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| HROTHGAR spake, helmet-of-Scyldings:— |
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| "Ask not of pleasure! Pain is renewed |
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| to Danish folk. Dead is Aeschere, |
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| of Yrmenlaf the elder brother, |
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| my sage adviser and stay in council, |
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| shoulder-comrade in stress of fight |
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| when warriors clashed and we warded our heads, |
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| hewed the helm-boars; hero famed |
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| should be every earl as Aeschere was! |
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| But here in Heorot a hand hath slain him |
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| of wandering death-sprite. I wot not whither,[1] |
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| proud of the prey, her path she took, |
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| fain of her fill. The feud she avenged |
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| that yesternight, unyieldingly, |
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| Grendel in grimmest grasp thou killedst,— |
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| seeing how long these liegemen mine |
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| he ruined and ravaged. Reft of life, |
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| in arms he fell. Now another comes, |
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| keen and cruel, her kin to avenge, |
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| faring far in feud of blood: |
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| so that many a thane shall think, who e'er |
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| sorrows in soul for that sharer of rings, |
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| this is hardest of heart-bales. The hand lies low |
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| that once was willing each wish to please. |
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| Land-dwellers here[2] and liegemen mine, |
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| who house by those parts, I have heard relate |
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| that such a pair they have sometimes seen, |
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| march-stalkers mighty the moorland haunting, |
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| wandering spirits: one of them seemed, |
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| so far as my folk could fairly judge, |
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| of womankind; and one, accursed, |
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| in man's guise trod the misery-track |
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| of exile, though huger than human bulk. |
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| Grendel in days long gone they named him, |
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| folk of the land; his father they knew not, |
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| nor any brood that was born to him |
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| of treacherous spirits. Untrod is their home; |
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| by wolf-cliffs haunt they and windy headlands, |
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| fenways fearful, where flows the stream |
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| from mountains gliding to gloom of the rocks, |
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| underground flood. Not far is it hence |
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| in measure of miles that the mere expands, |
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| and o'er it the frost-bound forest hanging, |
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| sturdily rooted, shadows the wave. |
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| By night is a wonder weird to see, |
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| fire on the waters. So wise lived none |
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| of the sons of men, to search those depths! |
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| Nay, though the heath-rover, harried by dogs, |
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| the horn-proud hart, this holt should seek, |
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| long distance driven, his dear life first |
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| on the brink he yields ere he brave the plunge |
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| to hide his head: 'tis no happy place! |
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| Thence the welter of waters washes up |
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| wan to welkin when winds bestir |
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| evil storms, and air grows dusk, |
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| and the heavens weep. Now is help once more |
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| with thee alone! The land thou knowst not, |
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| place of fear, where thou findest out |
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| that sin-flecked being. Seek if thou dare! |
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| I will reward thee, for waging this fight, |
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| with ancient treasure, as erst I did, |
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| with winding gold, if thou winnest back." |
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