Well ordered stood; and he whose word was mighty

far and wide

Gave it the name of Heort.

true belied

Nor was his promise

When rings and wealth he dealt at feasts. With many a hornèd spire

High rose the hall-the raging glow to bide of dreadful fire!

But no long time had passed away since under

Hrothgar's yoke

His foes were brought, and bound by oaths to own his sway, when woke

The deadly sprite, who haunts the gloom; he could not brook to hear

Each day the joyous noise in hall, the minstrels' singing clear,

And melody of harp. For one, who knew of mankind's birth

In far-off times, thus sang: "The Lord Almighty made the earth,

Fair fields with water compassed round; and, glorious, set the light

Of sun and moon o'er every land to glad the people's

sight;

And all the corners of the earth he decked with leaf

and tree;

And every kind of life he made in all that living be!" For thus did all men happily and in great joyance

dwell,

Till he began to work them woe-the evil fiend of hell!

That wicked sprite was Grendel hight; he trod the

outskirt waste,

And all amid the moors and fens he had his fastness

placed;

In the sea-monster's home long while, of bliss bereft,

he dwelt

Accursed of God. Upon Cain's race the Lord eternal dealt

Vengeance for murdered Abel's blood; no peace got Cain thereby,

Driven by the Lord for that foul sin far from mankind

to fly

And from him sprang all monstrous things, eotens sea-beasts and elves,

And giants whose long strife with God brought woe upon themselves.

At nightfall Grendel took his way to spy the lofty

house,

To see how there the Ring-Danes dwelt after the beer-carouse.

Their feasting o'er, a troop of knights, heedless of coming woe,

He found asleep; and, grim and greedy, soon did man's dark foe,

Fierce, terrible, in slumber deep snatch thirty thanes

away;

And homeward with rich spoil he turned, rejoicing in

his prey.

But in the twilight hour of dawn was Grendel's ravage known

And loud uprose the morning cry, and feasting turned

to moan.

Grief-stricken sat the mighty lord, for thanes his sorrow swelled

When of that hateful sprite accursed the footprints he

beheld;

Trouble too heavy weighed on him, loathly and lasting

long;

And ere much time was past the fiend, shunning nor feud nor wrong,

But fast against them set, one night a yet worse murder wrought.

Then easily might he be found who quiet slumber

sought,

And got himself a bed elsewhere in bower far

away,

When Grendel's hate by tokens clear thus plain and open lay!

He who escaped the fiend thenceforth himself kept safe afar.

And thus alone against them all did Grendel wrongful

war,

Till idle stood the stately house.

So mickle time went by; Twelve winters did the Scyldings' lord in woe and

trouble lie,

And boundless grief.

And so to men 'twas told in mournful song And clearly known how Grendel strove and waged

with Hrothgar long

A war of hate and crime and feud,-long years of

endless strife.

Peace would he none, nor stay the plague, nor take a price for life

For any man of Danish kin. Nor at the murderer's

hand

Could any of the Witan hope in happier case to stand. Like death's dark shadow thus the fiend harassed old

knights and young,

Waylaid and plotted; and all night round misty moorlands hung.

(Men know not whither fiends of hell will sometimes take their way.)

Thus many crimes the foe of man alone that walketh

aye,

Did often work and grievous wrong. All Heorot was

his own

The rich-dyed hall-in darksome night; yet to the kingly throne,

Dear in God's sight, he might not come, His love he might not know.

Thus on the Scyldings' ruler lay heart-break and

bitter woe;

In secret oft the nobles sat, and counsel sought to

rede

What valiant men might fittest do in this dread time of

need;

And sometimes at their idol shrines they sacrifices made, And their false god with many words besought to give

them aid

Against the people's woes. Their custom this, the heathen's faith,

Whose thoughts were turned on hell. The Lord they knew not-He who saith

Judgment of deeds; of God they wist not ; nor to them was given

To worship glory's Lord aright-the Ruler of the heaven.

Woe unto him who thrusts his soul down to the arms

of fire

By wicked hate! No change in aught, no joy let him

desire !

But well for him who seeks the Lord after his dying day And in the Father's bosom finds a quiet rest alway!

III.

THE COMING OF BEOWULF.

Thus on his sorrow Halfdene's son was brooding

evermore,

Nor could his grief the hero wise assuage; for all too

sore,

Loathly and lasting long, the straits that did the folk

assail,

The tribulation all too fierce-the worst of nightly bale. Of Grendel's deeds the tidings reached a valiant

Gothic knight,

Highborn, a thane of Higelac; no mortal man in might