Beowulf

Out from marshes, beneath misty tors,

Grendel came skulking, God’s wrath upon him.

The terrible ravager intended to steal

man-pieces in that mighty house.

He moved in darkness toward the drinking-hall

to where he saw sparkling gold-trimmings

of the bastion of men. He’d been there before,

Hrothgar’s lodgings, though in his life-days,

he would never find, before or since,

hardier warriors or worse fate.

Deprived of mirth, the pillager came,

strode to the building; steel supports

that barred the door burst when he touched them;

raging for ruin, he ripped apart

the mead-hall’s mouth. A moment later,

the enemy crossed the ornamented floor,

angry at heart. Hideous light,

akin to fire, kindled his eyes.

Seeing so many men in the mead-hall—

bands of kinsmen, company of warriors

huddled in sleep—his heart rejoiced.

Before day broke, the dreadful fiend

had it in mind to murder them all,

tear out their lives, anticipating

a rich dish. But that doom was thwarted;

no longer would he eat, after that night,

flesh of men.

The mighty kinsman

of Hygelac watched how the wicked brute

moved to carry out a quick strike.

The mad devil did not waver;

he swiftly seized a slumbering warrior

at the first chance, fed with abandon,

gnawed bone-gristle, imbibed life-blood,

sinning with each swallow; soon he had eaten

every morsel of the man’s corpse,

fingers to toes. Treading closer,

talons fumbling for the foe in his bed,

his grip caught the great-hearted fighter.

His hand reached out and held him tight,

and with grim purpose he pinned his arm.

The sower of evil sensed it at once:

he’d never felt firmer handgrip

from any man anywhere in the vastness

of middle-earth. Mind and spirit

cowered in fear. Fleeing was hopeless;

he wished to run, wing into darkness,

rejoin his demon-hive, for in the days of his life,

he’d never known a night like this.

Hygelac’s kinsman, hardy thane,

recalled his boasting and bolted upright,

held him firmly. Finger-joints popped

as the monster recoiled and the man advanced.

The tainted creature tried his best

to wrench loose and run away

to fen-warrens, but his fingers were bent

in hostile grip. It was a grievous journey

the murderous foe had made to Heorot.

The hall thundered—harsh ale-serving

for all Danes—as every inhabitant

arose to the fighting of furious combatants,

wild struggle. The structure quaked.

It was some wonder that the wine-hall,

fairest of dwellings, endured war-beasts

and never fell, so firmly was it braced,

inside and out, with iron trusses

masterly wrought. Mead-benches

bedecked with gold (so goes the tale)

flew from the floor as the fierce ones grappled.

No Scylding elder ever imagined

that one man could demolish that hall,

excellent and bone-rimmed, through ordinary means

or cunning lies, unless he burn it

in a cradle of fire. A cry went out,

heavy and strange; horrid fear

ate at the North-Danes and any who heard

wailing from the wall, woeful chanting,

strains of grief from God’s foe,

hell’s slave reciting his ruin,

bawling in pain. He pressed him close,

he who was strongest, hardiest of mortals,

best of men in bygone days.