Grendles modor,
ides, aglæc-wif yrmþe gemunde,
se þe wæter-egesan wunian scolde,
cealde streamas, siþðan Ca[in] wearð
to ecg-banan angan breþer,
fæderen-mæge; he þa fag gewat,
morþre gemearcod, man-dream fleon,
westen warode. Þanon woc fela
geosceaft-gasta;
swylce twegen
micle mearc-stapan moras healdan,
ellor-gæstas. Ðæra oðer earm-sceapen
þæs þe hie gewislicost gewitan meahton,
idese onlicnæs; oðer earm-sceapen
on weres wæstmum.
Hie dygel lond
warigeað, wulf-hleoþu, windige næssas,
frecne fen-gelad, ðær fyrgen-stream
under næssa genipu niþer gewiteð,
flod under foldan. Nis þæt feor heonon
mil-gemearces, þæt se mere stan[d]eð;
ofer ðæm hongiað hrinde bearwas,
wudu wyrtum fæst wæst oferhelmað.
Þær mæg nihta gehwæm nið-wundor seon,
fyr on flode. No þæs frod leofað
gumena bearna þæt þone grund wite.
Ðeah þe hæð-stapa hundum geswenced,
heorot hornum trum holt-wudu sece,
feorran geflymed, ær he feorh seleð,
aldor on ofre, ær he in wille,
hafelan [hydan]. Nis þæt heoru stow!
Þonon yð-geblond up astigeð
won to wolcnum, þonne wind styreþ
lað gewidru, oðþæt lyft drysmaþ,
roderas reotað.
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Grendel’s mother,
a monster woman, kept war-grief
deep in her mind, dwelt in terrible waters,
icy cold streams, since Cain raised the sword
against closest kinsman, put blade to his brother;
dripping with that fate, bright-stained outlawry,
gore-marked by murder, he fled man’s joys,
lived in wastelands. Out of that deep
and abysm of time came monsters, spirits.
Two such things,
huge, vague borderers, walking the moors,
spirits from elsewhere; so far as any man
might clearly see, one of them walked
in the likeness of a woman; the other, misshapen,
stalked marshy wastes.
A secret land they guard, high wolf-country,
windy cliffs, a dangerous way
twisting through fens, where a mountain torrent
plunges down crags under darkness of hills,
the flood under the earth. Not far from here,
measured in miles, lies that fearful lake
overhung with roots that sag and clutch,
frost-bound trees at the water’s edge.
Each night there is seen a baleful wonder,
strange water-fires. No man alive,
though old and wise, knows that mere-bottom.
The strong heath-runner, chased far by hounds,
the full-horned stag, may seek a safe cover,
pursued to despair– still he will sooner
die on the bank than save his head
and plunge in the mere. Not a pleasant place!
Tearing waves start up from that spot,
black against the sky, while the gloomy wind
stirs awful storms till the air turns choking,
the heavens weep.
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