,

this hoard-hold of heroes. Heorogar was dead,

my elder brother, had breathed his last,

Healfdene's bairn: he was better than I!

Straightway the feud with fee[2] I settled,

to the Wylfings sent, o'er watery ridges,

treasures olden: oaths he[3] swore me.

Sore is my soul to say to any

of the race of man what ruth for me

in Heorot Grendel with hate hath wrought,

what sudden harryings. Hall-folk fail me,

my warriors wane; for Wyrd hath swept them

into Grendel's grasp. But God is able

this deadly foe from his deeds to turn!

Boasted full oft, as my beer they drank,

earls o'er the ale-cup, armed men,

that they would bide in the beer-hall here,

Grendel's attack with terror of blades.

Then was this mead-house at morning tide

dyed with gore, when the daylight broke,

all the boards of the benches blood-besprinkled,

gory the hall: I had heroes the less,

doughty dear-ones that death had reft.

-- But sit to the banquet, unbind thy words,

hardy hero, as heart shall prompt thee."

Gathered together, the Geatish men

in the banquet-hall on bench assigned,

sturdy-spirited, sat them down,

hardy-hearted. A henchman attended,

carried the carven cup in hand,

served the clear mead. Oft minstrels sang

blithe in Heorot. Heroes revelled,

no dearth of warriors, Weder and Dane.

[1] There is no irrelevance here. Hrothgar sees in Beowulf's mission a

heritage of duty, a return of the good offices which the Danish king ren-

dered to Beowulf's father in time of dire need.

[2] Money, for wergild, or man-price.

[3] Ecgtheow, Beowulf's sire.


UNFERTH spake, the son of Ecglaf,

who sat at the feet of the Scyldings' lord,

unbound the battle-runes.[1] -- Beowulf's quest,

sturdy seafarer's, sorely galled him;

ever he envied that other men

should more achieve in middle-earth

of fame under heaven than he himself. --

"Art thou that Beowulf, Breca's rival,

who emulous swam on the open sea,

when for pride the pair of you proved the floods,

and wantonly dared in waters deep

to risk your lives? No living man,

or lief or loath, from your labor dire

could you dissuade, from swimming the main.

Ocean-tides with your arms ye covered,

with strenuous hands the sea-streets measured,

swam o'er the waters. Winter's storm

rolled the rough waves. In realm of sea

a sennight strove ye. In swimming he topped thee,

had more of main! Him at morning-tide

billows bore to the Battling Reamas,

whence he hied to his home so dear

beloved of his liegemen, to land of Brondings,

fastness fair, where his folk he ruled,

town and treasure. In triumph o'er thee

Beanstan's bairn[2] his boast achieved.

So ween I for thee a worse adventure

-- though in buffet of battle thou brave hast been,

in struggle grim, -- if Grendel's approach

thou darst await through the watch of night!"

Beowulf spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:--

"What a deal hast uttered, dear my Unferth,

drunken with beer, of Breca now,

told of his triumph! Truth I claim it,

that I had more of might in the sea

than any man else, more ocean-endurance.

We twain had talked, in time of youth,

and made our boast, -- we were merely boys,

striplings still, -- to stake our lives

far at sea: and so we performed it.

Naked swords, as we swam along,

we held in hand, with hope to guard us

against the whales. Not a whit from me

could he float afar o'er the flood of waves,

haste o'er the billows; nor him I abandoned.

Together we twain on the tides abode

five nights full till the flood divided us,

churning waves and chillest weather,

darkling night, and the northern wind

ruthless rushed on us: rough was the surge.

Now the wrath of the sea-fish rose apace;

yet me 'gainst the monsters my mailed coat,

hard and hand-linked, help afforded, --

battle-sark braided my breast to ward,

garnished with gold. There grasped me firm

and haled me to bottom the hated foe,

with grimmest gripe. 'Twas granted me, though,

to pierce the monster with point of sword,

with blade of battle: huge beast of the sea

was whelmed by the hurly through hand of mine.

[1] "Began the fight."

[2] Breca.


ME thus often the evil monsters

thronging threatened. With thrust of my sword,

the darling, I dealt them due return!

Nowise had they bliss from their booty then

to devour their victim, vengeful creatures,

seated to banquet at bottom of sea;

but at break of day, by my brand sore hurt,

on the edge of ocean up they lay,

put to sleep by the sword. And since, by them

on the fathomless sea-ways sailor-folk

are never molested. -- Light from east,

came bright God's beacon; the billows sank,

so that I saw the sea-cliffs high,

windy walls. For Wyrd oft saveth

earl undoomed if he doughty be!

And so it came that I killed with my sword

nine of the nicors. Of night-fought battles

ne'er heard I a harder 'neath heaven's dome,

nor adrift on the deep a more desolate man!

Yet I came unharmed from that hostile clutch,

though spent with swimming. The sea upbore me,

flood of the tide, on Finnish land,

the welling waters. No wise of thee

have I heard men tell such terror of falchions,

bitter battle. Breca ne'er yet,

not one of you pair, in the play of war

such daring deed has done at all

with bloody brand, -- I boast not of it! --

though thou wast the bane[1] of thy brethren dear,

thy closest kin, whence curse of hell

awaits thee, well as thy wit may serve!

For I say in sooth, thou son of Ecglaf,

never had Grendel these grim deeds wrought,

monster dire, on thy master dear,

in Heorot such havoc, if heart of thine

were as battle-bold as thy boast is loud!

But he has found no feud will happen;

from sword-clash dread of your Danish clan

he vaunts him safe, from the Victor-Scyldings.

He forces pledges, favors none

of the land of Danes, but lustily murders,

fights and feasts, nor feud he dreads

from Spear-Dane men. But speedily now

shall I prove him the prowess and pride of the Geats,

shall bid him battle. Blithe to mead

go he that listeth, when light of dawn

this morrow morning o'er men of earth,

ether-robed sun from the south shall beam!"

Joyous then was the Jewel-giver,

hoar-haired, war-brave; help awaited

the Bright-Danes' prince, from Beowulf hearing,

folk's good shepherd, such firm resolve.

Then was laughter of liegemen loud resounding

with winsome words. Came Wealhtheow forth,

queen of Hrothgar, heedful of courtesy,

gold-decked, greeting the guests in hall;

and the high-born lady handed the cup

first to the East-Danes' heir and warden,

bade him be blithe at the beer-carouse,

the land's beloved one. Lustily took he

banquet and beaker, battle-famed king.

Through the hall then went the Helmings' Lady,

to younger and older everywhere

carried the cup, till come the moment

when the ring-graced queen, the royal-hearted,

to Beowulf bore the beaker of mead.

She greeted the Geats' lord, God she thanked,

in wisdom's words, that her will was granted,

that at last on a hero her hope could lean

for comfort in terrors. The cup he took,

hardy-in-war, from Wealhtheow's hand,

and answer uttered the eager-for-combat.

Beowulf spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:--

"This was my thought, when my thanes and I

bent to the ocean and entered our boat,

that I would work the will of your people

fully, or fighting fall in death,

in fiend's gripe fast. I am firm to do

an earl's brave deed, or end the days

of this life of mine in the mead-hall here."

Well these words to the woman seemed,

Beowulf's battle-boast. -- Bright with gold

the stately dame by her spouse sat down.

Again, as erst, began in hall

warriors' wassail and words of power,

the proud-band's revel, till presently

the son of Healfdene hastened to seek

rest for the night; he knew there waited

fight for the fiend in that festal hall,

when the sheen of the sun they saw no more,

and dusk of night sank darkling nigh,

and shadowy shapes came striding on,

wan under welkin. The warriors rose.

Man to man, he made harangue,

Hrothgar to Beowulf, bade him hail,

let him wield the wine hall: a word he added:--

"Never to any man erst I trusted,

since I could heave up hand and shield,

this noble Dane-Hall, till now to thee.

Have now and hold this house unpeered;

remember thy glory; thy might declare;

watch for the foe! No wish shall fail thee

if thou bidest the battle with bold-won life."

[1] Murder.


THEN Hrothgar went with his hero-train,

defence-of-Scyldings, forth from hall;

fain would the war-lord Wealhtheow seek,

couch of his queen. The King-of-Glory

against this Grendel a guard had set,

so heroes heard, a hall-defender,

who warded the monarch and watched for the monster.

In truth, the Geats' prince gladly trusted

his mettle, his might, the mercy of God!

Cast off then his corselet of iron,

helmet from head; to his henchman gave, --

choicest of weapons, -- the well-chased sword,

bidding him guard the gear of battle.

Spake then his Vaunt the valiant man,

Beowulf Geat, ere the bed be sought:--

"Of force in fight no feebler I count me,

in grim war-deeds, than Grendel deems him.

Not with the sword, then, to sleep of death

his life will I give, though it lie in my power.

No skill is his to strike against me,

my shield to hew though he hardy be,

bold in battle; we both, this night,

shall spurn the sword, if he seek me here,

unweaponed, for war. Let wisest God,

sacred Lord, on which side soever

doom decree as he deemeth right."

Reclined then the chieftain, and cheek-pillows held

the head of the earl, while all about him

seamen hardy on hall-beds sank.

None of them thought that thence their steps

to the folk and fastness that fostered them,

to the land they loved, would lead them back!

Full well they wist that on warriors many

battle-death seized, in the banquet-hall,

of Danish clan. But comfort and help,

war-weal weaving, to Weder folk

the Master gave, that, by might of one,

over their enemy all prevailed,

by single strength. In sooth 'tis told

that highest God o'er human kind

hath wielded ever! -- Thro' wan night striding,

came the walker-in-shadow. Warriors slept

whose hest was to guard the gabled hall, --

all save one. 'Twas widely known

that against God's will the ghostly ravager

him[1] could not hurl to haunts of darkness;

wakeful, ready, with warrior's wrath,

bold he bided the battle's issue.

[1] Beowulf, -- the "one."


THEN from the moorland, by misty crags,

with God's wrath laden, Grendel came.

The monster was minded of mankind now

sundry to seize in the stately house.

Under welkin he walked, till the wine-palace there,

gold-hall of men, he gladly discerned,

flashing with fretwork. Not first time, this,

that he the home of Hrothgar sought, --

yet ne'er in his life-day, late or early,

such hardy heroes, such hall-thanes, found!

To the house the warrior walked apace,

parted from peace;[1] the portal opended,

though with forged bolts fast, when his fists had

struck it,

and baleful he burst in his blatant rage,

the house's mouth. All hastily, then,

o'er fair-paved floor the fiend trod on,

ireful he strode; there streamed from his eyes

fearful flashes, like flame to see.

