shadowy stroller came. The warriors were sleeping—
Those who should guard the gabled building—
All of them, except one. It was well known to men 705
That, when the Lord willed it not, the devilish foe
May not draw them beneath the dark shadows.
But watching out for the wretch in wrath,
He waited for the outcome of the fight in fury.
Then from the moor under the misty slopes came 710
Grendel, gradually approaching, bearing God’s ire.
The direful destroyer of mankind intended
To take one in his grip in that lofty dwelling.
He advanced beneath the clouds to the wine-hall,
Till he most clearly discerned the golden hall 715
Gleaming with gold plates. Nor was it the first time
For him to seek the home of Hrothgar.
Never in his days of life, neither before nor since,
He found the hall-thanes a harder lot to bear.
Then to the hall the marauder made his way, 720
A stranger to life’s joy. The door sprang open,
When his hands gripped the fast-forged bar.
He pulled it open to break the hall-door,
Wrapped up in anger. Then quickly
On the flowery floor the fiend stepped, 725
And walked in, full of anger. In his eyes
Gleamed a flame shooting out an ugly beam.
He saw in the hall many a man of strength,
A band of kinsmen, sleeping together,
A troop of young retainers. Then he exulted 730
At the thought of tearing, before dawn broke,
Each one’s life from his body, as the horrid fiend
Intended, his mouth watering in anticipation
Of a lavish feast.
One of the most chilling and startling passages in Beowulf appears when Hrothgar depicts the marshland where Grendel and his mother dwell. In retaliation for Beowulf’s physical victory in his first encounter with Grendel, the defeated monster’s mother makes an assault on Heorot, and Æschere becomes a victim of her vengeful attack of Hrothgar’s palace. Grief-stricken by the loss of his beloved thane, Hrothgar asks Beowulf to venture to visit the underwater dwelling of Grendel and his mother in order to eliminate the root of all the evil that has devastated his land.
Hie dygel lond
warigeað wulfheloþu, windige næssas,
frecne fengelad, ðær fyrgenstream
under næssa genipu niþer gewiteð, 1360
flod under foldan. Nis þæt feor heonon
milgemearces, þæt se mere standeð;
ofer þæm hongiað hrinde bearwas,
wudu wyrtum fæst wæter oferhelmað.
Þær mæg nihta gehwæm niðwundor seon, 1365
fyr on flode. Nō þæs frod leofað
gumena bearna, þæt þone grund wite.
Ðeah þe hæðstapa hundum geswenced,
heorot hornum trum holtwudu sece,
feorran geflymed, ær he feorh seleð, 1370
aldor on ofre, ær he in wille,
hafelan [hydan]; nis þæt heoru stow!
Þonon yðgeblond up astigeð
won to wolcnum, þonne wind styreþ
lað gewidru, oð þæt lyft drysmaþ, 1375
roderas reotað. (ll. 1357b−76a)
Hrothgar’s description of the moorland where Grendel and his mother dwell is a chilling narration that makes any reader of Beowulf shudder: the dreadful landscape that the lines invoke is unmatched by any passage that has ever been written to depict a nightmarish scene the human imagination is capable of envisioning. Here is my Modern English rendition of the above passage:
They inhabit a hidden land—
Wolf-infested slopes, windy headlands, and
A perilous fen-path, where the mountain-stream
Falls down in the mist from the headlands 1360
And flows beneath the earth. Not far from here,
A few miles away, stands the mere,
Over which droop trees covered with frost.
The wood darkens the water with entangled roots.
There every night a fearful wonder is seen— 1365
Fire flaring on the water. None alive among men,
No matter how wise, knows how deep it is.
Fleeing from far off, chased by hounds, a stag
May seek a holt-wood to hide his strong horns;
Yet he will rather give up his life, lingering 1370
On the bank, than plunge his head into the pool
To save his life; that is not a pleasant place!
From there surging waves rise up,
Darkening the clouds, while the wind swirls,
Threatening storms, till the air turns choking 1375
And the sky howls.
Any student of Old English poetry will face the exhilarating and painful moment of reading the last passage of Beowulf. The excruciatingly arduous journey is about to reach its end; and the memory of turning the leaves of the glossary provided by that literary giant, Fr. Klaeber, is about to recede into the past. It is a moment of tremendous relief—entailing a sense of wistfulness and regret over not having to cope with the lines—not for some time, at least. The Beowulf-poet must have felt the same way, as he was reaching the end of his epic, the composition of which must
