HROTHGAR spake, -- to the hall he went,stood by the steps, the steep roof saw,garnished with gold, and Grendel's hand: --"For the sight I see to the Sovran Rulerbe speedy thanks! A throng of sorrowsI have borne from Grendel; but God still workswonder on wonder, the Warden-of-Glory.It was but now that I never morefor woes that weighed on me waited helplong as I lived, when, laved in blood,stood sword-gore-stained this stateliest house, --widespread woe for wise men all,who had no hope to hinder everfoes infernal and fiendish spritesfrom havoc in hall. This hero now,by the Wielder's might, a work has donethat not all of us erst could ever doby wile and wisdom. Lo, well can she saywhoso of women this warrior boreamong sons of men, if still she liveth,that the God of the ages was good to herin the birth of her bairn. Now, Beowulf, thee,of heroes best, I shall heartily loveas mine own, my son; preserve thou everthis kinship new: thou shalt never lackwealth of the world that I wield as mine!Full oft for less have I largess showered,my precious hoard, on a punier man,less stout in struggle. Thyself hast nowfulfilled such deeds, that thy fame shall endurethrough all the ages. As ever he did,well may the Wielder reward thee still!"Beowulf spake, bairn of Ecgtheow: --"This work of war most willinglywe have fought, this fight, and fearlessly daredforce of the foe. Fain, too, were Ihadst thou but seen himself, what timethe fiend in his trappings tottered to fall!Swiftly, I thought, in strongest gripeon his bed of death to bind him down,that he in the hent of this hand of mineshould breathe his last: but he broke away.Him I might not -- the Maker willed not --hinder from flight, and firm enough holdthe life-destroyer: too sturdy was he,the ruthless, in running! For rescue, however,he left behind him his hand in pledge,arm and shoulder; nor aught of helpcould the cursed one thus procure at all.None the longer liveth he, loathsome fiend,sunk in his sins, but sorrow holds himtightly grasped in gripe of anguish,in baleful bonds, where bide he must,evil outlaw, such awful doomas the Mighty Maker shall mete him out."
More silent seemed the son of Ecglaf {14a}in boastful speech of his battle-deeds,since athelings all, through the earl's great prowess,beheld that hand, on the high roof gazing,foeman's fingers, -- the forepart of eachof the sturdy nails to steel was likest, --heathen's "hand-spear," hostile warrior'sclaw uncanny. 'Twas clear, they said,that him no blade of the brave could touch,how keen soever, or cut awaythat battle-hand bloody from baneful foe.