He spied in hall the hero-band,

kin and clansmen clustered asleep,

hardy liegemen. Then laughed his heart;

for the monster was minded, ere morn should dawn,

savage, to sever the soul of each,

life from body, since lusty banquet

waited his will! But Wyrd forbade him

to seize any more of men on earth

after that evening. Eagerly watched

Hygelac's kinsman his cursed foe,

how he would fare in fell attack.

Not that the monster was minded to pause!

Straightway he seized a sleeping warrior

for the first, and tore him fiercely asunder,

the bone-frame bit, drank blood in streams,

swallowed him piecemeal: swiftly thus

the lifeless corse was clear devoured,

e'en feet and hands. Then farther he hied;

for the hardy hero with hand he grasped,

felt for the foe with fiendish claw,

for the hero reclining, -- who clutched it boldly,

prompt to answer, propped on his arm.

Soon then saw that shepherd-of-evils

that never he met in this middle-world,

in the ways of earth, another wight

with heavier hand-gripe; at heart he feared,

sorrowed in soul, -- none the sooner escaped!

Fain would he flee, his fastness seek,

the den of devils: no doings now

such as oft he had done in days of old!

Then bethought him the hardy Hygelac-thane

of his boast at evening: up he bounded,

grasped firm his foe, whose fingers cracked.

The fiend made off, but the earl close followed.

The monster meant -- if he might at all --

to fling himself free, and far away

fly to the fens, -- knew his fingers' power

in the gripe of the grim one. Gruesome march

to Heorot this monster of harm had made!

Din filled the room; the Danes were bereft,

castle-dwellers and clansmen all,

earls, of their ale. Angry were both

those savage hall-guards: the house resounded.

Wonder it was the wine-hall firm

in the strain of their struggle stood, to earth

the fair house fell not; too fast it was

within and without by its iron bands

craftily clamped; though there crashed from sill

many a mead-bench -- men have told me --

gay with gold, where the grim foes wrestled.

So well had weened the wisest Scyldings

that not ever at all might any man

that bone-decked, brave house break asunder,

crush by craft, -- unless clasp of fire

in smoke engulfed it. -- Again uprose

din redoubled. Danes of the North

with fear and frenzy were filled, each one,

who from the wall that wailing heard,

God's foe sounding his grisly song,

cry of the conquered, clamorous pain

from captive of hell. Too closely held him

he who of men in might was strongest

in that same day of this our life.

[1] That is, he was a "lost soul," doomed to hell.


NOT in any wise would the earls'-defence[1]

suffer that slaughterous stranger to live,

useless deeming his days and years

to men on earth. Now many an earl

of Beowulf brandished blade ancestral,

fain the life of their lord to shield,

their praised prince, if power were theirs;

never they knew, -- as they neared the foe,

hardy-hearted heroes of war,

aiming their swords on every side

the accursed to kill, -- no keenest blade,

no farest of falchions fashioned on earth,

could harm or hurt that hideous fiend!

He was safe, by his spells, from sword of battle,

from edge of iron. Yet his end and parting

on that same day of this our life

woful should be, and his wandering soul

far off flit to the fiends' domain.

Soon he found, who in former days,

harmful in heart and hated of God,

on many a man such murder wrought,

that the frame of his body failed him now.

For him the keen-souled kinsman of Hygelac

held in hand; hateful alive

was each to other. The outlaw dire

took mortal hurt; a mighty wound

showed on his shoulder, and sinews cracked,

and the bone-frame burst. To Beowulf now

the glory was given, and Grendel thence

death-sick his den in the dark moor sought,

noisome abode: he knew too well

that here was the last of life, an end

of his days on earth. -- To all the Danes

by that bloody battle the boon had come.

From ravage had rescued the roving stranger

Hrothgar's hall; the hardy and wise one

had purged it anew. His night-work pleased him,

his deed and its honor. To Eastern Danes

had the valiant Geat his vaunt made good,

all their sorrow and ills assuaged,

their bale of battle borne so long,

and all the dole they erst endured

pain a-plenty. -- 'Twas proof of this,

when the hardy-in-fight a hand laid down,

arm and shoulder, -- all, indeed,

of Grendel's gripe, -- 'neath the gabled roof·

[1] Kenning for Beowulf.


MANY at morning, as men have told me,

warriors gathered the gift-hall round,

folk-leaders faring from far and near,

o'er wide-stretched ways, the wonder to view,

trace of the traitor. Not troublous seemed

the enemy's end to any man

who saw by the gait of the graceless foe

how the weary-hearted, away from thence,

baffled in battle and banned, his steps

death-marked dragged to the devils' mere.

Bloody the billows were boiling there,

turbid the tide of tumbling waves

horribly seething, with sword-blood hot,

by that doomed one dyed, who in den of the moor

laid forlorn his life adown,

his heathen soul,-and hell received it.

Home then rode the hoary clansmen

from that merry journey, and many a youth,

on horses white, the hardy warriors,

back from the mere. Then Beowulf's glory

eager they echoed, and all averred

that from sea to sea, or south or north,

there was no other in earth's domain,

under vault of heaven, more valiant found,

of warriors none more worthy to rule!

(On their lord beloved they laid no slight,

gracious Hrothgar: a good king he!)

From time to time, the tried-in-battle

their gray steeds set to gallop amain,

and ran a race when the road seemed fair.

From time to time, a thane of the king,

who had made many vaunts, and was mindful of verses,

stored with sagas and songs of old,

bound word to word in well-knit rime,

welded his lay; this warrior soon

of Beowulf's quest right cleverly sang,

and artfully added an excellent tale,

in well-ranged words, of the warlike deeds

he had heard in saga of Sigemund.

Strange the story: he said it all, --

the Waelsing's wanderings wide, his struggles,

which never were told to tribes of men,

the feuds and the frauds, save to Fitela only,

when of these doings he deigned to speak,

uncle to nephew; as ever the twain

stood side by side in stress of war,

and multitude of the monster kind

they had felled with their swords. Of Sigemund


when he passed from life, no little praise;

for the doughty-in-combat a dragon killed

that herded the hoard:[1] under hoary rock

the atheling dared the deed alone

fearful quest, nor was Fitela there.

Yet so it befell, his falchion pierced

that wondrous worm, -- on the wall it struck,

best blade; the dragon died in its blood.

Thus had the dread-one by daring achieved

over the ring-hoard to rule at will,

himself to pleasure; a sea-boat he loaded,

and bore on its bosom the beaming gold,

son of Waels; the worm was consumed.

He had of all heroes the highest renown

among races of men, this refuge-of-warriors,

for deeds of daring that decked his name

since the hand and heart of Heremod

grew slack in battle. He, swiftly banished

to mingle with monsters at mercy of foes,

to death was betrayed; for torrents of sorrow

had lamed him too long; a load of care

to earls and athelings all he proved.

Oft indeed, in earlier days,

for the warrior's wayfaring wise men mourned,

who had hoped of him help from harm and bale,

and had thought their sovran's son would thrive,

follow his father, his folk protect,

the hoard and the stronghold, heroes' land,

home of Scyldings. -- But here, thanes said,

the kinsman of Hygelac kinder seemed

to all: the other[2] was urged to crime!

And afresh to the race,[3] the fallow roads

by swift steeds measured! The morning sun

was climbing higher. Clansmen hastened

to the high-built hall, those hardy-minded,

the wonder to witness. Warden of treasure,

crowned with glory, the king himself,

with stately band from the bride-bower strode;

and with him the queen and her crowd of maidens

measured the path to the mead-house fair.

[1] "Guarded the treasure."

[2] Sc. Heremod.

[3] The singer has sung his lays, and the epic resumes its story. The

time-relations are not altogether good in this long passage which describes

the rejoicings of "the day after"; but the present shift from the riders

on the road to the folk at the hall is not very violent, and is of a piece

with the general style.


HROTHGAR spake, -- to the hall he went,

stood by the steps, the steep roof saw,

garnished with gold, and Grendel's hand:--

"For the sight I see to the Sovran Ruler

be speedy thanks! A throng of sorrows

I have borne from Grendel; but God still works

wonder on wonder, the Warden-of-Glory.

It was but now that I never more

for woes that weighed on me waited help

long as I lived, when, laved in blood,

stood sword-gore-stained this stateliest house, --

widespread woe for wise men all,

who had no hope to hinder ever

foes infernal and fiendish sprites

from havoc in hall. This hero now,

by the Wielder's might, a work has done

that not all of us erst could ever do

by wile and wisdom. Lo, well can she say

whoso of women this warrior bore

among sons of men, if still she liveth,

that the God of the ages was good to her

in the birth of her bairn. Now, Beowulf, thee,

of heroes best, I shall heartily love

as mine own, my son; preserve thou ever

this kinship new: thou shalt never lack

wealth of the world that I wield as mine!

Full oft for less have I largess showered,

my precious hoard, on a punier man,

less stout in struggle. Thyself hast now

fulfilled such deeds, that thy fame shall endure

through all the ages. As ever he did,

well may the Wielder reward thee still!"

Beowulf spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:--

"This work of war most willingly

we have fought, this fight, and fearlessly dared

force of the foe. Fain, too, were I

hadst thou but seen himself, what time

the fiend in his trappings tottered to fall!

Swiftly, I thought, in strongest gripe

on his bed of death to bind him down,

that he in the hent of this hand of mine

should breathe his last: but he broke away.

Him I might not -- the Maker willed not --

hinder from flight, and firm enough hold

the life-destroyer: too sturdy was he,

the ruthless, in running! For rescue, however,

he left behind him his hand in pledge,

arm and shoulder; nor aught of help

could the cursed one thus procure at all.

None the longer liveth he, loathsome fiend,

sunk in his sins, but sorrow holds him

tightly grasped in gripe of anguish,

in baleful bonds, where bide he must,

evil outlaw, such awful doom

as the Mighty Maker shall mete him out."

More silent seemed the son of Ecglaf[1]

in boastful speech of his battle-deeds,

since athelings all, through the earl's great prowess,

beheld that hand, on the high roof gazing,

foeman's fingers, -- the forepart of each

of the sturdy nails to steel was likest, --

heathen's "hand-spear," hostile warrior's

claw uncanny. 'Twas clear, they said,

that him no blade of the brave could touch,

how keen soever, or cut away

that battle-hand bloody from baneful foe.

[1] Unferth, Beowulf's sometime opponent in the flyting.


THERE was hurry and hest in Heorot now

for hands to bedeck it, and dense was the throng

of men and women the wine-hall to cleanse,

the guest-room to garnish. Gold-gay shone the


that were wove on the wall, and wonders many

to delight each mortal that looks upon them.

