Beówulf'S Story Of The Slayings
"Mäg þäs þonne ofþyncan þeóden Heaðobeardna"and þegna gehwâm þâra leóda,"þonne he mid fæmnan on flett gæð,"dryht-bearn Dena duguða biwenede:"on him gladiað gomelra lâfe"heard and hring-mæl, Heaðobeardna gestreón,"þenden hie þâm wæpnum wealdan môston,"ôð þät hie forlæddan tô þam lind-plegan"swæse gesîðas ond hyra sylfra feorh."Þonne cwið ät beóre, se þe beáh gesyhð,"eald äsc-wîga, se þe eall geman"gâr-cwealm gumena (him bið grim sefa),"onginneð geômor-môd geongne cempan"þurh hreðra gehygd higes cunnian,"wîg-bealu weccean and þät word âcwyð:"'Meaht þu, mîn wine, mêce gecnâwan,
“It may well displease the prince of the Heathobards,and every one of his thanes among that people,when he walks across the floor with his new bride,escorting the noble Danish company,entertained with honor:on them will gleamthe leavings of their elders, hard and ring-patterned,the Heathobards’ own treasure, back when they could stillwield those weapons — until they led them astray,into that shield-play, their own dear companionsand their own lives besides. Then, at the beer-drinking,an old spear-warrior will speak, one who sees the ringand remembers everything, the spear-death of men —grim is his spirit — begins, sad at heart,to test the mood of some young warriorthrough the thoughts in his heart, to wake war-evil,
"'þone þin fäder tô gefeohte bär"'under here-grîman hindeman sîðe,"'dýre îren, þær hyne Dene slôgon,"'weóldon wäl-stôwe, syððan wiðer-gyld läg,"'äfter häleða hryre, hwate Scyldungas?"'Nu her þâra banena byre nât-hwylces,"'frätwum hrêmig on flet gæð,"'morðres gylpeð and þone mâððum byreð,"'þone þe þu mid rihte rædan sceoldest!'""Manað swâ and myndgað mæla gehwylce"sârum wordum, ôð þät sæl cymeð,"þät se fæmnan þegn fore fäder dædum"äfter billes bite blôd-fâg swefeð,"ealdres scyldig; him se ôðer þonan"losað lifigende, con him land geare."Þonne bióð brocene on bâ healfe
and speaks these words: ‘Can you, my friend,recognize that sword your father carriedinto the fight, wearing his war-mask,on his last expedition, that precious iron,when the Danes killed him, took hold of the field —and no price was ever paid for it,after the fall of heroes,those brave Scyldings? Now here walks the sonof one of his killers, across this very floor,exulting in his gear, boasts of the murder,and carries that very treasure that by rightsshould be yours to own!’ So he goads and reminds him,on every occasion, with bitter words,until the time comes that the woman’s own thane,for his father’s deeds, lies blood-stainedafter the sword’s bite, his life forfeit;
"âð-sweord eorla; syððan Ingelde"weallað wäl-nîðas and him wîf-lufan"äfter cear-wälmum côlran weorðað."Þý ic Heaðobeardna hyldo ne telge,"dryht-sibbe dæl Denum unfæcne,"freónd-scipe fästne. Ic sceal forð sprecan"gen ymbe Grendel, þät þu geare cunne,"sinces brytta, tô hwan syððan wearð"hond-ræs häleða. Syððan heofones gim"glâd ofer grundas, gäst yrre cwom,"eatol æfen-grom, ûser neósan,"þær we gesunde säl weardodon;"þær wäs Hondsció hild onsæge,"feorh-bealu fægum, he fyrmest läg,"gyrded cempa; him Grendel wearð,"mærum magu-þegne tô mûð-bonan,
the other one gets away alive,he knows that country well. Then the sworn oathsof the nobles are broken on both sides;after that, deadly hatred rises in Ingeld,and his love for his wife grows colderafter the surge of grief. So I do not countthe Heathobards’ good faith, their part in this bond with the Danes,as sincere, nor their friendship as firm.I will go on now and tell you more about Grendel,so that you may know clearly, giver of treasure,what came after, from that hand-to-hand struggle of warriors.After heaven’s jewel had glided over the earth,an angry spirit came, terrible in his evening fury,to visit us,where, unharmed, we kept watch on the hall;there battle fell hard on Hondscio,
"leófes mannes lîc eall forswealg."Nô þý ær ût þâ gen îdel-hende"bona blôdig-tôð bealewa gemyndig,"of þam gold-sele gongan wolde,"ac he mägnes rôf mîn costode,"grâpode gearo-folm. Glôf hangode"sîd and syllîc searo-bendum fäst,"sió wäs orþoncum eall gegyrwed"deófles cräftum and dracan fellum:"he mec þær on innan unsynnigne,"diór dæd-fruma, gedôn wolde,"manigra sumne: hyt ne mihte swâ,"syððan ic on yrre upp-riht âstôd."Tô lang ys tô reccenne, hû ic þam leód-sceaðan"yfla gehwylces ond-leán forgeald;"þær ic, þeóden mîn, þîne leóde
