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Beowulf XX
HROTHGAR spake, helmet-of-Scyldings: --
"Ask not of pleasure! Pain is renewed
to Danish folk. Dead is Aeschere,
of Yrmenlaf the elder brother,
my sage adviser and stay in council,
shoulder-comrade in stress of fight
when warriors clashed and we warded our heads,
hewed the helm-boars; hero famed
should be every earl as Aeschere was!
But here in
Heorot a hand hath slain him
of wandering death-sprite. I wot not whither, (1)
proud of the prey, her path she took,
fain of her fill. The
feud she
avenged
that
yesternight,
unyieldingly,
Grendel in grimmest grasp thou killedst, --
seeing how long these liegemen mine
he ruined and ravaged. Reft of life,
in arms he fell. Now another comes,
keen and cruel, her kin to avenge,
faring far in feud of
blood:
so that many a thane shall think, who e'er
sorrows in soul for that sharer of rings,
this is hardest of
heart-
bales. The hand lies low
that once was willing each wish to please.
Land-dwellers here (2) and
liegemen mine,
who house by those parts, I have heard relate
that such a pair they have sometimes seen,
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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 man's guise trod the
misery-
track
of exile, though huger than
human bulk.
Grendel in days long gone they named him,
folk of the land; his father they knew not,
nor any brood that was born to him
of
treacherous spirits.
Untrod is their home;
by
wolf-
cliffs haunt they and windy headlands,
fenways fearful, where flows the stream
from
mountains gliding to gloom of the rocks,
underground flood. Not far is it hence
in measure of miles that the mere expands,
and o'er 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 none
of the sons of men, to search those depths!
Nay, though the heath-rover, harried by dogs,
the
horn-
proud hart, this
holt should seek,
long distance driven, his dear life first
on the brink he yields ere he brave the plunge
to hide his head: 'tis no happy place!
Thence the welter of waters washes up
wan to welkin when winds
bestir
evil storms, and air grows dusk,
and the heavens weep. Now is help once more
with thee alone! The land thou knowst not,
place of fear, where thou findest out
that
sin-
flecked being. Seek if thou dare!
I 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 not difficult. The words of mourning, of acute grief, are said; and according to
Germanic sequence of
thought, inexorable here, the next and only topic is
revenge. But is it possible?
Hrothgar leads up to his appeal and promise with a skillful and often effective description of the horrors which surround the monster's home and await the attempt of an avenging foe.