Though braced within by iron bands,

that building bright was broken sorely;[1]

rent were its hinges; the roof alone

held safe and sound, when, seared with crime,

the fiendish foe his flight essayed,

of life despairing. -- No light thing that,

the flight for safety, -- essay it who will!

Forced of fate, he shall find his way

to the refuge ready for race of man,

for soul-possessors, and sons of earth;

and there his body on bed of death

shall rest after revel.

Arrived was the hour

when to hall proceeded Healfdene's son:

the king himself would sit to banquet.

Ne'er heard I of host in haughtier throng

more graciously gathered round giver-of-rings!

Bowed then to bench those bearers-of-glory,

fain of the feasting. Featly received

many a mead-cup the mighty-in-spirit,

kinsmen who sat in the sumptuous hall,

Hrothgar and Hrothulf. Heorot now

was filled with friends; the folk of Scyldings

ne'er yet had tried the traitor's deed.

To Beowulf gave the bairn of Healfdene

a gold-wove banner, guerdon of triumph,

broidered battle-flag, breastplate and helmet;

and a splendid sword was seen of many

borne to the brave one. Beowulf took

cup in hall:[2] for such costly gifts

he suffered no shame in that soldier throng.

For I heard of few heroes, in heartier mood,

with four such gifts, so fashioned with gold,

on the ale-bench honoring others thus!

O'er the roof of the helmet high, a ridge,

wound with wires, kept ward o'er the head,

lest the relict-of-files[3] should fierce invade,

sharp in the strife, when that shielded hero

should go to grapple against his foes.

Then the earls'-defence[4] on the floor[5] bade lead

coursers eight, with carven head-gear,

adown the hall: one horse was decked

with a saddle all shining and set in jewels;

'twas the battle-seat of the best of kings,

when to play of swords the son of Healfdene

was fain to fare. Ne'er failed his valor

in the crush of combat when corpses fell.

To Beowulf over them both then gave

the refuge-of-Ingwines right and power,

o'er war-steeds and weapons: wished him joy of them.

Manfully thus the mighty prince,

hoard-guard for heroes, that hard fight repaid

with steeds and treasures contemned by none

who is willing to say the sooth aright.

[1] There is no horrible inconsistency here such as the critics strive and

cry about. In spite of the ruin that Grendel and Beowulf had made within

the hall, the framework and roof held firm, and swift repairs made the

interior habitable. Tapestries were hung on the walls, and willing hands

prepared the banquet.

[2] From its formal use in other places, this phrase, to take cup in hall,

or "on the floor," would seem to mean that Beowulf stood up to receive

his gifts, drink to the donor, and say thanks.

[3] Kenning for sword.

[4] Hrothgar. He is also the "refuge of the friends of Ing," below. Ing

belongs to myth.

[5] Horses are frequently led or ridden into the hall where folk sit at

banquet: so in Chaucer's Squire's tale, in the ballad of King Estmere, and

in the romances.


AND the lord of earls, to each that came

with Beowulf over the briny ways,

an heirloom there at the ale-bench gave,

precious gift; and the price[1] bade pay

in gold for him whom Grendel erst

murdered, -- and fain of them more had killed,

had not wisest God their Wyrd averted,

and the man's[2] brave mood. The Maker then

ruled human kind, as here and now.

Therefore is insight always best,

and forethought of mind. How much awaits him

of lief and of loath, who long time here,

through days of warfare this world endures!

Then song and music mingled sounds

in the presence of Healfdene's head-of-armies[3]

and harping was heard with the hero-lay

as Hrothgar's singer the hall-joy woke

along the mead-seats, making his song

of that sudden raid on the sons of Finn.[4]

Healfdene's hero, Hnaef the Scylding,

was fated to fall in the Frisian slaughter.[5]

Hildeburh needed not hold in value

her enemies' honor![6] Innocent both

were the loved ones she lost at the linden-play,

bairn and brother, they bowed to fate,

stricken by spears; 'twas a sorrowful woman!

None doubted why the daughter of Hoc

bewailed her doom when dawning came,

and under the sky she saw them lying,

kinsmen murdered, where most she had kenned

of the sweets of the world! By war were swept, too,

Finn's own liegemen, and few were left;

in the parleying-place[7] he could ply no longer

weapon, nor war could he wage on Hengest,

and rescue his remnant by right of arms

from the prince's thane. A pact he offered:

another dwelling the Danes should have,

hall and high-seat, and half the power

should fall to them in Frisian land;

and at the fee-gifts, Folcwald's son

day by day the Danes should honor,

the folk of Hengest favor with rings,

even as truly, with treasure and jewels,

with fretted gold, as his Frisian kin

he meant to honor in ale-hall there.

Pact of peace they plighted further

on both sides firmly. Finn to Hengest

with oath, upon honor, openly promised

that woful remnant, with wise-men's aid,

nobly to govern, so none of the guests

by word or work should warp the treaty,[8]

or with malice of mind bemoan themselves

as forced to follow their fee-giver's slayer,

lordless men, as their lot ordained.

Should Frisian, moreover, with foeman's taunt,

that murderous hatred to mind recall,

then edge of the sword must seal his doom.

Oaths were given, and ancient gold

heaped from hoard. -- The hardy Scylding,

battle-thane best,[9] on his balefire lay.

All on the pyre were plain to see

the gory sark, the gilded swine-crest,

boar of hard iron, and athelings many

slain by the sword: at the slaughter they fell.

It was Hildeburh's hest, at Hnaef's own pyre

the bairn of her body on brands to lay,

his bones to burn, on the balefire placed,

at his uncle's side. In sorrowful dirges

bewept them the woman: great wailing ascended.

Then wound up to welkin the wildest of death-fires,

roared o'er the hillock:[10] heads all were melted,

gashes burst, and blood gushed out

from bites[11] of the body. Balefire devoured,

greediest spirit, those spared not by war

out of either folk: their flower was gone.

[1] Man-price, wergild.

[2] Beowulf's.

[3] Hrothgar.

[4] There is no need to assume a gap in the Ms. As before about Sigemund

and Heremod, so now, though at greater length, about Finn and his feud,

a lay is chanted or recited; and the epic poet, counting on his readers'

familiarity with the story, -- a fragment of it still exists, --

simply gives the headings.

[5] The exact story to which this episode refers in summary is not to be

determined, but the following account of it is reasonable and has good

support among scholars. Finn, a Frisian chieftain, who nevertheless has

a "castle" outside the Frisian border, marries Hildeburh, a Danish prin-

cess; and her brother, Hnaef, with many other Danes, pays Finn a visit.

Relations between the two peoples have been strained before. Something

starts the old feud anew; and the visitors are attacked in their quarters.

Hnaef is killed; so is a son of Hildeburh. Many fall on both sides. Peace

is patched up; a stately funeral is held; and the surviving visitors become

in a way vassals or liegemen of Finn, going back with him to Frisia. So

matters rest a while. Hengest is now leader of the Danes; but he is set

upon revenge for his former lord, Hnaef. Probably he is killed in feud;

but his clansmen, Guthlaf and Oslaf, gather at their home a force of

sturdy Danes, come back to Frisia, storm Finn's stronghold, kill him, and

carry back their kinswoman Hildeburh.

[6] The "enemies" must be the Frisians.

[7] Battlefield. -- Hengest is the "prince's thane," companion of Hnaef.

"Folcwald's son" is Finn.

[8] That is, Finn would govern in all honor the few Danish warriors who

were left, provided, of course, that none of them tried to renew the quarrel

or avenge Hnaef their fallen lord. If, again, one of Finn's Frisians began

a quarrel, he should die by the sword.

[9] Hnaef.

[10] The high place chosen for the funeral: see description of Beowulf's

funeral-pile at the end of the poem.

[11] Wounds.


THEN hastened those heroes their home to see,

friendless, to find the Frisian land,

houses and high burg. Hengest still

through the death-dyed winter dwelt with Finn,

holding pact, yet of home he minded,

though powerless his ring-decked prow to drive

over the waters, now waves rolled fierce

lashed by the winds, or winter locked them

in icy fetters. Then fared another

year to men's dwellings, as yet they do,

the sunbright skies, that their season ever

duly await. Far off winter was driven;

fair lay earth's breast; and fain was the rover,

the guest, to depart, though more gladly he pondered

on wreaking his vengeance than roaming the deep,

and how to hasten the hot encounter

where sons of the Frisians were sure to be.

So he escaped not the common doom,

when Hun with "Lafing," the light-of-battle,

best of blades, his bosom pierced:

its edge was famed with the Frisian earls.

On fierce-heart Finn there fell likewise,

on himself at home, the horrid sword-death;

for Guthlaf and Oslaf of grim attack

had sorrowing told, from sea-ways landed,

mourning their woes.[1] Finn's wavering spirit

bode not in breast. The burg was reddened

with blood of foemen, and Finn was slain,

king amid clansmen; the queen was taken.

To their ship the Scylding warriors bore

all the chattels the chieftain owned,

whatever they found in Finn's domain

of gems and jewels. The gentle wife

o'er paths of the deep to the Danes they bore,

led to her land.

The lay was finished,

the gleeman's song. Then glad rose the revel;

bench-joy brightened. Bearers draw

from their "wonder-vats" wine. Comes Wealhtheow


under gold-crown goes where the good pair sit,

uncle and nephew, true each to the other one,

kindred in amity. Unferth the spokesman

at the Scylding lord's feet sat: men had faith in his


his keenness of courage, though kinsmen had found


unsure at the sword-play. The Scylding queen spoke:

"Quaff of this cup, my king and lord,

breaker of rings, and blithe be thou,

gold-friend of men; to the Geats here speak

such words of mildness as man should use.

Be glad with thy Geats; of those gifts be mindful,

or near or far, which now thou hast.

Men say to me, as son thou wishest

yon hero to hold. Thy Heorot purged,

jewel-hall brightest, enjoy while thou canst,

with many a largess; and leave to thy kin

folk and realm when forth thou goest

to greet thy doom. For gracious I deem

my Hrothulf,[2] willing to hold and rule

nobly our youths, if thou yield up first,

prince of Scyldings, thy part in the world.

I ween with good he will well requite

offspring of ours, when all he minds

that for him we did in his helpless days

of gift and grace to gain him honor!"

Then she turned to the seat where her sons were


Hrethric and Hrothmund, with heroes' bairns,

young men together: the Geat, too, sat there,

Beowulf brave, the brothers between.

[1] That is, these two Danes, escaping home, had told the story of the

attack on Hnaef, the slaying of Hengest, and all the Danish woes. Collect-

ing a force, they return to Frisia and kill Finn in his home.

