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| NOT in any wise would the earls'-defence[1] |
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| suffer that slaughterous stranger to live, |
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| useless deeming his days and years |
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| to men on earth. Now many an earl |
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| of Beowulf brandished blade ancestral, |
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| fain the life of their lord to shield, |
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| their praised prince, if power were theirs; |
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| never they knew,—as they neared the foe, |
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| hardy-hearted heroes of war, |
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| aiming their swords on every side |
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| the accursed to kill,—no keenest blade, |
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| no farest of falchions fashioned on earth, |
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| could harm or hurt that hideous fiend! |
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| He was safe, by his spells, from sword of battle, |
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| from edge of iron. Yet his end and parting |
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| on that same day of this our life |
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| woful should be, and his wandering soul |
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| far off flit to the fiends' domain. |
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| Soon he found, who in former days, |
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| harmful in heart and hated of God, |
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| on many a man such murder wrought, |
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| that the frame of his body failed him now. |
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| For him the keen-souled kinsman of Hygelac |
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| held in hand; hateful alive |
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| was each to other. The outlaw dire |
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| took mortal hurt; a mighty wound |
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| showed on his shoulder, and sinews cracked, |
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| and the bone-frame burst. To Beowulf now |
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| the glory was given, and Grendel thence |
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| death-sick his den in the dark moor sought, |
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| noisome abode: he knew too well |
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| that here was the last of life, an end |
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| of his days on earth.—To all the Danes |
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| by that bloody battle the boon had come. |
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| From ravage had rescued the roving stranger |
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| Hrothgar's hall; the hardy and wise one |
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| had purged it anew. His night-work pleased him, |
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| his deed and its honor. To Eastern Danes |
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| had the valiant Geat his vaunt made good, |
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| all their sorrow and ills assuaged, |
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| their bale of battle borne so long, |
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| and all the dole they erst endured |
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| pain a-plenty.—'Twas proof of this, |
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| when the hardy-in-fight a hand laid down, |
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| arm and shoulder,—all, indeed, |
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| of Grendel's gripe,—'neath the gabled roof. |
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