Hwæt!
Wē Gār-Dena in gēar-dagum,
þeod-cyninga þrym gefrūnon,

hū þa æþelingas ellen fremedon!

The Geats Arrive in West Denmark

They sailed from Geatish realms, made landing in the home of the Danes.
A watchman of the mark rides out
Who goes there, over sea-lanes?

We belong by birth to the Geat folk and owe oaths to Hygelac's hand
Tell us of the threat abroad in the dark nights in Shieldings land
The men were taken by Wulfgar, a thegn at Denmark's call,

Westward towards Heorot, to king Hroðgar's hall.

My lord, king of all the Danes, bids me speak his knowledge of your bloodline

Beowulf arose
I forsake these weapons of mine
I hereby cast down the sword and the broad shield.

This night Grendel would taste no Weland-forged steel!

I shall fulfill my oath and prove myself with a proud deed

Or meet my death here in the mead-hall", this boast by Beowulf the Geat.
Never, since my hand could hold a shield have I entrusted my hall to anyone
The Geatish men then wondered if they would ever again see the sun.

The helmet of the Shieldings, left wishing to be rid of Grendel's thrall.
A forboding darkness and fear within king Hroðgar's hall.


In the night came the shadow of stealth.
The forboding doom that had blighted the Kingdom of the West Danes.
Through the moors and through the mist

The sceadugenga crept forth in the darkness.

Wod under wolcnum to þæs þe he winreced,

goldsele gumena, gearwost wisse,
fættum fahne. Ne wæs þæt forma sið
þæt he Hroþgares ham gesohte;

næfre he on aldordagum ær ne siþðan
heardran hæle, healðegnas fand.


Com þa to recede rinc siðian,
dreamum bedæled. Duru sona onarn,
fyrbendum fæst, syþðan he hire folmum æthran;

onbræd þa bealohydig, ða he gebolgen wæs,
recedes muþan.


Hygelac's kinsman watched in the darkness of the hall.
His eyes glowing and his frame keen for the fight.
Grendel came closer.

The death-maker with a lust in his gaze.
A hunger matched only by the dread of the fast-broken stillness and


His fear!
The fight was short and ruthless with anger.
A man's strength forestalling his death.

As the dead lay all around.
Grendel's mark ripping open their chests.


Beowulf's men, bound to his life, their fathers' blades in hand.
Scoring no wounds on the devil's flesh, no blacksmith's craft could land.
But his sinews tore, his shoulder splintered, a great shriek threw out in the night.

The limb was set free as Grendel shook loose, and took off into flight.
The hero's path in the night's end, a dearest wish to fulfill.
Denmark's plight and the oath held, was Grendel's blood to spill!