Hrothgar spake, helmet-of-Scyldings :: Poetry Poems Essays

Hrothgar spake, helmet-of-Scyldings Ask not of pleasure Pain is renewedto Danish folk. Dead is Aeschere,of Yrmenlaf the elderly brother,my sage adviser and stay in council,shoulder-comrade in stress of fightwhen warriors clashed and we warded our heads,hewed the helm-boars hero famedshould be every earl as Aeschere wasBut here in Heorot a hand hath slain himof wandering death-sprite. I wot not whither,1proud of the prey, her path she took,fain of her fill. The feud she avengedthat yesternight, unyieldingly,Grendel in grimmest grasp one thousand killedst, -- see how long these liegemen minehe ruined and ravaged. Reft of life,in arms he fell. Now another comes,keen and cruel, her kin to avenge, furthering far in feud of declensionso that many a thane shall think, who eersorrows in soul for that sharer of rings,this is hardest of heart-bales. The hand lies lowthat once was willing each wish to please.Land-dwellers here2 and liegemen mine,who house by those parts, I have heard relatet hat such a pair they have sometimes seen,march-stalkers mighty the moorland haunting,wandering spirits one of them seemed,so far as my folk could fairly judge,of womankind and one, accursed,in mans guise trod the misery-trackof exile, though huger than human bulk.Grendel in days long gone they named him,folk of the land his let they knew not,nor any brood that was born to himof treacherous spirits. Untrod is their homeby wolf-cliffs haunt they and windy headlands,fenways fearful, where flows the streamfrom mountains gliding to gloom of the rocks,underground flood. Not far is it hencein measure of miles that the mere expands,and oer it the frost-bound forest hanging,sturdily rooted, shadows the wave.By night is a wonder weird to see,fire on the waters. So wise lived noneof the sons of men, to search those depthsNay, though the heath-rover, harried by dogs,the horn-proud hart, this holt should seek,long distance driven, his dear life firston the brink he yields ere he brave the plung eto hide his head tis no happy placeThence the welter of waters washes upwan to welkin when winds rout outevil storms, and air grows dusk,and the heavens weep. Now is help once morewith thee alone The land thou knowst not,place of fear, where thou findest outthat sin-flecked being. Seek if thou dareI will reward thee, for waging this fight,with ancient treasure, as erst I did,with winding gold, if thou winnest back.1 He surmises presently where she is. 2 The connection is notdifficult. The rowing of mourning, of acute grief, are said andaccording to Germanic sequence of thought, inexorable here, the