Before the tenth century, a story was written that has survived into a classic tale.
Now we bring that tale to life...
<translation by Dr David Breeden>
One night, after a beer party,
the Danes settled in the hall
for sleep; they knew no sorrows.
The evil creature, grim and hungry,
grabbed thirty warriors
and went home laughing.
At dawn, when the Danes learned
of Grendel's strength,
there was great weeping.
The old king sat sadly,
crying for his men. Bloody
footprints were found.
That was bad enough,
but the following night
Grendel killed more--
blinded by sin,
he felt no remorse.
(You can bet the survivors
started sleeping elsewhere.)
So Grendel ruled,
fighting right,
one against many,
and the greatest hall
in all the earth
stood empty at night.
Twelve years this went on,
Hrothgar suffering
the greatest of sorrows.
Poets sang sad songs
throughout the world,
how Grendel tormented Hrothgar;
how no warrior,
no matter how brave,
could kill Grendel.
How Grendel wasn't
about to stop,
or pay damages.
Grendel kept ambushing from his lair,
the moors which lay in perpetual darkness.
Then, the cruelest of all injuries,
he moved into the hall--
stayed there every night
(though God would never allow
such an evil thing
to actually touch the throne).
Hrothgar was broken;
council after council proposed
what to do against the attacks.
They even went to heathen temples,
worshipped idols, and called
to the Devil for help.
The Danes forgot God.
(Woe be to those who go
to the fire's embrace,
even in great distress--
There is no consolation there.)
No counselor, no warrior
could destroy the evil.
They wept and seethed.
Now we bring that tale to life...
<translation by Dr David Breeden>
One night, after a beer party,
the Danes settled in the hall
for sleep; they knew no sorrows.
The evil creature, grim and hungry,
grabbed thirty warriors
and went home laughing.
At dawn, when the Danes learned
of Grendel's strength,
there was great weeping.
The old king sat sadly,
crying for his men. Bloody
footprints were found.
That was bad enough,
but the following night
Grendel killed more--
blinded by sin,
he felt no remorse.
(You can bet the survivors
started sleeping elsewhere.)
So Grendel ruled,
fighting right,
one against many,
and the greatest hall
in all the earth
stood empty at night.
Twelve years this went on,
Hrothgar suffering
the greatest of sorrows.
Poets sang sad songs
throughout the world,
how Grendel tormented Hrothgar;
how no warrior,
no matter how brave,
could kill Grendel.
How Grendel wasn't
about to stop,
or pay damages.
Grendel kept ambushing from his lair,
the moors which lay in perpetual darkness.
Then, the cruelest of all injuries,
he moved into the hall--
stayed there every night
(though God would never allow
such an evil thing
to actually touch the throne).
Hrothgar was broken;
council after council proposed
what to do against the attacks.
They even went to heathen temples,
worshipped idols, and called
to the Devil for help.
The Danes forgot God.
(Woe be to those who go
to the fire's embrace,
even in great distress--
There is no consolation there.)
No counselor, no warrior
could destroy the evil.
They wept and seethed.
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