B E O W U L F
PROLOGUE
Hear me! We've heard of Danish heroes,
ancient kings and the glory they cut
for themselves, swinging mighty swords!
How Shild made slaves of soldiers from every
land, crowds of captives he'd beaten 5
into terror; he'd travelled to Denmark alone,
an abandoned child, but changed his own fate,
lived to be rich and much honored. He ruled
lands on all sides: wherever the sea
would take them his soldiers sailed, returned 10
with tribute and obedience. There was a brave
King! And he gave them more than his glory,
conceived a son for the Danes, a new leader
allowed them by the grace of the God. They had lived,
before his coming, kingless and miserable; 15
now the Lord of all life, Ruler
of glory, blessed them with a prince, Beo,
whose power and fame soon spread through the world.
Shild's strong son was the glory of Denmark;
his father's warriors were wound round his heart 20
with golden rings, bound to their prince
by his father's treasure. So young man build
the future, wisely open-handed in peace,
protected in war; so warriors earn
their fame, and wealth is shaped with a sword. 25
When his time was come the old king died,
still strong but called to the Lord's hands.
His comrades carried him down to the shore,
bore him as their leader had asked, their lord
and companion, while words could move on his tongue. 30
Shild's reign had been long; he'd ruled them well.
There in the harbor was a ring-prowed fighting
ship, its timbers icy, waiting,
and there they brought the beloved body
of their ring-giving lord, and laid him near 35
the mast. Next to that noble corpse
they heaped up treasures, jeweled helmets,
hooked swords and coats of mail, armor
carried from the ends of the earth: no ship
had ever sailed so brightly fitted, 40
no king sent forth more deeply mourned.
Forced to set him adrift, floating
as far as the tide mught run, they refused
to give him less from their hoards of gold
than those who'd shipped him away, an orphan 45
and a beggar, to cross the waves alone.
High up over his head they flew
his shining banner, then sadly let
the water pull at the ship, watched it
slowly sliding to where neither rulers 50
nor heroes nor anyone can say whose hands
opened to take that motionless cargo.
1
Then Beo was king in that Danish castle,
Shild's son ruling as long as his father
and as loved, a famous lord of men. 55
And he in turn gave people a son,
the great Healfdane, a fierce fighter
who led the Danes to the end of his long
life and left them four children,
three princes to guide them in battle, Hergar 60
and Hrothgar and Halga the Good, and one daughter,
Yrs, who was given to Onela, king
of the Swedes, and became his wife and their queen.
Then Hrothgar, taking the throne, led
the Danes to such glory that comrades and kinsmen 65
swore by his sword, and young men swelled
his armies, and he thought of greatness and resolved
to build a hall that would hold his mighty
band and reach higher toward Heaven than anything
that had ever been known to the sons of men. 70
And in that hall he'd divide the spoils
of their victories, to old and young what they'd earned
in battle, but leaving the common pastures
untouched, and taking no lives. The work
was odered, the timbers tied and shaped 75
by the hosts that Hrothgar ruled. It was quickly
ready, that most beautiful of dwellings, built
as he'd wanted, and then he whose word was obeyed
all over the earth named it Herot.
His boast come true he commanded a banquet, 80
opened out his treasure-full hands.
That towering place, gabled and huge,
stood waiting for time to pass, for war
to begin, for flames to leap as high
as the feud that would light them, and for Herot to burn. 85
A powerful monster, living down
in the darkness, growled in pain, impatient
as day after day the music rang
loud in that hall, the harp's rejoicing
call and the poet's clear song, sung 90
of the ancient beginnings of us all, recalling
the Almighty making the earth, shaping
these beautiful plains marked off by oceans,
then proudly setting the sun and moon
to glow across the land and light it; 95
the corners of the earth were made lovely with trees
and leaves, made quick with life, with each
of the nations who now move on its face. And then
as now warriors sang of their pleasure:
so Hrothgar's men lived happy in his hall 100
till the monster stirred, that demon, that fiend,
Grendel, who haunted the moors, the wild
marshes, and made his home in a hell
not hell but earth. He was sprawned with slime,
conceived by a pair of those monsters born 105
of Cain, murderous creatures banished
by God, punished forever for the crime
of Abel's death. The Almighty drove
those demons out, and their exile was bitter,
shut away from men: they split 110
into a thousand forms of evel - spirits
and fiends, goblins, monsters, giants,
a brood forever opposing the Lord's
will, and again and again defeated.
2
Then, when darkness had dropped, Grendel 115
went up to Herot, wondering what the warriors
would do in that hall when their drinking was done.
He found them sprawled in sleep, suspecting
nothing, their dreams undisturbed. The monster's
thoughts were as quick as his greed or his claws: 120
he slipped through the door and there in silence
snatched up thirty men, smashed them
unknowing in their beds and ran out with their bodies,
the blood dripping behind him, back
to his lair, delighted with his night's slaughter. 125
At daybreak, with the sun's first light, they saw
how well he had worked, and in that gray morning
broke their long feast with tears and laments
for the dead. Hrothgar, their lord, sat joyless
in Herot, a mighty prince mourning 130
the fate of his lost friends and companions,
knowing by its tracks that some demon had torn
his followers apart. He wept, fearing
the beginning might not be the end. And that night
Grendel come again, so set 135
on murder that no crime could ever be enough,
no savage assault quench his lust
for evil. Then each warrior tried
to escape him, searched for rest in different
beds, as far from Herot as they could find, 140
seeing how Grendel hunted when they slept.
Distance was safety; the only survivors
were those who fled him. Hate had triumphed.
So Grendel ruled, fought with the righteous,
one against many, and won; so Herot 145
stood empty, and stayed deserted for years,
twelve winters of grief for Hrothgar, king
of the Danes, sorrow heaped at his door
by hell-forged hands. His misery leaped
the seas, was told and sung in all 150
men's ears: how Grendel's hatred began,
how the monster relished his savage war
on the Danes, keeping bloody feud
alive, seeking no peace, offering
no truce, accepting no settlement, no price 155
in gold or land, and paying the living
for one crime only with another. No one
waited for reparation from his plundering claws:
that shadow of death hunted in the darkness,
stalked Hrothgar's warriors, old 160
and young, lying in waiting, hidden
in mist, invisibly following them from the edge
of the marsh, always there, unseen.
So mankind's enemy continued his crimes,
killing as often as he could, coming 165
alone, bloodthirsty and horrible. Though he lived
in Herot, when the night hid him, he never
dared to touch king Hrothgar's glorious
throne, protected by the God - God,
whose love Grendel could not know. But Hrothgar's 170
heart was bent. The best and most noble
of his council debated remedies, sat
in secret sessions, talking of terror
and wondering what the bravest of warriors could do.
And sometime they sacrificed to the old stone gods, 175
made heathen vows, hoping for Hell's
support, the Devil's guidance in driving
their affliction off. That was their way,
and the heathen's only hope, Hell
always in their hearts, knowing neither God 180
nor His passing as He walks through our world, the Lord
of Heaven and earth; their ears could not hear
His prase nor know His glory. Let them
beware, those who are thrust into danger,
clutched at by trouble, yet can carry no solace 185
in their hearts, cannot hope to be better! Hail
to those who will rise to God, drop off
their dead bodies and seek our Father's peace!