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