[2] Nephew to Hrothgar, with whom he subsequently quarrels, and elder

cousin to the two young sons of Hrothgar and Wealhtheow, -- their natural

guardian in the event of the king's death. There is something finely femi-

nine in this speech of Wealhtheow's, apart from its somewhat irregular and

irrelevant sequence of topics. Both she and her lord probably distrust

Hrothulf; but she bids the king to be of good cheer, and, turning to the

suspect, heaps affectionate assurances on his probity. "My own Hrothulf"

will surely not forget these favors and benefits of the past, but will repay

them to the orphaned boy.


A CUP she gave him, with kindly greeting

and winsome words. Of wounden gold,

she offered, to honor him, arm-jewels twain,

corselet and rings, and of collars the noblest

that ever I knew the earth around.

Ne'er heard I so mighty, 'neath heaven's dome,

a hoard-gem of heroes, since Hama bore

to his bright-built burg the Brisings' necklace,

jewel and gem casket. -- Jealousy fled he,

Eormenric's hate: chose help eternal.

Hygelac Geat, grandson of Swerting,

on the last of his raids this ring bore with him,

under his banner the booty defending,

the war-spoil warding; but Wyrd o'erwhelmed him

what time, in his daring, dangers he sought,

feud with Frisians. Fairest of gems

he bore with him over the beaker-of-waves,

sovran strong: under shield he died.

Fell the corpse of the king into keeping of Franks,

gear of the breast, and that gorgeous ring;

weaker warriors won the spoil,

after gripe of battle, from Geatland's lord,

and held the death-field.

Din rose in hall.

Wealhtheow spake amid warriors, and said:--

"This jewel enjoy in thy jocund youth,

Beowulf lov'd, these battle-weeds wear,

a royal treasure, and richly thrive!

Preserve thy strength, and these striplings here

counsel in kindness: requital be mine.

Hast done such deeds, that for days to come

thou art famed among folk both far and near,

so wide as washeth the wave of Ocean

his windy walls. Through the ways of life

prosper, O prince! I pray for thee

rich possessions. To son of mine

be helpful in deed and uphold his joys!

Here every earl to the other is true,

mild of mood, to the master loyal!

Thanes are friendly, the throng obedient,

liegemen are revelling: list and obey!"

Went then to her place. -- That was proudest of


flowed wine for the warriors. Wyrd they knew not,

destiny dire, and the doom to be seen

by many an earl when eve should come,

and Hrothgar homeward hasten away,

royal, to rest. The room was guarded

by an army of earls, as erst was done.

They bared the bench-boards; abroad they spread

beds and bolsters. -- One beer-carouser

in danger of doom lay down in the hall. --

At their heads they set their shields of war,

bucklers bright; on the bench were there

over each atheling, easy to see,

the high battle-helmet, the haughty spear,

the corselet of rings. 'Twas their custom so

ever to be for battle prepared,

at home, or harrying, which it were,

even as oft as evil threatened

their sovran king. -- They were clansmen good.


THEN sank they to sleep. With sorrow one bought

his rest of the evening, -- as ofttime had happened

when Grendel guarded that golden hall,

evil wrought, till his end drew nigh,

slaughter for sins. 'Twas seen and told

how an avenger survived the fiend,

as was learned afar. The livelong time

after that grim fight, Grendel's mother,

monster of women, mourned her woe.

She was doomed to dwell in the dreary waters,

cold sea-courses, since Cain cut down

with edge of the sword his only brother,

his father's offspring: outlawed he fled,

marked with murder, from men's delights

warded the wilds. -- There woke from him

such fate-sent ghosts as Grendel, who,

war-wolf horrid, at Heorot found

a warrior watching and waiting the fray,

with whom the grisly one grappled amain.

But the man remembered his mighty power,

the glorious gift that God had sent him,

in his Maker's mercy put his trust

for comfort and help: so he conquered the foe,

felled the fiend, who fled abject,

reft of joy, to the realms of death,

mankind's foe. And his mother now,

gloomy and grim, would go that quest

of sorrow, the death of her son to avenge.

To Heorot came she, where helmeted Danes

slept in the hall. Too soon came back

old ills of the earls, when in she burst,

the mother of Grendel. Less grim, though, that terror,

e'en as terror of woman in war is less,

might of maid, than of men in arms

when, hammer-forged, the falchion hard,

sword gore-stained, through swine of the helm,

crested, with keen blade carves amain.

Then was in hall the hard-edge drawn,

the swords on the settles,[1] and shields a-many

firm held in hand: nor helmet minded

nor harness of mail, whom that horror seized.

Haste was hers; she would hie afar

and save her life when the liegemen saw her.

Yet a single atheling up she seized

fast and firm, as she fled to the moor.

He was for Hrothgar of heroes the dearest,

of trusty vassals betwixt the seas,

whom she killed on his couch, a clansman famous,

in battle brave. -- Nor was Beowulf there;

another house had been held apart,

after giving of gold, for the Geat renowned. --

Uproar filled Heorot; the hand all had viewed,

blood-flecked, she bore with her; bale was returned,

dole in the dwellings: 'twas dire exchange

where Dane and Geat were doomed to give

the lives of loved ones. Long-tried king,

the hoary hero, at heart was sad

when he knew his noble no more lived,

and dead indeed was his dearest thane.

To his bower was Beowulf brought in haste,

dauntless victor. As daylight broke,

along with his earls the atheling lord,

with his clansmen, came where the king abode

waiting to see if the Wielder-of-All

would turn this tale of trouble and woe.

Strode o'er floor the famed-in-strife,

with his hand-companions, -- the hall resounded, --

wishing to greet the wise old king,

Ingwines' lord; he asked if the night

had passed in peace to the prince's mind.

[1] They had laid their arms on the benches near where they slept.


HROTHGAR spake, helmet-of-Scyldings:--

"Ask not of pleasure! Pain is renewed

to Danish folk. Dead is Aeschere,

of Yrmenlaf the elder brother,

my sage adviser and stay in council,

shoulder-comrade in stress of fight

when warriors clashed and we warded our heads,

hewed the helm-boars; hero famed

should be every earl as Aeschere was!

But here in Heorot a hand hath slain him

of wandering death-sprite. I wot not whither,[1]

proud of the prey, her path she took,

fain of her fill. The feud she avenged

that yesternight, unyieldingly,

Grendel in grimmest grasp thou killedst, --

seeing how long these liegemen mine

he ruined and ravaged. Reft of life,

in arms he fell. Now another comes,

keen and cruel, her kin to avenge,

faring far in feud of blood:

so that many a thane shall think, who e'er

sorrows in soul for that sharer of rings,

this is hardest of heart-bales. The hand lies low

that once was willing each wish to please.

Land-dwellers here[2] and liegemen mine,

who house by those parts, I have heard relate

that such a pair they have sometimes seen,

march-stalkers mighty the moorland haunting,

wandering spirits: one of them seemed,

so far as my folk could fairly judge,

of womankind; and one, accursed,

in man's guise trod the misery-track

of exile, though huger than human bulk.

Grendel in days long gone they named him,

folk of the land; his father they knew not,

nor any brood that was born to him

of treacherous spirits. Untrod is their home;

by wolf-cliffs haunt they and windy headlands,

fenways fearful, where flows the stream

from mountains gliding to gloom of the rocks,

underground flood. Not far is it hence

in measure of miles that the mere expands,

and o'er it the frost-bound forest hanging,

sturdily rooted, shadows the wave.

By night is a wonder weird to see,

fire on the waters. So wise lived none

of the sons of men, to search those depths!

Nay, though the heath-rover, harried by dogs,

the horn-proud hart, this holt should seek,

long distance driven, his dear life first

on the brink he yields ere he brave the plunge

to hide his head: 'tis no happy place!

Thence the welter of waters washes up

wan to welkin when winds bestir

evil storms, and air grows dusk,

and the heavens weep. Now is help once more

with thee alone! The land thou knowst not,

place of fear, where thou findest out

that sin-flecked being. Seek if thou dare!

I will reward thee, for waging this fight,

with ancient treasure, as erst I did,

with winding gold, if thou winnest back."

[1] He surmises presently where she is.

[2] The connection is not difficult. The words of mourning, of acute grief,

are said; and according to Germanic sequence of thought, inexorable here,

the next and only topic is revenge. But is it possible? Hrothgar leads up

to his appeal and promise with a skillful and often effective description of

the horrors which surround the monster's home and await the attempt of

an avenging foe.


BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:

"Sorrow not, sage! It beseems us better

friends to avenge than fruitlessly mourn them.

Each of us all must his end abide

in the ways of the world; so win who may

glory ere death! When his days are told,

that is the warrior's worthiest doom.

Rise, O realm-warder! Ride we anon,

and mark the trail of the mother of Grendel.

No harbor shall hide her -- heed my promise! --

enfolding of field or forested mountain

or floor of the flood, let her flee where she will!

But thou this day endure in patience,

as I ween thou wilt, thy woes each one."

Leaped up the graybeard: God he thanked,

mighty Lord, for the man's brave words.

For Hrothgar soon a horse was saddled

wave-maned steed. The sovran wise

stately rode on; his shield-armed men

followed in force. The footprints led

along the woodland, widely seen,

a path o'er the plain, where she passed, and trod

the murky moor; of men-at-arms

she bore the bravest and best one, dead,

him who with Hrothgar the homestead ruled.

On then went the atheling-born

o'er stone-cliffs steep and strait defiles,

narrow passes and unknown ways,

headlands sheer, and the haunts of the Nicors.

Foremost he[1] fared, a few at his side

of the wiser men, the ways to scan,

till he found in a flash the forested hill

hanging over the hoary rock,

a woful wood: the waves below

were dyed in blood. The Danish men

had sorrow of soul, and for Scyldings all,

for many a hero, 'twas hard to bear,

ill for earls, when Aeschere's head

they found by the flood on the foreland there.

Waves were welling, the warriors saw,

hot with blood; but the horn sang oft

battle-song bold. The band sat down,

and watched on the water worm-like things,

sea-dragons strange that sounded the deep,

and nicors that lay on the ledge of the ness --

such as oft essay at hour of morn

on the road-of-sails their ruthless quest, --

and sea-snakes and monsters. These started away,

swollen and savage that song to hear,

that war-horn's blast. The warden of Geats,

with bolt from bow, then balked of life,

of wave-work, one monster, amid its heart

went the keen war-shaft; in water it seemed

less doughty in swimming whom death had seized.

Swift on the billows, with boar-spears well

hooked and barbed, it was hard beset,

done to death and dragged on the headland,

wave-roamer wondrous. Warriors viewed

the grisly guest.

Then girt him Beowulf

in martial mail, nor mourned for his life.

His breastplate broad and bright of hues,

woven by hand, should the waters try;

well could it ward the warrior's body

that battle should break on his breast in vain

nor harm his heart by the hand of a foe.

