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, 66 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. 67 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
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 69 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.