|
Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
||||
 |
||||
|
Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
||||
|
|
||||
|
57 Then as she to the bottom came, this She-Wolf of the sea, She bore unto her own home the Chieftain-of-the-Rings, In such a wise he might not, albeit so wroth was he, Ever wield his weapons. And many monstrous Things Mauled him in the maelstrom, many a sea-beast tried, With its battling tushes, to burst his sark aside, And swarmed upon their Troubler. Then was the Jarl aware That he was in some hall of hate-he knew not what or where In which not any water could scathe him at all, Nor floods in onrush touch him because of roofed hall; And he saw a light of fire, a brightly flashing flare. And Beowulf had a look then upon this deep-sea Troll, This mighty Mere-Woman. Then up with sword and soul He made a sudden onset, nor hand delayed the stroke, And on her head the ringed blade its greedy war-song woke. But, lo, the Stranger found then his flasher-in-the-fray Would bite not, would scathe not the life it sought today, For Hrunting’s edge was failing the Chief in his distress, Though often in the old days it had endured the press, And cloven many a helmet, and war-coat of the fey: This was the first of all times that low its glory lay. Again had he but one thought,- nor courage did he lack, Still mindful of valor, this Kin of Hygelac! In wrath the Champion hurled the fretted blade away, Bound on hilt with ring-work, till there on earth it lay, That stout sword and steel-edged; and on main strength relied, The might of his old hand-grip. So must a man of pride, Whenever he bethinks him to win in battle-strife Praises everlasting, nor careth for his life. The Chieftain of the Geatfolk,- who mourned not at the feud, Grasped by her mane of hair Grendel’s Mother lewd. This hardy son of battle,- so did his anger swell, Flung the deadly She-Wolf till to ground she fell. Speedily thereafter, with her grip so grim, She gave him goodly payment and laid her hold on him. And then with heart aweary, this Fighter fierce and lone Stumbled in his footing, that there he tumbled prone. Then on the Stranger in her hall The Mother squatted down, And forth she drew her dagger, broad of blade and brown. She would wreak her bairn now, her only child this day; But on the Geatman’s shoulders the woven breast-mail lay, And that withstood the inthrust of point and edge at last. For then the son of Ecgtheow to under-earth had passed, Had not his battle-byrnie, his war-mesh stout and broad, To him its help y- given, and had not holy God, The Ruler, he, of Heaven, justly swayed the fight |
