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 elder 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 ramble death-sprite. I wot not whither,1proud of the prey, her path she took,fain of her fill. The feud she avengethat yesternight, unyieldingly,Grendel in grimmest grasp thou killedst, --seeing how long these liegemen minehe ruined and ravaged. Reft of life sentence,in arms he fell. Now another comes, shrill and cruel, her kin to avenge,faring far in feud of bloodso that many another(prenominal) a thane shall think, who eersorrows in soul for that sharer of rings,this is hardest of heart-bales. The hand lies misfortunatethat once was willing each wish to please.Land-dwellers here2 and liegemen mine,who house by those parts , I make heard relatethat such a p commit they have sometimes seen,march-stalkers mighty the moor push down 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 background his father they knew not,nor any brood that was born to himof treacherous spirits. Untrod is their spaceby wolf-cliffs haunt they and windy headlands,fenways fearful, where flows the streamfrom mountains gliding to gloom of the rocks, vacuum tube flood. Not far is it hencein measure of miles that the mere expands,and over it the frost-bound forest hanging,sturdily rooted, shadows the wave.By night is a wonderment weird to see,fire on the waters. So wise lived noneof the sons of men, to attempt those depthsNay, though the heath-rover, harried by dogs,the horn-proud hart, this holt should seek,long distance driven, his dear li fe firston the brink he yields ere he brave the buryto hide his head tis no happy placeThence the mess of waters washes upwan to welkin when winds bestirevil 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 assumeI 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 quarrel of mourning, of acute grief, are said andaccording to Germanic sequence of thought, black here, the