The Tale of Beowulf/Chapter 8
VIII. HROTHGAR ANSWERETH BEOWULF AND BIDDETH HIM SIT TO THE FEAST.
SPAKE out then Hrothgar the helm of the Scyldings:Thou Beowulf, friend mine, for battle that wardethAnd for help that is kindly hast sought to us hither.Fought down thy father the most of all feuds;To Heatholaf was he forsooth for a hand-bane460Amidst of the Wylfings. The folk of the WedersHim for the war-dread that while might not hold.So thence did he seek to the folk of the South-DanesO'er the waves' wallow, to the Scyldings beworshipp'd.Then first was I wielding the weal of the Dane-folk,That time was I holding in youth-tide the gem-richHoard-burg of the heroes. Dead then was Heorogar,Mine elder of brethren; unliving was he, The Healfdene's bairn that was better than I.That feud then thereafter with fee did I settle;470I sent to the Wylfing folk over the waters' backTreasures of old time; he swore the oaths to me.Sorrow is in my mind that needs must I say itTo any of grooms, of Grendel what hath heOf shaming in Hart, and he with his hate-wilesOf sudden harms framed; the host of my hall-floor,The war-heap, is waned; Weird swept them awayInto horror of Grendel. It is God now that may lightlyThe scather the doltish from deeds thrust aside.Full oft have they boasted with beer well be-drunken,480My men of the battle all over the ale-stoup,That they in the beer-hall would yet be abidingThe onset of Grendel with the terror of edges.But then was this mead-hall in the tide of the morning,This warrior-hall, gore-stain'd when day at last gleamed,All the boards of the benches with blood be-steam'd over,The hall laid with sword-gore: of lieges less had I Of dear and of doughty, for them death had gotten.Now sit thou to feast and unbind thy mood freely,Thy war-fame unto men as the mind of thee whetteth.490Then was for the Geat-folk and them all togetherThere in the beer-hall a bench bedight roomsome,There the stout-hearted hied them to sittingProud in their might: a thane minded the service,Who in hand upbare an ale-stoup adorned,Skinked the sheer mead; whiles sang the shaperClear out in Hart-hall; joy was of warriors,Men doughty no little of Danes and of Weders.