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| THEN from the moorland, by misty crags, |
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| with God's wrath laden, Grendel came. |
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| The monster was minded of mankind now |
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| sundry to seize in the stately house. |
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| Under welkin he walked, till the wine-palace there, |
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| gold-hall of men, he gladly discerned, |
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| flashing with fretwork. Not first time, this, |
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| that he the home of Hrothgar sought,— |
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| yet ne'er in his life-day, late or early, |
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| such hardy heroes, such hall-thanes, found! |
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| To the house the warrior walked apace, |
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| parted from peace;[1] the portal opended, |
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| though with forged bolts fast, when his fists had |
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| struck it, |
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| and baleful he burst in his blatant rage, |
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| the house's mouth. All hastily, then, |
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| o'er fair-paved floor the fiend trod on, |
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| ireful he strode; there streamed from his eyes |
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| fearful flashes, like flame to see. |
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| He spied in hall the hero-band, |
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| kin and clansmen clustered asleep, |
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| hardy liegemen. Then laughed his heart; |
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| for the monster was minded, ere morn should dawn, |
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| savage, to sever the soul of each, |
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| life from body, since lusty banquet |
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| waited his will! But Wyrd forbade him |
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| to seize any more of men on earth |
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| after that evening. Eagerly watched |
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| Hygelac's kinsman his cursed foe, |
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| how he would fare in fell attack. |
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| Not that the monster was minded to pause! |
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| Straightway he seized a sleeping warrior |
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| for the first, and tore him fiercely asunder, |
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| the bone-frame bit, drank blood in streams, |
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| swallowed him piecemeal: swiftly thus |
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| the lifeless corse was clear devoured, |
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| e'en feet and hands. Then farther he hied; |
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| for the hardy hero with hand he grasped, |
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| felt for the foe with fiendish claw, |
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| for the hero reclining,—who clutched it boldly, |
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| prompt to answer, propped on his arm. |
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| Soon then saw that shepherd-of-evils |
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| that never he met in this middle-world, |
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| in the ways of earth, another wight |
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| with heavier hand-gripe; at heart he feared, |
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| sorrowed in soul,—none the sooner escaped! |
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| Fain would he flee, his fastness seek, |
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| the den of devils: no doings now |
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| such as oft he had done in days of old! |
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| Then bethought him the hardy Hygelac-thane |
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| of his boast at evening: up he bounded, |
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| grasped firm his foe, whose fingers cracked. |
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| The fiend made off, but the earl close followed. |
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| The monster meant—if he might at all— |
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| to fling himself free, and far away |
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| fly to the fens,—knew his fingers' power |
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| in the gripe of the grim one. Gruesome march |
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| to Heorot this monster of harm had made! |
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| Din filled the room; the Danes were bereft, |
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| castle-dwellers and clansmen all, |
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| earls, of their ale. Angry were both |
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| those savage hall-guards: the house resounded. |
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| Wonder it was the wine-hall firm |
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| in the strain of their struggle stood, to earth |
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| the fair house fell not; too fast it was |
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| within and without by its iron bands |
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| craftily clamped; though there crashed from sill |
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| many a mead-bench—men have told me— |
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| gay with gold, where the grim foes wrestled. |
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| So well had weened the wisest Scyldings |
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| that not ever at all might any man |
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| that bone-decked, brave house break asunder, |
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| crush by craft,—unless clasp of fire |
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| in smoke engulfed it.—Again uprose |
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| din redoubled. Danes of the North |
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| with fear and frenzy were filled, each one, |
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| who from the wall that wailing heard, |
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| God's foe sounding his grisly song, |
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| cry of the conquered, clamorous pain |
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| from captive of hell. Too closely held him |
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| he who of men in might was strongest |
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| in that same day of this our life. |
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