Donald Mace Williams – A Translated Passage from “Beowulf”

Donald Mace Williams breathes new light into the 10th century Old English epic poem Beowulf, written in iambic meter. In this particular translated passage of the legendary narrative, King Hrothgar mourns the loss of his most loyal fighter at the hands of Grendel’s monstrous mother in vengeance for the Danes slaying her trollish son. Donald’s full translation of the poem Beowulf: For Fireside and Schoolroom will be published by Stoney Creek Publishing Group in Spring 2024. In his translation, Donald has cut scholarly notes to a minimum, translates the work in iambic meter, and has chosen to keep the metaphorical compound expressions so common in Old English and Old Norse poetry intact.

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King Hrothgar replies to Beowulf’s morning greeting

“Do not ask after joy, for sorrow
Returns to the Danes: Aeschere is dead,
Older brother of Yrmenlaf,
My confidant and counselor,
And fellow-in-arms when we, at war,
Guarded our heads; when soldiers clashed
And smote boar-helmets. So should be
The best of heroes, as he was.
In Hart the roving terror slew him ——————–Hart: Heorot
With her two hands. I cannot say
To what place, carcass-proud, feast-happy,
The monster went. She had found revenge
For your slaying of Grendel the night before
By great force with your mighty grasp
Because so long among my folk
He maimed and killed. In struggle he fell
With guilt upon him; now came a second
Great evildoer, revenge in mind,
In full repaying that hostile deed,
As is well seen by many a thane
Whose mind mourns, grievously beset,
That generous man. The hand lies still
That to all men dealt the best things.
My countrymen, advisors, folk
In spoken words have made me know
That they have witnessed such a pair
Of huge waste-stalkers, horrid sprites,
Keeping the moors. The second was,
As far as they could surely tell,
Of woman’s form. The other wretch
Trod exile’s paths, in shape a man,
Though larger, he, than other men.
In days long gone, the name of Grendel
Men gave him; but none knew his father
And whether he might have begotten,
Before this, other such. They keep
A dim land, wolves’ slopes, windy capes,
And frightful fens where, down from mountains,
A torrent sinks beneath gloomy headlands,
A flood under earth. It is not far
In measured miles to that lakesite.
Above it frosty trees droop low;
A root-clogged wood overhangs the water.
Each night one sees a grim sight there:
Fire on the surface. Not long enough
Does men’s life last to know that place.
Though the stag on the heath, besieged by hounds—
The hart strong in antlers—seeks this wood,
Pursued from far, he gives up life,
Dies on the shore, rather than jump
And save his head. No refuge, that!
Great watery surges lift themselves,
Dark, to the clouds when wind stirs up
The hateful storms till air grows dismal
And the skies weep. From you alone
Can help come again. You do not know
Yet the foul realm in which one must
Search for this sinner. Seek if you dare.
For that campaign I’ll pay you richly
With ancient treasure, as before—
With twining gold—if you return.”
Beowulf spoke out, Ecgtheow’s son:
“Do not grieve, wise one. For all it is better
To avenge one’s friend than much to mourn.
Each one of us must bide the end
Of this world’s life, do as he may
Great deeds ere death; that is, for a man,
The best that comes to one not living.
Arise, king of the land. Let us
Haste to see Grendel’s mother’s track.
I swear that not in caves can it hide,
Nor deep in earth, nor in mountain woods,
Nor on the sea floor, go where it will.
Have patience now, upon this day,
In all your woes. I expect this of you.”
The old man leaped up with thanks to God,
The almighty Lord, for what the man swore.

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