Beówulf Seeks The Monster In The Haunts Of The Nixies
Beówulf maðelode, bearn Ecgþeówes:"Ne sorga, snotor guma! sêlre bið æghwæm,"þät he his freónd wrece, þonne he fela murne;"ûre æghwylc sceal ende gebîdan"worolde lîfes; wyrce se þe môte"dômes ær deáðe! þät bið driht-guman"unlifgendum äfter sêlest."Ârîs, rîces weard; uton hraðe fêran,"Grendles mâgan gang sceáwigan!"Ic hit þe gehâte: nô he on helm losað,"ne on foldan fäðm, ne on fyrgen-holt,"ne on gyfenes grund, gâ þær he wille."Þys dôgor þu geþyld hafa"weána gehwylces, swâ ic þe wêne tô!"Âhleóp þâ se gomela, gode þancode,
Beowulf spoke, son of Ecgtheow:“Do not grieve, wise man! It is better for everyoneto avenge his friend than to mourn him too much;each of us must face the endof this world’s life; let whoever canwin glory before death! That is best, afterward,for a warrior once he is gone. Rise up, guardian of the kingdom;let us go quickly, track downthe trail of Grendel’s kinswoman!I promise you this: she will not escape into shelter —not into the earth’s embrace, not into mountain-forest,not into the depths of the sea, wherever she goes.Bear with patience, today, each of your sorrows,as I hope and trust you will!” The old man leapt up then,thanked God, the mighty Lord,
mihtigan drihtne, þäs se man gespräc.Þâ wäs Hrôðgâre hors gebæted,wicg wunden-feax. Wîsa fengelgeatolîc gengde; gum-fêða stôplind-häbbendra. Lâstas wæronäfter wald-swaðum wîde gesýne,gang ofer grundas; gegnum fôr þâofer myrcan môr, mago-þegna bärþone sêlestan sâwol-leásne,þâra þe mid Hrôðgâre hâm eahtode.Ofer-eode þâ äðelinga bearnsteáp stân-hliðo, stîge nearwe,enge ân-paðas, un-cûð gelâd,neowle nässas, nicor-hûsa fela;he feára sum beforan gengde
for what the man had spoken. Then a horse was bridledfor Hrothgar, a steed with braided mane.The wise king rode out in splendor; a companyof shield-bearing footmen marched beside him.Her tracks were plain to see along the forest paths,her way across the ground; straight on she had goneover the darkened moor, carried off, lifeless,the best of the retainers who had once thought with Hrothgarfor the good of his home. Then the sons of nobleswent on across steep stone-slopes,narrow paths, tight single-file trails,unknown ways, sheer headlands,many a den of water-monsters; he went aheadwith a handful of wise men, to study the ground,until all at once he found mountain trees
wîsra monna, wong sceáwian,ôð þät he færinga fyrgen-beámasofer hârne stân hleonian funde,wyn-leásne wudu; wäter under stôddreórig and gedrêfed. Denum eallum wäs,winum Scyldinga, weorce on môde,tô geþolianne þegne monegum,oncýð eorla gehwæm, syððan Äsc-hereson þam holm-clife hafelan mêtton.Flôd blôde weól (folc tô sægon)hâtan heolfre. Horn stundum songfûslîc fyrd-leóð. Fêða eal gesät;gesâwon þâ äfter wätere wyrm-cynnes fela,sellîce sæ-dracan sund cunnian,swylce on näs-hleoðum nicras licgean,
leaning out over a grey stone,a joyless wood; the water stood beneath,bloody and churned. It was a hardship of spiritto every one of the Danes, to the Scyldings’ friends,to many a thane, an affliction for every noble,when they came upon Aeschere’s headthere on the sea-cliff. The water welled with blood —the troop looked on — with hot gore.At times a horn sang out an eager battle-song.The whole company sat down. They saw then in the watermany kinds of serpents, strange sea-dragonstesting the currents, and water-monsterslying along the headland-slopes, the sort that often,in the hour before noon, keep to their sorrowful courseover the sail-road, serpents and wild beasts;