And the helmet white that his head protected

was destined to dare the deeps of the flood,

through wave-whirl win: 'twas wound with chains,

decked with gold, as in days of yore

the weapon-smith worked it wondrously,

with swine-forms set it, that swords nowise,

brandished in battle, could bite that helm.

Nor was that the meanest of mighty helps

which Hrothgar's orator offered at need:

"Hrunting" they named the hilted sword,

of old-time heirlooms easily first;

iron was its edge, all etched with poison,

with battle-blood hardened, nor blenched it at fight

in hero's hand who held it ever,

on paths of peril prepared to go

to folkstead[2] of foes. Not first time this

it was destined to do a daring task.

For he bore not in mind, the bairn of Ecglaf

sturdy and strong, that speech he had made,

drunk with wine, now this weapon he lent

to a stouter swordsman. Himself, though, durst not

under welter of waters wager his life

as loyal liegeman. So lost he his glory,

honor of earls. With the other not so,

who girded him now for the grim encounter.

[1] Hrothgar is probably meant.

[2] Meeting place.


BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:--

"Have mind, thou honored offspring of Healfdene

gold-friend of men, now I go on this quest,

sovran wise, what once was said:

if in thy cause it came that I

should lose my life, thou wouldst loyal bide

to me, though fallen, in father's place!

Be guardian, thou, to this group of my thanes,

my warrior-friends, if War should seize me;

and the goodly gifts thou gavest me,

Hrothgar beloved, to Hygelac send!

Geatland's king may ken by the gold,

Hrethel's son see, when he stares at the treasure,

that I got me a friend for goodness famed,

and joyed while I could in my jewel-bestower.

And let Unferth wield this wondrous sword,

earl far-honored, this heirloom precious,

hard of edge: with Hrunting I

seek doom of glory, or Death shall take me."

After these words the Weder-Geat lord

boldly hastened, biding never

answer at all: the ocean floods

closed o'er the hero. Long while of the day

fled ere he felt the floor of the sea.

Soon found the fiend who the flood-domain

sword-hungry held these hundred winters,

greedy and grim, that some guest from above,

some man, was raiding her monster-realm.

She grasped out for him with grisly claws,

and the warrior seized; yet scathed she not

his body hale; the breastplate hindered,

as she strove to shatter the sark of war,

the linked harness, with loathsome hand.

Then bore this brine-wolf, when bottom she touched,

the lord of rings to the lair she haunted

whiles vainly he strove, though his valor held,

weapon to wield against wondrous monsters

that sore beset him; sea-beasts many

tried with fierce tusks to tear his mail,

and swarmed on the stranger. But soon he marked

he was now in some hall, he knew not which,

where water never could work him harm,

nor through the roof could reach him ever

fangs of the flood. Firelight he saw,

beams of a blaze that brightly shone.

Then the warrior was ware of that wolf-of-the-deep,

mere-wife monstrous. For mighty stroke

he swung his blade, and the blow withheld not.

Then sang on her head that seemly blade

its war-song wild. But the warrior found

the light-of-battle[1] was loath to bite,

to harm the heart: its hard edge failed

the noble at need, yet had known of old

strife hand to hand, and had helmets cloven,

doomed men's fighting-gear. First time, this,

for the gleaming blade that its glory fell.

Firm still stood, nor failed in valor,

heedful of high deeds, Hygelac's kinsman;

flung away fretted sword, featly jewelled,

the angry earl; on earth it lay

steel-edged and stiff. His strength he trusted,

hand-gripe of might. So man shall do

whenever in war he weens to earn him

lasting fame, nor fears for his life!

Seized then by shoulder, shrank not from combat,

the Geatish war-prince Grendel's mother.

Flung then the fierce one, filled with wrath,

his deadly foe, that she fell to ground.

Swift on her part she paid him back

with grisly grasp, and grappled with him.

Spent with struggle, stumbled the warrior,

fiercest of fighting-men, fell adown.

On the hall-guest she hurled herself, hent her short


broad and brown-edged,[2] the bairn to avenge,

the sole-born son. -- On his shoulder lay

braided breast-mail, barring death,

withstanding entrance of edge or blade.

Life would have ended for Ecgtheow's son,

under wide earth for that earl of Geats,

had his armor of war not aided him,

battle-net hard, and holy God

wielded the victory, wisest Maker.

The Lord of Heaven allowed his cause;

and easily rose the earl erect.

[1] Kenning for "sword." Hrunting is bewitched, laid under a spell of

uselessness, along with all other swords.

[2] This brown of swords, evidently meaning burnished, bright, continues to

be a favorite adjective in the popular ballads.


'MID the battle-gear saw he a blade triumphant,

old-sword of Eotens, with edge of proof,

warriors' heirloom, weapon unmatched,

-- save only 'twas more than other men

to bandy-of-battle could bear at all --

as the giants had wrought it, ready and keen.

Seized then its chain-hilt the Scyldings' chieftain,

bold and battle-grim, brandished the sword,

reckless of life, and so wrathfully smote

that it gripped her neck and grasped her hard,

her bone-rings breaking: the blade pierced through

that fated-one's flesh: to floor she sank.

Bloody the blade: he was blithe of his deed.

Then blazed forth light. 'Twas bright within

as when from the sky there shines unclouded

heaven's candle. The hall he scanned.

By the wall then went he; his weapon raised

high by its hilts the Hygelac-thane,

angry and eager. That edge was not useless

to the warrior now. He wished with speed

Grendel to guerdon for grim raids many,

for the war he waged on Western-Danes

oftener far than an only time,

when of Hrothgar's hearth-companions

he slew in slumber, in sleep devoured,

fifteen men of the folk of Danes,

and as many others outward bore,

his horrible prey. Well paid for that

the wrathful prince! For now prone he saw

Grendel stretched there, spent with war,

spoiled of life, so scathed had left him

Heorot's battle. The body sprang far

when after death it endured the blow,

sword-stroke savage, that severed its head.

Soon,[1] then, saw the sage companions

who waited with Hrothgar, watching the flood,

that the tossing waters turbid grew,

blood-stained the mere. Old men together,

hoary-haired, of the hero spake;

the warrior would not, they weened, again,

proud of conquest, come to seek

their mighty master. To many it seemed

the wolf-of-the-waves had won his life.

The ninth hour came. The noble Scyldings

left the headland; homeward went

the gold-friend of men.[2] But the guests sat on,

stared at the surges, sick in heart,

and wished, yet weened not, their winsome lord

again to see.

Now that sword began,

from blood of the fight, in battle-droppings,[3]

war-blade, to wane: 'twas a wondrous thing

that all of it melted as ice is wont

when frosty fetters the Father loosens,

unwinds the wave-bonds, wielding all

seasons and times: the true God he!

Nor took from that dwelling the duke of the Geats

precious things, though a plenty he saw,

save only the head and that hilt withal

blazoned with jewels: the blade had melted,

burned was the bright sword, her blood was so hot,

so poisoned the hell-sprite who perished within


Soon he was swimming who safe saw in combat

downfall of demons; up-dove through the flood.

The clashing waters were cleansed now,

waste of waves, where the wandering fiend

her life-days left and this lapsing world.

Swam then to strand the sailors'-refuge,

sturdy-in-spirit, of sea-booty glad,

of burden brave he bore with him.

Went then to greet him, and God they thanked,

the thane-band choice of their chieftain blithe,

that safe and sound they could see him again.

Soon from the hardy one helmet and armor

deftly they doffed: now drowsed the mere,

water 'neath welkin, with war-blood stained.

Forth they fared by the footpaths thence,

merry at heart the highways measured,

well-known roads. Courageous men

carried the head from the cliff by the sea,

an arduous task for all the band,

the firm in fight, since four were needed

on the shaft-of-slaughter[4] strenuously

to bear to the gold-hall Grendel's head.

So presently to the palace there

foemen fearless, fourteen Geats,

marching came. Their master-of-clan

mighty amid them the meadow-ways trod.

Strode then within the sovran thane

fearless in fight, of fame renowned,

hardy hero, Hrothgar to greet.

And next by the hair into hall was borne

Grendel's head, where the henchmen were drinking,

an awe to clan and queen alike,

a monster of marvel: the men looked on.

[1] After the killing of the monster and Grendel's decapitation.

[2] Hrothgar.

[3] The blade slowly dissolves in blood-stained drops like icicles.

[4] Spear.


BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:--

"Lo, now, this sea-booty, son of Healfdene,

Lord of Scyldings, we've lustily brought thee,

sign of glory; thou seest it here.

Not lightly did I with my life escape!

In war under water this work I essayed

with endless effort; and even so

my strength had been lost had the Lord not shielded


Not a whit could I with Hrunting do

in work of war, though the weapon is good;

yet a sword the Sovran of Men vouchsafed me

to spy on the wall there, in splendor hanging,

old, gigantic, -- how oft He guides

the friendless wight! -- and I fought with that brand,

felling in fight, since fate was with me,

the house's wardens. That war-sword then

all burned, bright blade, when the blood gushed o'er it,

battle-sweat hot; but the hilt I brought back

from my foes. So avenged I their fiendish deeds

death-fall of Danes, as was due and right.

And this is my hest, that in Heorot now

safe thou canst sleep with thy soldier band,

and every thane of all thy folk

both old and young; no evil fear,

Scyldings' lord, from that side again,

aught ill for thy earls, as erst thou must!"

Then the golden hilt, for that gray-haired leader,

hoary hero, in hand was laid,

giant-wrought, old. So owned and enjoyed it

after downfall of devils, the Danish lord,

wonder-smiths' work, since the world was rid

of that grim-souled fiend, the foe of God,

murder-marked, and his mother as well.

Now it passed into power of the people's king,

best of all that the oceans bound

who have scattered their gold o'er Scandia's isle.

Hrothgar spake -- the hilt he viewed,

heirloom old, where was etched the rise

of that far-off fight when the floods o'erwhelmed,

raging waves, the race of giants

(fearful their fate!), a folk estranged

from God Eternal: whence guerdon due

in that waste of waters the Wielder paid them.

So on the guard of shining gold

in runic staves it was rightly said

for whom the serpent-traced sword was wrought,

best of blades, in bygone days,

and the hilt well wound. -- The wise-one spake,

son of Healfdene; silent were all:--

"Lo, so may he say who sooth and right

follows 'mid folk, of far times mindful,

a land-warden old,[1] that this earl belongs

to the better breed! So, borne aloft,

thy fame must fly, O friend my Beowulf,

far and wide o'er folksteads many. Firmly thou

shalt all maintain,

mighty strength with mood of wisdom. Love of

mine will I assure thee,

as, awhile ago, I promised; thou shalt prove a stay

in future,

in far-off years, to folk of thine,

to the heroes a help. Was not Heremod thus

to offspring of Ecgwela, Honor-Scyldings,

nor grew for their grace, but for grisly slaughter,

for doom of death to the Danishmen.