death to that doomed man — he lay dead first,that girded champion; Grendel becamethe mouth-slayer of that famous young thane,swallowed whole the body of that beloved man.Not any the sooner did that bloody-toothed killer,mindful of evils, want to leave that gold-hallempty-handed, but, mighty in strength,he tested me, grabbed with a ready hand.A glove hung there, huge and strange,fastened with skillful bands; it was entirely madewith cunning, with devil’s craft and dragon-hides:he meant to put me inside it, guiltless as I was,one victim among many, that fierce doer of deeds —it could not happen that way, once I stood upstraight in my anger. It is too long to tellhow I paid that enemy of the people back
"weorðode weorcum. He on weg losade,"lytle hwîle lîf-wynna breác;"hwäðre him sió swîðre swaðe weardade"hand on Hiorte and he heán þonan,"môdes geômor mere-grund gefeóll."Me þone wäl-ræs wine Scildunga"fättan golde fela leánode,"manegum mâðmum, syððan mergen com"and we tô symble geseten häfdon."Þær wäs gidd and gleó; gomela Scilding"fela fricgende feorran rehte;"hwîlum hilde-deór hearpan wynne,"gomen-wudu grêtte; hwîlum gyd âwräc"sôð and sârlîc; hwîlum syllîc spell"rehte äfter rihte rûm-heort cyning."Hwîlum eft ongan eldo gebunden,
for every one of his evils; there, my prince,I brought honor to your land by what I did.He got away, lived a little longer,enjoyed what pleasure life still gave him;yet his right hand marked his trail in Heorot,and, humbled, he fell from there, sick at heart,down to the bottom of the mere.The friend of the Scyldingspaid me richly for that death-struggle,with plated gold, treasures beyond number,once morning came and we had sat down togetherat the feast. There was singing and joy;the old Scylding, well-versed in many things,told tales from far back; sometimes that battle-hardened mantouched the harp’s own joy, the joy-wood,sometimes recited a lay, true and sorrowful;
"gomel gûð-wîga gioguðe cwîðan"hilde-strengo; hreðer inne weóll,"þonne he wintrum frôd worn gemunde."Swâ we þær inne andlangne däg"nióde nâman, ôð þät niht becwom"ôðer tô yldum. Þâ wäs eft hraðe"gearo gyrn-wräce Grendeles môdor,"sîðode sorh-full; sunu deáð fornam,"wîg-hete Wedra. Wîf unhýre"hyre bearn gewräc, beorn âcwealde"ellenlîce; þær wäs Äsc-here,"frôdan fyrn-witan, feorh ûðgenge;"nôðer hy hine ne môston, syððan mergen cwom,"deáð-wêrigne Denia leóde"bronde forbärnan, ne on bæl hladan"leófne mannan: hió þät lîc ätbär
sometimes the large-hearted king told a strange tale,and told it rightly. Sometimes again, bound by his years,the old warrior mourned his youth,his battle-strength; his heart welled up within himwhen, wise with winters, he remembered so much.So we, all day long, took our pleasure there,until night came again to men. Then quicklyGrendel’s mother was ready for vengeance, grief-stricken;her son’s death, the Weders’ war-hatred, had taken him.That monstrous woman avenged her child,killed a warrior boldly; there Aeschere’s life,that old and wise counselor’s, came to its end.Nor were they allowed, when morning came,to burn his death-weary body with fire,nor lay that beloved man upon the pyre;she had carried the corpse away, held in her enemy’s arms,
"feóndes fäðmum under firgen-streám."Þät wäs Hrôðgâre hreówa tornost"þâra þe leód-fruman lange begeâte;"þâ se þeóden mec þîne lîfe"healsode hreóh-môd, þät ic on holma geþring"eorl-scipe efnde, ealdre genêðde,"mærðo fremede: he me mêde gehêt."Ic þâ þäs wälmes, þe is wîde cûð,"grimne gryrelîcne grund-hyrde fond."Þær unc hwîle wäs hand gemæne;"holm heolfre weóll and ic heáfde becearf"in þam grund-sele Grendeles môdor"eácnum ecgum, unsôfte þonan"feorh ôðferede; näs ic fæge þâ gyt,"ac me eorla hleó eft gesealde"mâðma menigeo, maga Healfdenes.
under the mountain-stream. That was to Hrothgarthe most bitter of all the griefs that had ever befallenthat leader of his people. Then the prince, troubled in spirit,implored me, by your own life, that I should performan earl’s deed in the churn of the waters,risk my life, win glory; he promised me a reward.I then found, as is widely known,the grim and terrible guardian of the deep.There, for a while, we two fought hand to hand;the water welled with blood, and I struck off the head,there in that hall at the bottom, of Grendel’s mother,with a mighty sword;I barely carried my life out of there;I was not doomed yet, but the protector of earls,the kinsman of Healfdene, gave me, afterward,a great many treasures.