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, 10 when that bale was shown
was seen in sooth, with surest token
the hall-thane’s 11 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 12 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 13 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
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