I
Word rang from halls where highest Hrothgar dwells
The dreaded demon beast, monster of the Moor is dead,
The doleful denizen of dust and death, felled in fury, fulsome
By the Shield-Dane hero, stout and strong of sword and spear.
II
And all these hallowed halls in common chorus cry
Blood and boisterous victory o’er foul terror and treachery,
Drinking drafts of warm meed and feasting on fish and foul,
All the while hailing horrid battles and harrowing deeds.
III
Yet still, in sorrow, the lord of laurels sits in state, stricken,
Sick with sullen pain and foreboding of torments terrible.
Why would he not hoist halberd and hammer against the foe
And hurl Hell fire to save the settlement from bloody bane?
IV
Why does he forebear to feast and foist a tankard to the Fates
That granted glorious victory to the weary warriors of Heorot?
Why does he dread to step outside the meed hall when darkness descends,
And the wind voices shriek from the caves like waling widows in the night?
V
“Grendel’s dead! We tore his limbs, from the wily beast, part man, part wolf!
We wrenched long knife-like tusks from his bleeding jaws, we cut his claws
From the twisted, hump backed terror, who left a trail of blood and bones
To his mountain lair. At his cave’s yawning door, we spilled his force with daggers!”
VI
And Hrothgar, filled with dole and dread, roused himself and to the Athelings said:
“I mourn the dead, sunk into night’s shadows, the grieving wives and whelps of
The brave and brawny warriors who fell to the fury of the beast.
I grieve for the blood of all who fell, some shrouded in their secrets.
VII
Names never spoken among men, nor parentage honored at assemblies,
I mourn the creature your lances felled, my secret, my shame and my son.
For in the misty cliffs, among the howling winds and wolf packs dwells another
Beast of unsated savagery and baleful bellowing, clawing the night for her slain son.
VIII
A she-beast of such craft and cunning, of such strength and strangling wrath
That she breaths vengeance, like fire, ‘gainst him who sired her son, only to slay him!
For I, with a shame equal to her fury, did, in my youth, past deep forests roam.
High in mountain caves, where ravens pick the bones of felled foul and fallen game.
IX
‘Twas there she saw me, beast with burning eyes and fearsome forked tail,
A subtle creature, both devious and adroit, she takes such pleasing forms, as
Now, a woman of so gentle visage that her eyes molded an image, for me,
Which worked like heady drink upon my fevered senses, devoured with desire.
X
The arms around my waist were soft and warm, as breath upon my neck,
Sweetest lips like sugar on ripest, red fruit; the air was warm and wonton.
I bedded her and from our molten passion sprang from her loins the spawn,
The Grendel I refused to ever own, the creature born to vengeance and despair.
XI
Thus, in advancing age, the fire of my youth returned in monstrous form to punish
All who serve the faithless father. Such sanguine sorrows fell upon our company
That only baleful bloodshed could close the shameful story of my own making.
Grendel, my son, lies dead within my halls, and peace demands the death of his mother.”
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