From Beowulf

XI

                                Cursed by God,
Grendel walked out of the moors,
over the mist-slopes. He planned to snatch
a man from the mead-hall. Onwards he slunk
until he saw the high gold glimmering
under the clouds. It wasn’t the first time
he’d sought Hrothgar’s home, but never
in all his days before or after
did he find harder luck or hall-thanes.
Alone and joyless, he came to the hall,
ripping open its fire-forged bars
with a touch of his hands. Plotting murder,
he trod the tiled floor. His eyes gleamed
with unlovely light, a flame of malice,
as he saw the sleepers gathered,
a host of men. He laughed in his heart:
before dawn came, he’d kill each one
and fill his belly. But fate forbade him
any such meals after that night.

Hygelac’s mighty kinsman watched him,
wanting to see how this cruel killer
made his attack. The monster was quick:
he grabbed the nearest sleeping man
and tore him to pieces, ripping his sinews
with savage teeth, drinking the blood
straight from his veins, gobbling down
each sinful morsel. Soon the dead man
was all devoured, even his hands and feet.
Grendel stepped forward and reached out
with open hands for another sleeper,
but this one quickly saw his intention
and took his arm in an iron grasp.
And Grendel, master of murder, felt then
a harder grip than he’d ever encountered
in all the world’s wideness. Flooded with terror,
he longed to flee into darkness, to join there
the throng of devils. In all the days of his life
he’d never been more afraid of death.

Beowulf then remembered his boast.
He stood up and tightened his grip,
his fingers breaking: the monster fought for the door
and the man stepped forward to keep him.
The troll strove against him, wanting to run
to his lair in the fens, but his fingers weakened
in his enemy’s hands. That was a bitter journey
to Heorot for the harm-wielder.

The hall shook with the noise of battle
and as they listened the Danes tasted
a bitter ale, while the two rivals
fought in their fury. It was a wonder
the wine-hall stayed standing: but it was braced
inside and out, with well-wrought iron.
I heard that when those enemies struggled,
gilded benches were wrenched off the floor,
although wise counsellors said that no man
living could break that splendid hall,
unless it was swallowed by greedy fire.
The clamour rose, and the Danes stood in horror,
hearing sobbing and grisly screams,
as God’s enemy wailed his downfall,
pinioned there, hell’s captive, held
by the strongest man in the world.

 
XII
 
By no means would the earl’s protector
release his vicious guest alive; he counted him
worthless to anyone. Beowulf’s thanes
brandished weapons, iron heirlooms,
defending their leader, for they didn’t know,
in seeking to hack out Grendel’s soul,
that no weapon on earth could harm
that giant enemy. The greatest war sword
lost its edge on him, robbed of its power
by enchantment.  His death that day
would be more wretched, his outcast soul
would journey in anguish to the realm of fiends.
He who inflicted untold miseries
on mankind, who fought with God,
found his body would not obey him
now that the bold kinsman of Hygelac
held him fast. While they lived,
each loathed the other. Then the monster
felt the fire of terrible pain:
a great wound gaped in his shoulder,
sinews snapped, muscles burst open
and Beowulf was handed the war-glory
as Grendel fled, broken and dying,
to his unhappy home in the dark fens.
He knew now his days were ended.

After that murderous storm, the will
of the Danes was done. Heorot was cleansed,
rescued from ruin by the shrewd man
who came from afar, proud in his strength.
Beowulf rejoiced in his night’s work.
He’d kept his oath to the East-Dane people
and remedied grief and evil suffering
long endured. The sign was clear
when the hero hung above the door
Grendel’s hand, his arm and shoulder,
the whole of his grasp.


Translated by Alison Croggon