Do not foster pride, glorious warrior! The great fame of your might lasts but a little while. Then soon enough will sickness or the sword deprive you of strength – or the grasp of flames, or the surging flood, or the slashing blade, or the flight of a spear, or horrid old age.
The Almighty Judge of good deeds and bad, the Lord God, Head of the Heavens and High King of the World, was unknown to them. Oh, cursed is he who in time of trouble had to thrust his soul into the fire’s embrace, forfeiting help; he has nowhere to turn. But blessed is he who after death can approach the Lord and find friendship in the Father’s embrace.
Now I tell you, Beowulf, The best of men, I wish you for my son With heart-felt love – to hold from now on in new bond of kinship. Nor will you lack any of the worldly goods that I have power to give.
He was spawned in that slime of Cain, murderous creatures banished by God.
As men reckon time, it was all ready with speed, the greatest of hall-buildings. Hrothgar the king, who wielded power with words, named the hall Hereot. He fulfilled his pledge, dealt out precious rings, treasures at the feast.
Death is not easily escaped, try it who will; but every living soul among the children of men dwelling upon the earth goeth of necessity unto his destined place, where the body, fast in its narrow bed, sleepeth after feast.
In the time I was given I lived in my own land, ruling my people well, never turning to treachery, or swearing to oaths contrary to right. In this I take comfort and joy when now I am stricken with death-dealing wounds.
Steams like black clouds, and the groves of trees growing out over their lake are all covered with frozen spray, and wind down snakelike roots that reach as far as the water and help keep it dark. At night that lake burns like a torch. No one knows its bottom, no wisdom reaches such depths.
The fire-dragon had destroyed with flames the stronghold of the people, the land bordering the sea, the fortress of the nation. For that the war-king, the prince of the Weders, planned terrible vengeance.
She’d brooded on her loss, misery had brewed in her heart, that female horror, Grendel’s Mother, living in the murky cold lake assigned her since Cain had killed his only brother, slain his father’s son with an angry sword.
Yet those grieving people could in no way prevail upon that noble hero, in any of his assemblies, that he would become the lord over Heardred, or choose to hold a position of kingly power.
The monster wrenched and wrestled with him but Beowulf was mindful of his mighty strength, the wondrous gifts God had showered on him: He relied for help on the Lord of All, on His care and favour. So he overcame the foe, brought down the hell-brute.