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
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 61 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.