"Beowulf", translated by Burton Raffel, 11-21

He journeyed, forever joyless,
Straight to the door, then snapped it open,
Tore its iron fasteners with a touch
And rushed angrily over the threshold.

He strode quickly across the inlaid
Floor, snarling and fierce: his eyes
Gleamed in the darkness, burned with a gruesome
Light.

That trip to Herot
Was a miserable journey for the writhing monster!

Suddenly
The sounds changed, the Danes started
In new terror, cowering in their beds as the terrible
Screams of the Almighty’s enemy sang
In the darkness, the horrible shrieks of pain
And defeat, the tears torn out of Grendel’s
Taut throat, hell’s captive caught in the arms
Of him who of all the men on earth
Was the strongest.

Their courage
Was great but all wasted: they could hack at Grendel
From every side, trying to open
A path for his evil soul, but their points
Could not hurt him, the sharpest and hardest iron
Could not scratch at his skin, for that sin-stained demon
Had bewitched all men’s weapons, laid spells
That blunted every mortal man’s blade.

Then old and young rejoiced, turned back
From that happy pilgrimage, mounted their hard-hooved
Horses, high-spirited stallions, and rode them
Slowly toward Herot again, retelling
Beowulf’s bravery as they jogged along.

(But no one meant Beowulf’s praise to belittle
Hrothgar, their kind and gracious king!)

Heaving a hoary gray rock aside
Siegmund had gone down to the dragon alone,
Entered the hole where it hid and swung
His sword so savagely that it slit the creature
Through, pierced its flesh and pinned it
To a wall, hung it where his bright blade rested.

And Hrothgar rose
From beside his wife and came with his courtiers
Crowded around him.

Unferth grew quiet, gave up quarreling over
Beowulf’s old battles, stopped all his boasting
Once everyone saw proof of that prince’s strength,
Grendel’s huge claw swinging high
From Hrothgar’s mead-hall roof, the fingers
Of that loathsome hand ending in nails
As hard as bright steel—so hard, they all said,
That not even the sharpest of swords could have cut
It through, broken it off the monster’s
Arm and ended its life, as Beowulf
Had done armed with only his bare hands.

Hrothgar’s hall resounded with the harp’s
High call, with songs and laughter and the telling
Of tales, stories sung by the court
Poet as the joyful Danes drank
And listened, seated along their mead-benches.

A funeral pyre was prepared, and gold
Was brought; Hnaf’s dead body was dressed
For burning, and the others with him.

The savage fate
Decreed for them hung dark and unknown, what would follow
After nightfall, when Hrothgar withdrew from the hall,
Sought his bed and left his soldiers
To theirs.

And he bore
A race of fiends accursed like their father;
So Grendel was drawn to Herot, an outcast
Come to meet the man who awaited him.

The Danes' wise ruler rode,
Stately and splendid; shield-bearing soldiers
Marched at his side.