| |
| HROTHGAR spake, helmet-of-Scyldings:— | |
| “Ask not of pleasure! Pain is renewed | |
| to Danish folk. Dead is Æschere, | |
| of Yrmenlaf the elder brother, | |
| my sage adviser and stay in council, | 5 |
| 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 Æschere was! | |
| But here in Heorot a hand hath slain him | 10 |
| 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,— | 15 |
| 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: | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| 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, | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| 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, | 40 |
| 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, | 45 |
| 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 | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| and the heavens weep. Now is help once more | |
| with thee alone! The land thou knowest not, | |
| place of fear, where thou findest out | |
| that sin-flecked being. Seek if thou dare! | |
| I will reward thee, for waging this fight, | 60 |
| with ancient treasure, as erst I did, | |
| with winding gold, if thou winnest back.” | |
