II 115Went he forth to find at fall of night that haughty house, and heed wherever the Ring-Danes, outrevelled, to rest had gone. Found within it the atheling band asleep after feasting and fearless of sorrow, 120of human hardship. Unhallowed wight, grim and greedy, he grasped betimes, wrathful, reckless, from resting-places, thirty[1] of the thanes, and thence he rushed fain of his fell spoil, faring homeward, 125laden with slaughter, his lair to seek. Then at the dawning, as day was breaking, the might of Grendel to men was known; then after wassail was wail uplifted, loud moan in the morn. The mighty chief, 130atheling excellent, unblithe sat, labored in woe for the loss of his thanes, when once had been traced the trail of the fiend, spirit accurst: too cruel that sorrow, too long, too loathsome.[2] Not late the respite; 135with night returning, anew began ruthless murder; he recked no whit, firm in his guilt, of the feud and crime. They were easy to find who elsewhere sought in room remote their rest at night, 140bed in the bowers,[3] when that bale was shown, was seen in sooth, with surest token,— the hall-thane’s[4] hate. Such held themselves far and fast who the fiend outran! Thus ruled unrighteous and raged his fill 145one against all; until empty stood that lordly building, and long it bode so. Twelve years’ tide the trouble he bore, sovran of Scyldings, sorrows in plenty, boundless cares. There came unhidden 150tidings true to the tribes of men, in sorrowful songs,[5] how ceaselessly Grendel harassed Hrothgar, what hate he bore him, what murder and massacre, many a year, feud unfading,—refused consent 155to deal with any of Daneland’s earls, make pact of peace, or compound for gold: still less did the wise men ween to get great fee for the feud from his fiendish hands.[6] But the evil one ambushed old and young, 160death-shadow dark, and dogged them still, lured, and lurked in the livelong night of misty moorlands: men may say not where the haunts of these Hell-Runes[7] be. Such heaping of horrors the hater of men, 165lonely roamer, wrought unceasing, harassings heavy. O’er Heorot he lorded, gold-bright hall, in gloomy nights; and ne’er could the prince[8] approach his throne, —’twas judgment of God,—or have joy in his hall. 170Sore was the sorrow to Scyldings’-friend, heart-rending misery. Many nobles sat assembled, and searched out counsel how it were best for bold-hearted men against harassing terror to try their hand. 175Whiles they vowed in their heathen fanes altar-offerings, asked with words[9] that the slayer-of-souls[10] would succor give them for the pain of their people. Their practice this, their heathen hope; ’twas Hell they thought of 180in mood of their mind. Almighty they knew not, Doomsman of Deeds[11] and dreadful Lord, nor Heaven’s-Helmet heeded they ever, Wielder-of-Wonder.—Woe for that man who in harm and hatred hales his soul 185to fiery embraces;—nor favor nor change awaits he ever. But well for him that after death-day may draw to his Lord, and friendship find in the Father’s arms!