þâ on undern-mæl oft bewitigaðsorh-fulne sîð on segl-râde,wyrmas and wil-deór; hie on weg hruronbitere and gebolgne, bearhtm ongeâton,gûð-horn galan. Sumne Geáta leódof flân-bogan feores getwæfde,ýð-gewinnes, þät him on aldre stôdhere-stræl hearda; he on holme wässundes þe sænra, þe hyne swylt fornam.Hräðe wearð on ýðum mid eofer-spreótumheoro-hôcyhtum hearde genearwod,nîða genæged and on näs togenwundorlîc wæg-bora; weras sceáwedongryrelîcne gist. Gyrede hine Beówulfeorl-gewædum, nalles for ealdre mearn:
they rushed away, bitter and enraged,once they heard the noise, the war-horn’s call.One of them a Geatish man cut off from lifewith an arrow from his bow, from his struggle in the water,so that the hard war-shaft stood fast in his vitals;he was slower at swimming after that,once death had taken him. Quickly he was hard-pressedin the waves with barbed boar-spears,savagely attacked and hauled up onto the headland,that strange creature of the waves; the men studiedthe terrible visitor. Beowulf armed himselfin a warrior’s gear, gave no thought at all to his life;his war-shirt, hand-woven, broad and finely made,had to test the water — the one that knewhow to guard his body, so that no battle-grip
scolde here-byrne hondum gebroden,sîd and searo-fâh, sund cunnian,seó þe bân-côfan beorgan cûðe,þät him hilde-grâp hreðre ne mihte,eorres inwit-feng, aldre gesceððan;ac se hwîta helm hafelan werede,se þe mere-grundas mengan scolde,sêcan sund-gebland since geweorðad,befongen freá-wrâsnum, swâ hine fyrn-dagumworhte wæpna smið, wundrum teóde,besette swîn-lîcum, þät hine syððan nôbrond ne beado-mêcas bîtan ne meahton.Näs þät þonne mætost mägen-fultuma,þät him on þearfe lâh þyle Hrôðgâres;wäs þäm häft-mêce Hrunting nama,
could reach his chest, no hostile clutchof an angry foe could do him harm;and the pale helmet guarded his head,the one that was to stir the sea-bottoms,brave the churning water, set with treasure,ringed round with a princely chain,just as, long ago, the weapon-smith had made it,wrought it with wonder, set it with boar-figures,so that no blade, no battle-sword, could ever afterbite through it. And that was not the leastof the aids to his strength: Hrothgar’s own spokesmanhad lent him, at his need, a hafted swordnamed Hrunting, one of the foremostof ancient treasures; its blade was iron,
þät wäs ân foran eald-gestreóna;ecg wäs îren âter-teárum fâh,âhyrded heaðo-swâte; næfre hit ät hilde ne swâcmanna ængum þâra þe hit mid mundum bewand,se þe gryre-sîðas gegân dorste,folc-stede fâra; näs þät forma sîð,þät hit ellen-weorc äfnan scolde.Hûru ne gemunde mago Ecglâfeseafoðes cräftig, þät he ær gespräcwîne druncen, þâ he þäs wæpnes onlâhsêlran sweord-frecan: selfa ne dorsteunder ýða gewin aldre genêðan,driht-scype dreógan; þær he dôme forleás,ellen-mærðum. Ne wäs þäm ôðrum swâ,syððan he hine tô gûðe gegyred häfde.
stained with poison, tempered in battle-blood;it had never once failed, in a fight, any manwho took it in his hands, who daredto go out on terrible ventures, onto the field of foes;this was not the first time it had had to performa deed of courage. Indeed Ecglaf’s son,for all his strength, did not rememberwhat he had said before, drunk on wine,when he lent that weapon to a better swordsman:he himself did not dare risk his own lifeunder the churn of the waves, performa deed of noble courage; there he lost his glory,his name for bravery. It was not sowith the other one, once he had armed himself for battle.