XII
That shielder of men refused to loose
his vicious guest alive, counting Grendel
wholly worthless. Beowulf's thanes
brandished weapons, iron heirlooms,
striving to hack out Grendel's soul
and help their lord. But they didn't know
that no weapon on earth could hurt
their monstrous enemy. The greatest war sword
lost its edge on him, robbed of its power
by enchantment. His death that day
would be more wretched, his outcast soul
would flee in pain to the realm of fiends.
He who inflicted untold miseries
on mankind, God's grim rebel,
found that his body would not obey him
now that Hygelac's bold kinsman
held him fast. While they lived,
each loathed the other. Then the monster
felt the fire of cruel agony:
a grisly wound gaped in his shoulder,
sinews snapped, muscles burst open,
and Beowulf was handed the war-glory
as Grendel fled, broken and dying,
to his unhappy home in the fens,
knowing now that his days were ended.
After that murderous storm, the will
of the Danes was done. Heorot was cleansed,
rescued from ruin by the shrewd man
who came from afar, proud in his strength.
Beowulf rejoiced in his night's work.
He'd kept his oath to the East-Dane people
and remedied grief and evil suffering
long endured. The sign was clear
when the hero hung above the door
Grendel's hand, his arm and shoulder,
the whole of his grasp.
--
Editor, Masthead: http://www.masthead.net.au
Blog: http://theatrenotes.blogspot.com
Home page: http://www.alisoncroggon.com
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