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| BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow: |
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| "Sorrow not, sage! It beseems us better |
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| friends to avenge than fruitlessly mourn them. |
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| Each of us all must his end abide |
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| in the ways of the world; so win who may |
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| glory ere death! When his days are told, |
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| that is the warrior's worthiest doom. |
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| Rise, O realm-warder! Ride we anon, |
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| and mark the trail of the mother of Grendel. |
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| No harbor shall hide her—heed my promise!— |
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| enfolding of field or forested mountain |
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| or floor of the flood, let her flee where she will! |
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| But thou this day endure in patience, |
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| as I ween thou wilt, thy woes each one." |
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| Leaped up the graybeard: God he thanked, |
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| mighty Lord, for the man's brave words. |
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| For Hrothgar soon a horse was saddled |
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| wave-maned steed. The sovran wise |
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| stately rode on; his shield-armed men |
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| followed in force. The footprints led |
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| along the woodland, widely seen, |
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| a path o'er the plain, where she passed, and trod |
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| the murky moor; of men-at-arms |
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| she bore the bravest and best one, dead, |
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| him who with Hrothgar the homestead ruled. |
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| On then went the atheling-born |
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| o'er stone-cliffs steep and strait defiles, |
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| narrow passes and unknown ways, |
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| headlands sheer, and the haunts of the Nicors. |
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| Foremost he[1] fared, a few at his side |
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| of the wiser men, the ways to scan, |
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| till he found in a flash the forested hill |
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| hanging over the hoary rock, |
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| a woful wood: the waves below |
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| were dyed in blood. The Danish men |
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| had sorrow of soul, and for Scyldings all, |
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| for many a hero, 'twas hard to bear, |
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| ill for earls, when Aeschere's head |
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| they found by the flood on the foreland there. |
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| Waves were welling, the warriors saw, |
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| hot with blood; but the horn sang oft |
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| battle-song bold. The band sat down, |
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| and watched on the water worm-like things, |
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| sea-dragons strange that sounded the deep, |
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| and nicors that lay on the ledge of the ness— |
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| such as oft essay at hour of morn |
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| on the road-of-sails their ruthless quest,— |
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| and sea-snakes and monsters. These started away, |
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| swollen and savage that song to hear, |
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| that war-horn's blast. The warden of Geats, |
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| with bolt from bow, then balked of life, |
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| of wave-work, one monster, amid its heart |
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| went the keen war-shaft; in water it seemed |
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| less doughty in swimming whom death had seized. |
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| Swift on the billows, with boar-spears well |
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| hooked and barbed, it was hard beset, |
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| done to death and dragged on the headland, |
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| wave-roamer wondrous. Warriors viewed |
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| the grisly guest. |
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| Then girt him Beowulf |
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| in martial mail, nor mourned for his life. |
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| His breastplate broad and bright of hues, |
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| woven by hand, should the waters try; |
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| well could it ward the warrior's body |
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| that battle should break on his breast in vain |
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| nor harm his heart by the hand of a foe. |
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| And the helmet white that his head protected |
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| was destined to dare the deeps of the flood, |
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| through wave-whirl win: 'twas wound with chains, |
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| decked with gold, as in days of yore |
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| the weapon-smith worked it wondrously, |
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| with swine-forms set it, that swords nowise, |
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| brandished in battle, could bite that helm. |
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| Nor was that the meanest of mighty helps |
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| which Hrothgar's orator offered at need: |
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| "Hrunting" they named the hilted sword, |
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| of old-time heirlooms easily first; |
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| iron was its edge, all etched with poison, |
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| with battle-blood hardened, nor blenched it at fight |
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| in hero's hand who held it ever, |
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| on paths of peril prepared to go |
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| to folkstead[2] of foes. Not first time this |
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| it was destined to do a daring task. |
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| For he bore not in mind, the bairn of Ecglaf |
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| sturdy and strong, that speech he had made, |
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| drunk with wine, now this weapon he lent |
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| to a stouter swordsman. Himself, though, durst not |
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| under welter of waters wager his life |
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| as loyal liegeman. So lost he his glory, |
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| honor of earls. With the other not so, |
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| who girded him now for the grim encounter. |
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