The Tale of Beowulf/Chapter 15
XV. KING HROTHGAR AND HIS THANES LOOK ON THE ARM OF GRENDEL. CONVERSE BETWIXT HROTHGAR AND BEOWULF CONCERNING THE BATTLE.
OUT then spake Hrothgar; for he to the hall went,By the staple a-standing the steep roof he sawShining fair with the gold, and the hand there of Grendel:For this sight that I see to the All-wielder thanksBefall now forthwith, for foul evil I bided,All griefs from this Grendel; but God, glory's Herder,930Wonder on wonder ever can work.Unyore was it then when I for myselfMight ween never more, wide all through my life-days,Of the booting of woes; when all blood-besprinkledThe best of all houses stood sword-gory here;Wide then had the woe thrust off each of the wiseOf them that were looking that never life-long That land-work of the folk they might ward from the loathly,From ill wights and devils. But now hath a warriorThrough the might of the Lord a deed made thereunto940Which we, and all we together, in nowiseBy wisdom might work. What! well might be sayingThat maid whosoever this son brought to birthAccording to man's kind, if yet she be living,That the Maker of old time to her was all-graciousIn the bearing of bairns. O Beowulf, I nowThee best of all men as a son unto meWill love in my heart, and hold thou henceforwardOur kinship new-made now; nor to thee shall be lackingAs to longings of world-goods whereof I have wielding;950Full oft I for lesser things guerdon have given,The worship of hoards, to a warrior was weaker,A worser in strife. Now thyself for thyselfBy deeds hast thou framed it that liveth thy fair fameFor ever and ever. So may the All-wielderWith good pay thee ever, as erst he hath done it. Then Beowulf spake out, the Ecgtheow's bairn:That work of much might with mickle of loveWe framed with fighting, and frowardly ventur'dThe might of the uncouth; now I would that rather960Thou mightest have look'd on the very man there,The foe in his fret-gear all worn unto falling.There him in all haste with hard griping did IOn the slaughter-bed deem it to bind him indeed,That he for my hand-grip should have to be lyingAll busy for life: but his body fled off.Him then I might not (since would not the Maker)From his wayfaring sunder, nor naught so well sought IThe life-foe; o'er-mickle of might was he yet,The foeman afoot: but his hand has he left us,970A life-ward, a-warding the ways of his wending,His arm and his shoulder therewith. Yet in nowiseThat wretch of the grooms any solace hath got him,Nor longer will live the loathly deed-doer,Beswinked with sins; for the sore hath him nowIn the grip of need grievous, in strait hold to-gather'dWith bonds that be baleful: there shall he abide, That wight dyed with all evil-deeds, the doom mickle,For what wise to him the bright Maker will write it.979Then a silenter man was the son there of EcglafIn the speech of the boasting of works of the battle,After when every atheling by craft of the earlOver the high roof had looked on the hand there,Yea, the fiend's fingers before his own eyen,Each one of the nail-steads most like unto steel,Hand-spur of the heathen one; yea, the own clawUncouth of the war-wight. But each one there quoth it,That no iron of the best, of the hardy of folk,Would touch him at all, which e'er of the monsterThe battle-hand bloody might bear away thence.