He slew, wrath-swollen, his shoulder-comrades,

companions at board! So he passed alone,

chieftain haughty, from human cheer.

Though him the Maker with might endowed,

delights of power, and uplifted high

above all men, yet blood-fierce his mind,

his breast-hoard, grew, no bracelets gave he

to Danes as was due; he endured all joyless

strain of struggle and stress of woe,

long feud with his folk. Here find thy lesson!

Of virtue advise thee! This verse I have said

for thee,

wise from lapsed winters. Wondrous seems

how to sons of men Almighty God

in the strength of His spirit sendeth wisdom,

estate, high station: He swayeth all things.

Whiles He letteth right lustily fare

the heart of the hero of high-born race, --

in seat ancestral assigns him bliss,

his folk's sure fortress in fee to hold,

puts in his power great parts of the earth,

empire so ample, that end of it

this wanter-of-wisdom weeneth none.

So he waxes in wealth, nowise can harm him

illness or age; no evil cares

shadow his spirit; no sword-hate threatens

from ever an enemy: all the world

wends at his will, no worse he knoweth,

till all within him obstinate pride

waxes and wakes while the warden slumbers,

the spirit's sentry; sleep is too fast

which masters his might, and the murderer nears,

stealthily shooting the shafts from his bow!

[1] That is, "whoever has as wide authority as I have and can remember

so far back so many instances of heroism, may well say, as I say, that no

better hero ever lived than Beowulf."


"UNDER harness his heart then is hit indeed

by sharpest shafts; and no shelter avails

from foul behest of the hellish fiend.[1]

Him seems too little what long he possessed.

Greedy and grim, no golden rings

he gives for his pride; the promised future

forgets he and spurns, with all God has sent


Wonder-Wielder, of wealth and fame.

Yet in the end it ever comes

that the frame of the body fragile yields,

fated falls; and there follows another

who joyously the jewels divides,

the royal riches, nor recks of his forebear.

Ban, then, such baleful thoughts, Beowulf dearest,

best of men, and the better part choose,

profit eternal; and temper thy pride,

warrior famous! The flower of thy might

lasts now a while: but erelong it shall be

that sickness or sword thy strength shall minish,

or fang of fire, or flooding billow,

or bite of blade, or brandished spear,

or odious age; or the eyes' clear beam

wax dull and darken: Death even thee

in haste shall o'erwhelm, thou hero of war!

So the Ring-Danes these half-years a hundred I


wielded 'neath welkin, and warded them bravely

from mighty-ones many o'er middle-earth,

from spear and sword, till it seemed for me

no foe could be found under fold of the sky.

Lo, sudden the shift! To me seated secure

came grief for joy when Grendel began

to harry my home, the hellish foe;

for those ruthless raids, unresting I suffered

heart-sorrow heavy. Heaven be thanked,

Lord Eternal, for life extended

that I on this head all hewn and bloody,

after long evil, with eyes may gaze!

-- Go to the bench now! Be glad at banquet,

warrior worthy! A wealth of treasure

at dawn of day, be dealt between us!"

Glad was the Geats' lord, going betimes

to seek his seat, as the Sage commanded.

Afresh, as before, for the famed-in-battle,

for the band of the hall, was a banquet dight

nobly anew. The Night-Helm darkened

dusk o'er the drinkers.

The doughty ones rose:

for the hoary-headed would hasten to rest,

aged Scylding; and eager the Geat,

shield-fighter sturdy, for sleeping yearned.

Him wander-weary, warrior-guest

from far, a hall-thane heralded forth,

who by custom courtly cared for all

needs of a thane as in those old days

warrior-wanderers wont to have.

So slumbered the stout-heart. Stately the hall

rose gabled and gilt where the guest slept on

till a raven black the rapture-of-heaven[2]

blithe-heart boded. Bright came flying

shine after shadow. The swordsmen hastened,

athelings all were eager homeward

forth to fare; and far from thence

the great-hearted guest would guide his keel.

Bade then the hardy-one Hrunting be brought

to the son of Ecglaf, the sword bade him take,

excellent iron, and uttered his thanks for it,

quoth that he counted it keen in battle,

"war-friend" winsome: with words he slandered not

edge of the blade: 'twas a big-hearted man!

Now eager for parting and armed at point

warriors waited, while went to his host

that Darling of Danes. The doughty atheling

to high-seat hastened and Hrothgar greeted.

[1] That is, he is now undefended by conscience from the temptations

(shafts) of the devil.

[2] Kenning for the sun. -- This is a strange role for the raven. He is the

warrior's bird of battle, exults in slaughter and carnage; his joy here is a

compliment to the sunrise.


BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:--

"Lo, we seafarers say our will,

far-come men, that we fain would seek

Hygelac now. We here have found

hosts to our heart: thou hast harbored us well.

If ever on earth I am able to win me

more of thy love, O lord of men,

aught anew, than I now have done,

for work of war I am willing still!

If it come to me ever across the seas

that neighbor foemen annoy and fright thee, --

as they that hate thee erewhile have used, --

thousands then of thanes I shall bring,

heroes to help thee. Of Hygelac I know,

ward of his folk, that, though few his years,

the lord of the Geats will give me aid

by word and by work, that well I may serve thee,

wielding the war-wood to win thy triumph

and lending thee might when thou lackest men.

If thy Hrethric should come to court of Geats,

a sovran's son, he will surely there

find his friends. A far-off land

each man should visit who vaunts him brave."

Him then answering, Hrothgar spake:--

"These words of thine the wisest God

sent to thy soul! No sager counsel

from so young in years e'er yet have I heard.

Thou art strong of main and in mind art wary,

art wise in words! I ween indeed

if ever it hap that Hrethel's heir

by spear be seized, by sword-grim battle,

by illness or iron, thine elder and lord,

people's leader, -- and life be thine, --

no seemlier man will the Sea-Geats find

at all to choose for their chief and king,

for hoard-guard of heroes, if hold thou wilt

thy kinsman's kingdom! Thy keen mind pleases me

the longer the better, Beowulf loved!

Thou hast brought it about that both our peoples,

sons of the Geat and Spear-Dane folk,

shall have mutual peace, and from murderous strife,

such as once they waged, from war refrain.

Long as I rule this realm so wide,

let our hoards be common, let heroes with gold

each other greet o'er the gannet's-bath,

and the ringed-prow bear o'er rolling waves

tokens of love. I trow my landfolk

towards friend and foe are firmly joined,

and honor they keep in the olden way."

To him in the hall, then, Healfdene's son

gave treasures twelve, and the trust-of-earls

bade him fare with the gifts to his folk beloved,

hale to his home, and in haste return.

Then kissed the king of kin renowned,

Scyldings' chieftain, that choicest thane,

and fell on his neck. Fast flowed the tears

of the hoary-headed. Heavy with winters,

he had chances twain, but he clung to this,[1] --

that each should look on the other again,

and hear him in hall. Was this hero so dear to him.

his breast's wild billows he banned in vain;

safe in his soul a secret longing,

locked in his mind, for that loved man

burned in his blood. Then Beowulf strode,

glad of his gold-gifts, the grass-plot o'er,

warrior blithe. The wave-roamer bode

riding at anchor, its owner awaiting.

As they hastened onward, Hrothgar's gift

they lauded at length. -- 'Twas a lord unpeered,

every way blameless, till age had broken

-- it spareth no mortal -- his splendid might.

[1] That is, he might or might not see Beowulf again. Old as he was, the

latter chance was likely; but he clung to the former, hoping to see his

young friend again "and exchange brave words in the hall."


CAME now to ocean the ever-courageous

hardy henchmen, their harness bearing,

woven war-sarks. The warden marked,

trusty as ever, the earl's return.

From the height of the hill no hostile words

reached the guests as he rode to greet them;

but "Welcome!" he called to that Weder clan

as the sheen-mailed spoilers to ship marched on.

Then on the strand, with steeds and treasure

and armor their roomy and ring-dight ship

was heavily laden: high its mast

rose over Hrothgar's hoarded gems.

A sword to the boat-guard Beowulf gave,

mounted with gold; on the mead-bench since

he was better esteemed, that blade possessing,

heirloom old. -- Their ocean-keel boarding,

they drove through the deep, and Daneland left.

A sea-cloth was set, a sail with ropes,

firm to the mast; the flood-timbers moaned;[1]

nor did wind over billows that wave-swimmer blow

across from her course. The craft sped on,

foam-necked it floated forth o'er the waves,

keel firm-bound over briny currents,

till they got them sight of the Geatish cliffs,

home-known headlands. High the boat,

stirred by winds, on the strand updrove.

Helpful at haven the harbor-guard stood,

who long already for loved companions

by the water had waited and watched afar.

He bound to the beach the broad-bosomed ship

with anchor-bands, lest ocean-billows

that trusty timber should tear away.

Then Beowulf bade them bear the treasure,

gold and jewels; no journey far

was it thence to go to the giver of rings,

Hygelac Hrethling: at home he dwelt

by the sea-wall close, himself and clan.

Haughty that house, a hero the king,

high the hall, and Hygd[2] right young,

wise and wary, though winters few

in those fortress walls she had found a home,

Haereth's daughter. Nor humble her ways,

nor grudged she gifts to the Geatish men,

of precious treasure. Not Thryth's pride showed she,

folk-queen famed, or that fell deceit.

Was none so daring that durst make bold

(save her lord alone) of the liegemen dear

that lady full in the face to look,

but forged fetters he found his lot,

bonds of death! And brief the respite;

soon as they seized him, his sword-doom was spoken,

and the burnished blade a baleful murder

proclaimed and closed. No queenly way

for woman to practise, though peerless she,

that the weaver-of-peace[3] from warrior dear

by wrath and lying his life should reave!

But Hemming's kinsman hindered this. --

For over their ale men also told

that of these folk-horrors fewer she wrought,

onslaughts of evil, after she went,

gold-decked bride, to the brave young prince,

atheling haughty, and Offa's hall

o'er the fallow flood at her father's bidding

safely sought, where since she prospered,

royal, throned, rich in goods,

fain of the fair life fate had sent her,

and leal in love to the lord of warriors.

He, of all heroes I heard of ever

from sea to sea, of the sons of earth,

most excellent seemed. Hence Offa was praised

for his fighting and feeing by far-off men,

the spear-bold warrior; wisely he ruled

over his empire. Eomer woke to him,

help of heroes, Hemming's kinsman,

Grandson of Garmund, grim in war.

