follow his father, his folk protect, the hoard and
the stronghold, heroes’ land, home of Scyldings.
— But here, thanes said, the kinsman of
Hygelac kinder seemed to all: the other {13b}
was urged to crime! And afresh to the race, {13c}
the fallow roads by swift steeds measured! The
morning sun was climbing higher. Clansmen hastened
to the high-built hall, those hardy-minded, the wonder
to witness. Warden of treasure, crowned with
glory, the king himself, with stately band from the
bride-bower strode; and with him the queen and her
crowd of maidens measured the path to the mead-house
fair.
Hrothgar spake, — to the hall he went,
stood by the steps, the steep roof saw, garnished
with gold, and Grendel’s hand: —
“For the sight I see to the Sovran Ruler be
speedy thanks! A throng of sorrows I have borne
from Grendel; but God still works wonder on wonder,
the Warden-of-Glory. It was but now that I never
more for woes that weighed on me waited help long
as I lived, when, laved in blood, stood sword-gore-stained
this stateliest house, — widespread woe
for wise men all, who had no hope to hinder ever
foes infernal and fiendish sprites from havoc in hall.
This hero now, by the Wielder’s might, a work
has done that not all of us erst could ever do by
wile and wisdom. Lo, well can she say whoso of
women this warrior bore among sons of men, if still
she liveth, that the God of the ages was good to her
in the birth of her bairn. Now, Beowulf, thee,
of heroes best, I shall heartily love as mine own,
my son; preserve thou ever this kinship new:
thou shalt never lack wealth of the world that I
wield as mine! Full oft for less have I largess
showered, my precious hoard, on a punier man, less
stout in struggle. Thyself hast now fulfilled
such deeds, that thy fame shall endure through all
the ages. As ever he did, well may the Wielder
reward thee still!” Beowulf spake, bairn of
Ecgtheow: — “This work of war
most willingly we have fought, this fight, and fearlessly
dared force of the foe. Fain, too, were I hadst
thou but seen himself, what time the fiend in his
trappings tottered to fall! Swiftly, I thought,
in strongest gripe on his bed of death to bind him
down, that he in the hent of this hand of mine should
breathe his last: but he broke away. Him
I might not — the Maker willed not —
hinder from flight, and firm enough hold the life-destroyer:
too sturdy was he, the ruthless, in running!
For rescue, however, he left behind him his hand in
pledge, arm and shoulder; nor aught of help could
the cursed one thus procure at all. None the
longer liveth he, loathsome fiend, sunk in his sins,
but sorrow holds him tightly grasped in gripe of anguish,
in baleful bonds, where bide he must, evil outlaw,
such awful doom as the Mighty Maker shall mete him
out.”
More silent seemed the son of Ecglaf {14a} in boastful
speech of his battle-deeds, since athelings all, through
the earl’s great prowess, beheld that hand,
on the high roof gazing, foeman’s fingers, —
the forepart of each of the sturdy nails to steel
was likest, — heathen’s “hand-spear,”
hostile warrior’s claw uncanny. ’Twas
clear, they said, that him no blade of the brave could
touch, how keen soever, or cut away that battle-hand
bloody from baneful foe.
