Sorrow At Heorot: Æschere'S Death
Hrôðgâr maðelode, helm Scildinga:"Ne frin þu äfter sælum! Sorh is geniwod"Denigea leódum. Deád is Äsc-here,"Yrmenlâfes yldra brôðor,"mîn rûn-wita and mîn ræd-bora,"eaxl-gestealla, þonne we on orlege"hafelan weredon, þonne hniton fêðan,"eoferas cnysedan; swylc scolde eorl wesan"äðeling ær-gôd, swylc Äsc-here wäs."Wearð him on Heorote tô hand-banan"wäl-gæst wäfre; ic ne wât hwäder"atol æse wlanc eft-sîðas teáh,"fylle gefrægnod. Heó þâ fæhðe wräc,"þe þu gystran niht Grendel cwealdest"þurh hæstne hâd heardum clammum,"forþan he tô lange leóde mîne
Hrothgar spoke, helmet of the Scyldings:“Do not ask about joy! Sorrow is renewedfor the people of the Danes. Aeschere is dead,Yrmenlaf’s elder brother,my rune-counselor and my advisor,my shoulder-companion, when we guarded our headsin the fight,when troops clashed, when helmets crashed together;such should an earl be, a good man from of old,such as Aeschere was.In Heorot he becamethe victim of some wandering slaughter-ghost’s hand;I do not know where, gloating over the feast,proud with her killing, she made her way back.She avenged that feud in which you killed Grendellast night, by violent force, with hard grips,
"wanode and wyrde. He ät wîge gecrang"ealdres scyldig, and nu ôðer cwom"mihtig mân-scaða, wolde hyre mæg wrecan,"ge feor hafað fæhðe gestæled,"þäs þe þincean mäg þegne monegum,"se þe äfter sinc-gyfan on sefan greóteð,"hreðer-bealo hearde; nu seó hand ligeð,"se þe eów wel-hwylcra wilna dohte."Ic þät lond-bûend leóde mîne"sele-rædende secgan hýrde,"þät hie gesâwon swylce twegen"micle mearc-stapan môras healdan,"ellor-gæstas: þæra ôðer wäs,"þäs þe hie gewislîcost gewitan meahton,"idese onlîcnes, ôðer earm-sceapen"on weres wästmum wräc-lâstas träd,
since he had too long worn down and wastedmy own people. He fell in the fight,forfeit of his life, and now anothermighty evil-doer has come, meaning to avengeher kinsman,and has carried this feud far,as it may well seem to many a thanewho grieves in his heart for his treasure-giver,a hard affliction of the spirit; now that hand lies stillwhich once served you in every wish you had.I have heard the land-dwellers, my own people,my hall-counselors, say this: that they had seentwo such creatures, great walkers of the borders,holding the moors, alien spirits —one of them was, as far as they could tell,in the shape of a woman; the other, misshapen,
"näfne he wäs mâra þonne ænig man ôðer,"þone on geâr-dagum Grendel nemdon"fold-bûende: nô hie fäder cunnon,"hwäðer him ænig wäs ær âcenned"dyrnra gâsta. Hie dýgel lond"warigeað, wulf-hleoðu, windige nässas,"frêcne fen-gelâd, þær fyrgen-streám"under nässa genipu niðer gewîteð,"flôd under foldan; nis þät feor heonon"mîl-gemearces, þät se mere standeð,"ofer þäm hongiað hrîmge bearwas,"wudu wyrtum fäst, wäter oferhelmað."Þær mäg nihta gehwæm nîð-wundor seón,"fýr on flôde; nô þäs frôd leofað"gumena bearna, þät þone grund wite;
walked the paths of exile in the form of a man,except he was bigger than any other man alive —the earth-dwellers, long ago, called him Grendel;they know of no father, whether one was ever born to him,of hidden spirits. They live in a secret land,wolf-slopes, windy headlands,a dangerous fen-track, where a mountain streamgoes down under the mist of the cliffs,a flood beneath the earth; it is not far from here,measured in miles, that the mere stands,over which hang groves grey with frost,a wood fast-rooted, shadowing the water.There, every night, one may see a grim wonder,fire on the flood; no one among the children of menlives wise enough to know its bottom.
"þeáh þe hæð-stapa hundum geswenced,"heorot hornum trum holt-wudu sêce,"feorran geflýmed, ær he feorh seleð,"aldor on ôfre, ær he in wille,"hafelan hýdan. Nis þät heóru stôw:"þonon ýð-geblond up âstîgeð"won tô wolcnum, þonne wind styreð"lâð gewidru, ôð þät lyft drysmað,"roderas reótað. Nu is ræd gelang"eft ät þe ânum! Eard git ne const,"frêcne stôwe, þær þu findan miht"sinnigne secg: sêc gif þu dyrre!"Ic þe þâ fæhðe feó leánige,"eald-gestreónum, swâ ic ær dyde,"wundnum golde, gyf þu on weg cymest."
Even the heath-stalker, hunted by hounds,the stag strong in his antlers, seeking the forest,chased from far off, will give up his lifeon the shore, will give up his spirit,before he will go in there to hide his head.That is no wholesome place: from it the churning wavesrise up dark to the clouds, when the wind stirshateful storms, until the sky turns thickand the heavens weep. Now, once again,all help depends on you alone! You do not yet knowthat place, that dangerous spot, where you might findthat creature stained with sin: seek it, if you dare!I will pay you for that feud with treasure,with ancient gold, as I did before,with twisted rings, if you come back alive.”