[1] With the speed of the boat.

[2] Queen to Hygelac. She is praised by contrast with the antitype, Thryth,

just as Beowulf was praised by contrast with Heremod.

[3] Kenning for "wife."


HASTENED the hardy one, henchmen with him,

sandy strand of the sea to tread

and widespread ways. The world's great candle,

sun shone from south. They strode along

with sturdy steps to the spot they knew

where the battle-king young, his burg within,

slayer of Ongentheow, shared the rings,

shelter-of-heroes. To Hygelac

Beowulf's coming was quickly told, --

that there in the court the clansmen's refuge,

the shield-companion sound and alive,

hale from the hero-play homeward strode.

With haste in the hall, by highest order,

room for the rovers was readily made.

By his sovran he sat, come safe from battle,

kinsman by kinsman. His kindly lord

he first had greeted in gracious form,

with manly words. The mead dispensing,

came through the high hall Haereth's daughter,

winsome to warriors, wine-cup bore

to the hands of the heroes. Hygelac then

his comrade fairly with question plied

in the lofty hall, sore longing to know

what manner of sojourn the Sea-Geats made.

"What came of thy quest, my kinsman Beowulf,

when thy yearnings suddenly swept thee yonder

battle to seek o'er the briny sea,

combat in Heorot? Hrothgar couldst thou

aid at all, the honored chief,

in his wide-known woes? With waves of care

my sad heart seethed; I sore mistrusted

my loved one's venture: long I begged thee

by no means to seek that slaughtering monster,

but suffer the South-Danes to settle their feud

themselves with Grendel. Now God be thanked

that safe and sound I can see thee now!"

Beowulf spake, the bairn of Ecgtheow:--

"'Tis known and unhidden, Hygelac Lord,

to many men, that meeting of ours,

struggle grim between Grendel and me,

which we fought on the field where full too many

sorrows he wrought for the Scylding-Victors,

evils unending. These all I avenged.

No boast can be from breed of Grendel,

any on earth, for that uproar at dawn,

from the longest-lived of the loathsome race

in fleshly fold! -- But first I went

Hrothgar to greet in the hall of gifts,

where Healfdene's kinsman high-renowned,

soon as my purpose was plain to him,

assigned me a seat by his son and heir.

The liegemen were lusty; my life-days never

such merry men over mead in hall

have I heard under heaven! The high-born queen,

people's peace-bringer, passed through the hall,

cheered the young clansmen, clasps of gold,

ere she sought her seat, to sundry gave.

Oft to the heroes Hrothgar's daughter,

to earls in turn, the ale-cup tendered, --

she whom I heard these hall-companions

Freawaru name, when fretted gold

she proffered the warriors. Promised is she,

gold-decked maid, to the glad son of Froda.

Sage this seems to the Scylding's-friend,

kingdom's-keeper: he counts it wise

the woman to wed so and ward off feud,

store of slaughter. But seldom ever

when men are slain, does the murder-spear sink

but briefest while, though the bride be fair![1]

"Nor haply will like it the Heathobard lord,

and as little each of his liegemen all,

when a thane of the Danes, in that doughty throng,

goes with the lady along their hall,

and on him the old-time heirlooms glisten

hard and ring-decked, Heathobard's treasure,

weapons that once they wielded fair

until they lost at the linden-play[2]

liegeman leal and their lives as well.

Then, over the ale, on this heirloom gazing,

some ash-wielder old who has all in mind

that spear-death of men,[3] -- he is stern of mood,

heavy at heart, -- in the hero young

tests the temper and tries the soul

and war-hate wakens, with words like these:--

_Canst thou not, comrade, ken that sword

which to the fray thy father carried

in his final feud, 'neath the fighting-mask,

dearest of blades, when the Danish slew him

and wielded the war-place on Withergild's fall,

after havoc of heroes, those hardy Scyldings?

Now, the son of a certain slaughtering Dane,

proud of his treasure, paces this hall,

joys in the killing, and carries the jewel[4]

that rightfully ought to be owned by thee!_

Thus he urges and eggs him all the time

with keenest words, till occasion offers

that Freawaru's thane, for his father's deed,

after bite of brand in his blood must slumber,

losing his life; but that liegeman flies

living away, for the land he kens.

And thus be broken on both their sides

oaths of the earls, when Ingeld's breast

wells with war-hate, and wife-love now

after the care-billows cooler grows.

"So[5] I hold not high the Heathobards' faith

due to the Danes, or their during love

and pact of peace. -- But I pass from that,

turning to Grendel, O giver-of-treasure,

and saying in full how the fight resulted,

hand-fray of heroes. When heaven's jewel

had fled o'er far fields, that fierce sprite came,

night-foe savage, to seek us out

where safe and sound we sentried the hall.

To Hondscio then was that harassing deadly,

his fall there was fated. He first was slain,

girded warrior. Grendel on him

turned murderous mouth, on our mighty kinsman,

and all of the brave man's body devoured.

Yet none the earlier, empty-handed,

would the bloody-toothed murderer, mindful of bale,

outward go from the gold-decked hall:

but me he attacked in his terror of might,

with greedy hand grasped me. A glove hung by him[6]

wide and wondrous, wound with bands;

and in artful wise it all was wrought,

by devilish craft, of dragon-skins.

Me therein, an innocent man,

the fiendish foe was fain to thrust

with many another. He might not so,

when I all angrily upright stood.

'Twere long to relate how that land-destroyer

I paid in kind for his cruel deeds;

yet there, my prince, this people of thine

got fame by my fighting. He fled away,

and a little space his life preserved;

but there staid behind him his stronger hand

left in Heorot; heartsick thence

on the floor of the ocean that outcast fell.

Me for this struggle the Scyldings'-friend

paid in plenty with plates of gold,

with many a treasure, when morn had come

and we all at the banquet-board sat down.

Then was song and glee. The gray-haired Scylding,

much tested, told of the times of yore.

Whiles the hero his harp bestirred,

wood-of-delight; now lays he chanted

of sooth and sadness, or said aright

legends of wonder, the wide-hearted king;

or for years of his youth he would yearn at times,

for strength of old struggles, now stricken with age,

hoary hero: his heart surged full

when, wise with winters, he wailed their flight.

Thus in the hall the whole of that day

at ease we feasted, till fell o'er earth

another night. Anon full ready

in greed of vengeance, Grendel's mother

set forth all doleful. Dead was her son

through war-hate of Weders; now, woman monstrous

with fury fell a foeman she slew,

avenged her offspring. From Aeschere old,

loyal councillor, life was gone;

nor might they e'en, when morning broke,

those Danish people, their death-done comrade

burn with brands, on balefire lay

the man they mourned. Under mountain stream

she had carried the corpse with cruel hands.

For Hrothgar that was the heaviest sorrow

of all that had laden the lord of his folk.

The leader then, by thy life, besought me

(sad was his soul) in the sea-waves' coil

to play the hero and hazard my being

for glory of prowess: my guerdon he pledged.

I then in the waters -- 'tis widely known --

that sea-floor-guardian savage found.

Hand-to-hand there a while we struggled;

billows welled blood; in the briny hall

her head I hewed with a hardy blade

from Grendel's mother, -- and gained my life,

though not without danger. My doom was not yet.

Then the haven-of-heroes, Healfdene's son,

gave me in guerdon great gifts of price.

[1] Beowulf gives his uncle the king not mere gossip of his journey, but a

statesmanlike forecast of the outcome of certain policies at the Danish court.

Talk of interpolation here is absurd. As both Beowulf and Hygelac know, --

and the folk for whom the Beowulf was put together also knew, -- Froda

was king of the Heathobards (probably the Langobards, once near neigh-

bors of Angle and Saxon tribes on the continent), and had fallen in fight

with the Danes. Hrothgar will set aside this feud by giving his daughter

as "peace-weaver" and wife to the young king Ingeld, son of the slain

Froda. But Beowulf, on general principles and from his observation of the

particular case, foretells trouble.

[2] Play of shields, battle. A Danish warrior cuts down Froda in the fight,

and takes his sword and armor, leaving them to a son. This son is selected

to accompany his mistress, the young princess Freawaru, to her new home

when she is Ingeld's queen. Heedlessly he wears the sword of Froda in

hall. An old warrior points it out to Ingeld, and eggs him on to vengeance.

At his instigation the Dane is killed; but the murderer, afraid of results,

and knowing the land, escapes. So the old feud must break out again.

[3] That is, their disastrous battle and the slaying of their king.

[4] The sword.

[5] Beowulf returns to his forecast. Things might well go somewhat as

follows, he says; sketches a little tragic story; and with this prophecy by

illustration returns to the tale of his adventure.

[6] Not an actual glove, but a sort of bag.


"So held this king to the customs old,

that I wanted for nought in the wage I gained,

the meed of my might; he made me gifts,

Healfdene's heir, for my own disposal.

Now to thee, my prince, I proffer them all,

gladly give them. Thy grace alone

can find me favor. Few indeed

have I of kinsmen, save, Hygelac, thee!"

Then he bade them bear him the boar-head standard,

the battle-helm high, and breastplate gray,

the splendid sword; then spake in form:--

"Me this war-gear the wise old prince,

Hrothgar, gave, and his hest he added,

that its story be straightway said to thee. --

A while it was held by Heorogar king,

for long time lord of the land of Scyldings;

yet not to his son the sovran left it,

to daring Heoroweard, -- dear as he was to him,

his harness of battle. -- Well hold thou it all!"

And I heard that soon passed o'er the path of

this treasure,

all apple-fallow, four good steeds,

each like the others, arms and horses

he gave to the king. So should kinsmen be,

not weave one another the net of wiles,

or with deep-hid treachery death contrive

for neighbor and comrade. His nephew was ever

by hardy Hygelac held full dear,

and each kept watch o'er the other's weal.

I heard, too, the necklace to Hygd he presented,

wonder-wrought treasure, which Wealhtheow gave


sovran's daughter: three steeds he added,

slender and saddle-gay. Since such gift

the gem gleamed bright on the breast of the queen.

Thus showed his strain the son of Ecgtheow

as a man remarked for mighty deeds

and acts of honor. At ale he slew not

comrade or kin; nor cruel his mood,

though of sons of earth his strength was greatest,

a glorious gift that God had sent

the splendid leader. Long was he spurned,

and worthless by Geatish warriors held;

him at mead the master-of-clans

failed full oft to favor at all.

Slack and shiftless the strong men deemed him,

profitless prince; but payment came,

to the warrior honored, for all his woes. --

Then the bulwark-of-earls[1] bade bring within,

hardy chieftain, Hrethel's heirloom

garnished with gold: no Geat e'er knew

in shape of a sword a statelier prize.

