Beowulf

XXIII

’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, [23a] 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. [23b] 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, [23c]

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

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 there.

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 [23d] 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.