Grendel'S Mother Attacks The Ring-Danes
Sigon þâ tô slæpe. Sum sâre angealdæfen-räste, swâ him ful-oft gelamp,siððan gold-sele Grendel warode,unriht äfnde, ôð þät ende becwom,swylt äfter synnum. Þät gesýne wearð,wîd-cûð werum, þätte wrecend þâ gytlifde äfter lâðum, lange þrageäfter gûð-ceare; Grendles môdor,ides aglæc-wîf yrmðe gemunde,se þe wäter-egesan wunian scolde,cealde streámas, siððan Cain wearðtô ecg-banan ângan brêðer,fäderen-mæge; he þâ fâg gewât,morðre gemearcod man-dreám fleón,
Then they sank to sleep. One of them paid dearlyfor his evening’s rest, as had so often happenedto them before, once Grendel had heldthat gold-hall, done his wrong, until the end came,death for his crimes. It became known then,widely known to men, that an avenger still livedafter the hateful one, for a long while,after that grief of battle: Grendel’s mother,monstrous woman, brooded on her misery —she who had to dwell in the terrible waters,the cold streams, ever since Cain becamethe sword-slayer of his own brother,his own father’s son; he went then, marked,fled human joy, branded with murder,
wêsten warode. Þanon wôc felageósceaft-gâsta; wäs þæra Grendel sum,heoro-wearh hetelîc, se ät Heorote fandwäccendne wer wîges bîdan,þær him aglæca ät-græpe wearð;hwäðre he gemunde mägenes strenge,gim-fäste gife, þe him god sealde,and him tô anwaldan âre gelýfde,frôfre and fultum: þý he þone feónd ofercwom,gehnægde helle gâst: þâ he heán gewât,dreáme bedæled deáð-wîc seón,man-cynnes feónd. And his môdor þâ gytgîfre and galg-môd gegân woldesorh-fulne sîð, suna deáð wrecan.
and lived in the wasteland. From him wokemany doomed spirits; Grendel was one of them,hateful outcast, who at Heorot founda man lying awake, waiting for battle;there the monster came to grips with him.Yet he remembered the strength of his might,the great gift God had given him,trusted in the Ruler’s grace,his comfort and his help: by that he overcamethe enemy, brought the hell-spirit down;then off he went, humbled, stripped of joy,to see the house of death, that foe of mankind.And now his mother, greedy still,gallows-minded, wanted to go
Com þâ tô Heorote, þær Hring-Denegeond þät säld swæfun. Þâ þær sôna wearðed-hwyrft eorlum, siððan inne fealhGrendles môdor; wäs se gryre lässaefne swâ micle, swâ bið mägða cräft,wîg-gryre wîfes be wæpned-men,þonne heoru bunden, hamere geþuren,sweord swâte fâh swîn ofer helme,ecgum dyhtig andweard scireð.Þâ wäs on healle heard-ecg togen,sweord ofer setlum, sîd-rand manighafen handa fäst; helm ne gemunde,byrnan sîde, þe hine se brôga angeat.Heó wäs on ôfste, wolde ût þanon
on that grim journey, to avenge her son’s death.She came then to Heorot, where the Ring-Daneslay sleeping throughout the hall. Then at oncethere came a reversal for the nobles,once Grendel’s mother had gotten in;the terror was less by as muchas a woman’s war-strength is less than an armed man’s,when a bound blade, forged by the hammer,a sword stained with blood, hard at the edge,shears through the boar-image set on a helmet.Then in the hall the hard-edged sword was drawn,over the benches, many a broad shieldlifted fast in hand; no one thought of a helmet,of a wide mail-shirt, once the terror had them.
feore beorgan, þâ heó onfunden wäs;hraðe heó äðelinga ânne häfdefäste befangen, þâ heó tô fenne gang;se wäs Hrôðgâre häleða leófoston gesîðes hâd be sæm tweonum,rîce rand-wîga, þone þe heó on räste âbreát,blæd-fästne beorn. Näs Beówulf þær,ac wäs ôðer in ær geteohhodäfter mâððum-gife mærum Geáte.Hreám wearð on Heorote. Heó under heolfre genamcûðe folme; cearu wäs geniwodgeworden in wîcum: ne wäs þät gewrixle til,þät hie on bâ healfa bicgan scoldonfreónda feorum. Þâ wäs frôd cyning,
She was in haste, wanted to be out of there,to save her life, once she was seen;quickly she had one of the noblescaught fast in her clutches, as she made for the fen.He was, to Hrothgar, the dearest of menamong all his followers, between the two seas,a powerful shield-warrior, whom she killed at his rest,a man marked out for fame. Beowulf was not there —another lodging had been given the famous Geat,after the treasure was shared. There was uproar in Heorot.She took that famous hand, still covered in gore;grief was made new, come again to those halls:that was no good exchange, that they should have to payon both sides with the lives of friends.
hâr hilde-rinc, on hreón môde,syððan he aldor-þegn unlyfigendne,þone deórestan deádne wisse.Hraðe wäs tô bûre Beówulf fetod,sigor-eádig secg. Samod ær-dägeeode eorla sum, äðele cempaself mid gesîðum, þær se snottra bâd,hwäðre him al-walda æfre willeäfter weá-spelle wyrpe gefremman.Gang þâ äfter flôre fyrd-wyrðe manmid his hand-scale (heal-wudu dynede)þät he þone wîsan wordum hnægdefreán Ingwina; frägn gif him wæreäfter neód-laðu niht getæse.
Then the old king, the grey-haired warrior,was troubled in spirit, once he knewhis chief thane lay lifeless, knew his dearest man was dead.Quickly Beowulf was sent for, brought to the chamber,that man marked out for victory. At dawnhe went, together with his men, one of the nobles,a proud champion, himself with his companions,to where the wise king waited, wonderingwhether the Almighty would ever grant himrelief from this tale of grief. Then the battle-tried manwalked across the floor with his chosen troop(the hall-timbers echoed) until he greeted the wise one,the lord of the Ingwins; asked him whether the nighthad gone well for him, as he had hoped.