The brand he laid in Beowulf's lap;

and of hides assigned him seven thousand,[2]

with house and high-seat. They held in common

land alike by their line of birth,

inheritance, home: but higher the king

because of his rule o'er the realm itself.

Now further it fell with the flight of years,

with harryings horrid, that Hygelac perished,[3]

and Heardred, too, by hewing of swords

under the shield-wall slaughtered lay,

when him at the van of his victor-folk

sought hardy heroes, Heatho-Scilfings,

in arms o'erwhelming Hereric's nephew.

Then Beowulf came as king this broad

realm to wield; and he ruled it well

fifty winters,[4] a wise old prince,

warding his land, until One began

in the dark of night, a Dragon, to rage.

In the grave on the hill a hoard it guarded,

in the stone-barrow steep. A strait path reached it,

unknown to mortals. Some man, however,

came by chance that cave within

to the heathen hoard.[5] In hand he took

a golden goblet, nor gave he it back,

stole with it away, while the watcher slept,

by thievish wiles: for the warden's wrath

prince and people must pay betimes!

[1] Hygelac.

[2] This is generally assumed to mean hides, though the text simply says

"seven thousand." A hide in England meant about 120 acres, though "the

size of the acre varied."

[3] On the historical raid into Frankish territory between 512 and 520 A.D.

The subsequent course of events, as gathered from hints of this epic, is

partly told in Scandinavian legend.

[4] The chronology of this epic, as scholars have worked it out, would make

Beowulf well over ninety years of age when he fights the dragon. But the

fifty years of his reign need not be taken as historical fact.

[5] The text is here hopelessly illegible, and only the general drift of the

meaning can be rescued. For one thing, we have the old myth of a dragon

who guards hidden treasure. But with this runs the story of some noble,

last of his race, who hides all his wealth within this barrow and there

chants his farewell to life's glories. After his death the dragon takes pos-

session of the hoard and watches over it. A condemned or banished man,

desperate, hides in the barrow, discovers the treasure, and while the dragon

sleeps, makes off with a golden beaker or the like, and carries it for propi-

tiation to his master. The dragon discovers the loss and exacts fearful

penalty from the people round about.


THAT way he went with no will of his own,

in danger of life, to the dragon's hoard,

but for pressure of peril, some prince's thane.

He fled in fear the fatal scourge,

seeking shelter, a sinful man,

and entered in. At the awful sight

tottered that guest, and terror seized him;

yet the wretched fugitive rallied anon

from fright and fear ere he fled away,

and took the cup from that treasure-hoard.

Of such besides there was store enough,

heirlooms old, the earth below,

which some earl forgotten, in ancient years,

left the last of his lofty race,

heedfully there had hidden away,

dearest treasure. For death of yore

had hurried all hence; and he alone

left to live, the last of the clan,

weeping his friends, yet wished to bide

warding the treasure, his one delight,

though brief his respite. The barrow, new-ready,

to strand and sea-waves stood anear,

hard by the headland, hidden and closed;

there laid within it his lordly heirlooms

and heaped hoard of heavy gold

that warden of rings. Few words he spake:

"Now hold thou, earth, since heroes may not,

what earls have owned! Lo, erst from thee

brave men brought it! But battle-death seized

and cruel killing my clansmen all,

robbed them of life and a liegeman's joys.

None have I left to lift the sword,

or to cleanse the carven cup of price,

beaker bright. My brave are gone.

And the helmet hard, all haughty with gold,

shall part from its plating. Polishers sleep

who could brighten and burnish the battle-mask;

and those weeds of war that were wont to brave

over bicker of shields the bite of steel

rust with their bearer. The ringed mail

fares not far with famous chieftain,

at side of hero! No harp's delight,

no glee-wood's gladness! No good hawk now

flies through the hall! Nor horses fleet

stamp in the burgstead! Battle and death

the flower of my race have reft away."

Mournful of mood, thus he moaned his woe,

alone, for them all, and unblithe wept

by day and by night, till death's fell wave

o'erwhelmed his heart. His hoard-of-bliss

that old ill-doer open found,

who, blazing at twilight the barrows haunteth,

naked foe-dragon flying by night

folded in fire: the folk of earth

dread him sore. 'Tis his doom to seek

hoard in the graves, and heathen gold

to watch, many-wintered: nor wins he thereby!

Powerful this plague-of-the-people thus

held the house of the hoard in earth

three hundred winters; till One aroused

wrath in his breast, to the ruler bearing

that costly cup, and the king implored

for bond of peace. So the barrow was plundered,

borne off was booty. His boon was granted

that wretched man; and his ruler saw

first time what was fashioned in far-off days.

When the dragon awoke, new woe was kindled.

O'er the stone he snuffed. The stark-heart found

footprint of foe who so far had gone

in his hidden craft by the creature's head. --

So may the undoomed easily flee

evils and exile, if only he gain

the grace of The Wielder! -- That warden of gold

o'er the ground went seeking, greedy to find

the man who wrought him such wrong in sleep.

Savage and burning, the barrow he circled

all without; nor was any there,

none in the waste.... Yet war he desired,

was eager for battle. The barrow he entered,

sought the cup, and discovered soon

that some one of mortals had searched his treasure,

his lordly gold. The guardian waited

ill-enduring till evening came;

boiling with wrath was the barrow's keeper,

and fain with flame the foe to pay

for the dear cup's loss. -- Now day was fled

as the worm had wished. By its wall no more

was it glad to bide, but burning flew

folded in flame: a fearful beginning

for sons of the soil; and soon it came,

in the doom of their lord, to a dreadful end.


THEN the baleful fiend its fire belched out,

and bright homes burned. The blaze stood high

all landsfolk frighting. No living thing

would that loathly one leave as aloft it flew.

Wide was the dragon's warring seen,

its fiendish fury far and near,

as the grim destroyer those Geatish people

hated and hounded. To hidden lair,

to its hoard it hastened at hint of dawn.

Folk of the land it had lapped in flame,

with bale and brand. In its barrow it trusted,

its battling and bulwarks: that boast was vain!

To Beowulf then the bale was told

quickly and truly: the king's own home,

of buildings the best, in brand-waves melted,

that gift-throne of Geats. To the good old man

sad in heart, 'twas heaviest sorrow.

The sage assumed that his sovran God

he had angered, breaking ancient law,

and embittered the Lord. His breast within

with black thoughts welled, as his wont was never.

The folk's own fastness that fiery dragon

with flame had destroyed, and the stronghold all

washed by waves; but the warlike king,

prince of the Weders, plotted vengeance.

Warriors'-bulwark, he bade them work

all of iron -- the earl's commander --

a war-shield wondrous: well he knew

that forest-wood against fire were worthless,

linden could aid not. -- Atheling brave,

he was fated to finish this fleeting life,[1]

his days on earth, and the dragon with him,

though long it had watched o'er the wealth of the

hoard! --

Shame he reckoned it, sharer-of-rings,

to follow the flyer-afar with a host,

a broad-flung band; nor the battle feared he,

nor deemed he dreadful the dragon's warring,

its vigor and valor: ventures desperate

he had passed a-plenty, and perils of war,

contest-crash, since, conqueror proud,

Hrothgar's hall he had wholly purged,

and in grapple had killed the kin of Grendel,

loathsome breed! Not least was that

of hand-to-hand fights where Hygelac fell,

when the ruler of Geats in rush of battle,

lord of his folk, in the Frisian land,

son of Hrethel, by sword-draughts died,

by brands down-beaten. Thence Beowulf fled

through strength of himself and his swimming power,

though alone, and his arms were laden with thirty

coats of mail, when he came to the sea!

Nor yet might Hetwaras[2] haughtily boast

their craft of contest, who carried against him

shields to the fight: but few escaped

from strife with the hero to seek their homes!

Then swam over ocean Ecgtheow's son

lonely and sorrowful, seeking his land,

where Hygd made him offer of hoard and realm,

rings and royal-seat, reckoning naught

the strength of her son to save their kingdom

from hostile hordes, after Hygelac's death.

No sooner for this could the stricken ones

in any wise move that atheling's mind

over young Heardred's head as lord

and ruler of all the realm to be:

yet the hero upheld him with helpful words,

aided in honor, till, older grown,

he wielded the Weder-Geats. -- Wandering exiles

sought him o'er seas, the sons of Ohtere,

who had spurned the sway of the Scylfings'-helmet,

the bravest and best that broke the rings,

in Swedish land, of the sea-kings' line,

haughty hero.[3] Hence Heardred's end.

For shelter he gave them, sword-death came,

the blade's fell blow, to bairn of Hygelac;

but the son of Ongentheow sought again

house and home when Heardred fell,

leaving Beowulf lord of Geats

and gift-seat's master. -- A good king he!

[1] Literally "loan-days," days loaned to man.

[2] Chattuarii, a tribe that dwelt along the Rhine, and took part in repelling

the raid of (Hygelac) Chocilaicus.

[3] Onela, son of Ongentheow, who pursues his two nephews Eanmund and

Eadgils to Heardred's court, where they have taken refuge after their un-

successful rebellion. In the fighting Heardred is killed.


THE fall of his lord he was fain to requite

in after days; and to Eadgils he proved

friend to the friendless, and forces sent

over the sea to the son of Ohtere,

weapons and warriors: well repaid he

those care-paths cold when the king he slew.[1]

Thus safe through struggles the son of Ecgtheow

had passed a plenty, through perils dire,

with daring deeds, till this day


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Beowulf is the outstanding example of primary epic in which there are monsters and demons fighting with human beings. The poet of Beowulf excels in the description of moorland or the Heorot. In all the Epics of Nature the picture of heroic personality encountering the demons and ensuring the defeat of the evil forces is common. The greatness of Beowulf lies in his physical prowess and mental courage with which he establishes peace in the kingdom of Hrothgar. There is no other reason but a craving for fame in Beowulf the prince . He fights for achieving a great name. But at the same time Beowulf gets a responsibility to look after his own kingdom. He fights the Fire breathing monster only to ensure safety for his subjects. Now Beowulf is a responsible king. Fame is not the object now to be achieved. It is the grave responsibility to protect the subjects. Life of the primitive people is beautifully portrayed in the picture of 'hero-hall-harp' in the epic. The mingling of Christian and pagan elements gave the poem its own distinction. Beowulf is not a long poem like the Odyssey or the Iliad ,nor do we find in it all the features of the classical epics. It may be taken as 'an epic in the making'.
Dr.Ratan Bhattacharjee ,
Associate Professor of English and Chairperson Post Graduate Dept.
Nagerbazar, Kolkata, India

| Posted on 2010-02-13 | by a guest

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