II.

THE RETURN FROM THE BATTLE.

Scarce Grendel's head could four men bear upon the battle-spear;

But soon the fourteen glorious Goths to the gold-hall

drew near,

And proudly in the midst of them their lord trod o'er the mead.

Then, honour-crowned, the chief of thanes, the man of daring deed,

The warrior fierce in fight, to greet king Hrothgar

came once more;

And by the hair was borne the head of Grendel on the

floor

Where men were wont to drink-before the queen and every knight

A ghastly thing, and all men gazed upon that wondrous sight.

Then spake Beowulf, Ecgtheow's son: "Lo! joyfully we bring

Lord of the Scyldings! Halfdene's son ! that thou may'st see the thing

Token of glory, this wave-spoil! I hardly saved my

life

Hardly 'neath waters urged the war; lost was by rights the strife

Unless that God had shielded me.

good

Albeit weapon

With Hrunting could I nought achieve; but for my helper stood

Man's Ruler, and upon the wall before me I could

see

A great sword hanging, (oftentimes the hopeless guideth He!)

So that the weapon I could draw. In fight then did I kill

The keepers of the house-such hap was mine; but that war-bill

The naked blade-was all burnt up, when hottest battle-gore

And blood outsprang. Yet from the foes away the hilt I bore,

And as was meet avenged the wrongs and deaththroes of the Danes.

Now may'st thou sleep, I promise thee, amid thy band of thanes,

Thy people's warriors-knights and youths-careless in Heorot here.

No death of earl, O Scyldings lord! from that side need'st thou fear

As once thou didst!"

The golden hilt, by giants wrought of yore, Was given into the prince's hand-the aged warrior

hoar.

When devils fell the lord of Danes that wondrous

smith-work took.

When with his mother God's grim foe, hell-doomed, the world forsook,

Into his hands it passed, on earth the best of kings

was he,

Of those who dealt in Scanian lands treasures by either

sea.

On the old hilt did Hrothgar gaze; thereon was

graven true

How rose the strife of old, when flood and streaming waters slew

The giant race puffed up with pride. (A folk estranged were they

From God eternal; their reward th' Almighty did

repay

In whelming waves at last.) And on the guard-plate's shining gold

In Runic staves was marked aright, and full set forth, and told

For whom that sword of iron choice, and hilt with knotted snake

Had first been wrought.

Silent were all; then Halfdene's wise son spake : "Lo! now may he who true and right among the folk will stand,

Who all the past remembers well-old warder of the land

Now may he say that born to rule this earl must surely be!

Around wide ways, o'er every folk Beowulf, friend to

me!

Thy glory high is raised. Thou keepest it with

modest mood,

Thy might with wisdom.

thee make good

As erst we spoke together.

a day

Now will I my love to

Thou shalt be for many

A comfort to thy people, thou shalt be thy warriors'

stay!

To noble Scyldings, Ecgwel's heirs, not so was

Heremod,

Nor for their pleasure grew he up, but for a fatal

load

And deadly bane to Danish folk; in wrathful mood

he slew

His board-mates and his comrades, till he all alone

withdrew,

Great though he was, from joys of men. Though with the bliss of might,

And strength, great God exalted him, and high in all men's sight

Did set him, yet bloodthirsty waxed the breast-hoard in his heart.

Rings gave he never to the Danes as meet it was;

apart

From joys he dwelt; and therefore met long-lasting overthrow

War's bitter fruit. Now, warned by him, do thou

true greatness know!

Wise with the lore that comes of years I've told this tale to thee.

Great wonder 'tis to tell how God Almighty giveth

free,

With boundless love, earldoms and land and wisdom to mankind.

He ruleth all! The high-born man He letteth sometimes find

His heart's desire in large domains, and in the father

land

The soil beloved and stronghold bright He giveth to his hand;

And so on earth with kingdom wide and power doth him endow,

That, in the folly of his heart, no end he cares to

know.

Happy he lives; disease and eld to him come never

near;

No bitter grief may vex his mind, nor foe e'er cause

him fear,

But all the world is at his will; he nothing knows of

wrong,

Till overweening pride within him grows and waxes

strong,

When sleeps the watchman of the soul-a sleep beset with woe!

Close is the slayer dread whose bolt flies deadly from

the bow;

The shaft through all his armour shot, stands grievous in his breast.

At that strange summons of the fiend still finds his

sin no rest;