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| WENT he forth to find at fall of night |
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| that haughty house, and heed wherever |
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| the Ring-Danes, outrevelled, to rest had gone. |
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| Found within it the atheling band |
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| asleep after feasting and fearless of sorrow, |
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| of human hardship. Unhallowed wight, |
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| grim and greedy, he grasped betimes, |
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| wrathful, reckless, from resting-places, |
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| thirty of the thanes, and thence he rushed |
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| fain of his fell spoil, faring homeward, |
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| laden with slaughter, his lair to seek. |
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| Then at the dawning, as day was breaking, |
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| the might of Grendel to men was known; |
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| then after wassail was wail uplifted, |
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| loud moan in the morn. The mighty chief, |
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| atheling excellent, unblithe sat, |
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| labored in woe for the loss of his thanes, |
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| when once had been traced the trail of the fiend, |
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| spirit accurst: too cruel that sorrow, |
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| too long, too loathsome. Not late the respite; |
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| with night returning, anew began |
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| ruthless murder; he recked no whit, |
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| firm in his guilt, of the feud and crime. |
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| They were easy to find who elsewhere sought |
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| in room remote their rest at night, |
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| bed in the bowers,[1] when that bale was shown, |
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| was seen in sooth, with surest token,— |
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| the hall-thane's[2] hate. Such held themselves |
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| far and fast who the fiend outran! |
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| Thus ruled unrighteous and raged his fill |
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| one against all; until empty stood |
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| that lordly building, and long it bode so. |
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| Twelve years' tide the trouble he bore, |
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| sovran of Scyldings, sorrows in plenty, |
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| boundless cares. There came unhidden |
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| tidings true to the tribes of men, |
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| in sorrowful songs, how ceaselessly Grendel |
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| harassed Hrothgar, what hate he bore him, |
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| what murder and massacre, many a year, |
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| feud unfading,—refused consent |
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| to deal with any of Daneland's earls, |
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| make pact of peace, or compound for gold: |
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| still less did the wise men ween to get |
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| great fee for the feud from his fiendish hands. |
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| But the evil one ambushed old and young |
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| death-shadow dark, and dogged them still, |
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| lured, or lurked in the livelong night |
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| of misty moorlands: men may say not |
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| where the haunts of these Hell-Runes[3] be. |
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| Such heaping of horrors the hater of men, |
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| lonely roamer, wrought unceasing, |
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| harassings heavy. O'er Heorot he lorded, |
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| gold-bright hall, in gloomy nights; |
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| and ne'er could the prince[4] approach his throne, |
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| —'twas judgment of God,—or have joy in his hall. |
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| Sore was the sorrow to Scyldings'-friend, |
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| heart-rending misery. Many nobles |
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| sat assembled, and searched out counsel |
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| how it were best for bold-hearted men |
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| against harassing terror to try their hand. |
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| Whiles they vowed in their heathen fanes |
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| altar-offerings, asked with words[5] |
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| that the slayer-of-souls would succor give them |
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| for the pain of their people. Their practice this, |
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| their heathen hope; 'twas Hell they thought of |
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| in mood of their mind. Almighty they knew not, |
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| Doomsman of Deeds and dreadful Lord, |
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| nor Heaven's-Helmet heeded they ever, |
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| Wielder-of-Wonder.—Woe for that man |
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| who in harm and hatred hales his soul |
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| to fiery embraces;—nor favor nor change |
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| awaits he ever. But well for him |
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| that after death-day may draw to his Lord, |
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| and friendship find in the Father's arms! |
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|
