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Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
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Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
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59 CHAPTER XXIII The Scop twangs his harp to words more stirring still, chanting how Beowulf found an old sword in the hall of the Mere-Wife and smote her dead on the neckbone, and how there by a mysterious sudden light he saw Grendel’s cadaver and cut off Grendel’s head and how the blade melted; how then Hrothgar and the Danes on the cliffs above saw the waters all bloody and thought Beowulf must have perished and so went home, while still Beowulf’s little band remained gloomily behind; how Beowulf swam up to the surface with the hilt of the sword and with Grendel’s head; and how Beowulf with his little band of Geatmen marched in triumph back to Heorot with Grendel’s head dangling by hair from a spear- shaft borne on the shoulders of four. For saw he ‘mongst the war- gear one victorious bill, An old sword of ettins, with edges doughty still, The pick and choice of weapons, a warsman’s prize indeed; But more than any other man might bear in battle-need Good and brave to look on, the giants’ handicraft. The Bold One of the Scyldings he seized its belted haft; And, battle- grim and savage, the ringed blade he drew; And, of his life all hopeless, in fury smote so true That it gripped her sorely unto the neck, oho! And brake in twain its bone-rings. The sword was keen to go Athrough her doomed body. She crumpled in the murk. The old sword was bloody. The Hero liked his work. And the gleam out-blazed, within there stood a light, As from heaven shineth the sky’s Candle bright. He looked about the dwelling, he turned him to the wall, He heaved by hilt the weapon, this hardiest sword of all; Wroth and with but one thought, the Thane of Hygelac With its edge not useless for such a man’s attack! Speedily was of a will to pay that Grendel back For his many onslaughts made on folk West-Dane, Mickle more than one time, when asleep he’d slain Hrothgar’s hearth-fellows, and slumbering eat with jaws Fifteen of Danish folk and fifteen borne in claws Outward, his ghastly prey. For Beowulf, the dread, Paid him his award for that, where he beheld on bed Grendel, the battle-weary, lying lorn of life, Ev’n by scathe he’d gotten in Heorot at the strife. The corse did spring asunder; it dreed a blow, though dead, Oho, a swinging war-stroke,- and off was carved the head! The wise carls that with Hrothgar sate peering at the flood Soon saw the surges swirling, the sea all stained with blood. The white-haired ones together about the brave Man speak: |
