A poem written about Beowulf.


most likely written by a anglo saxon bard to honor the quest for glory beowulf took on

Then he saw, hanging on the wall, a heavy

Sword, hammered by giants, strong

And blessed with their magic, the best of all weapons

But so massive that no ordinary man could lift

Its carved and decorated length. He drew it

From its scabbard, broke the chain on its hilt,

And then, savage, now, angry

And desperate, lifted it high over his head

And struck with all the strength he had left,

Caught her in the neck and cut it through,

Broke bones and all. Her body fell

To the floor, lifeless, the sword was wet

With her blood, and Beowulf rejoiced at the sight. …

He…went walking, his hands tight on the sword,

His heart still angry. He … took his weapon with him

For final revenge against Grendel’s vicious

Attacks, his nighttime raids, over

And over, coming to Heorot when Hrothgar’s

Men slept, killing them in their beds,

Eating some on the spot, fifteen

Or more, and running to his loathsome moor

With another such sickening meal waiting

In his pouch. But Beowulf repaid him…struck off

His head with a single swift blow. The body

Jerked for the last time, then lay still. …

All that Beowulf took

Was Grendel’s head and the hilt of the giants’

Jeweled sword; the rest of that ring-marked

Blade had dissolved in Grendel’s steaming

Blood, boiling even after his death.

And then the battle’s only survivor

Swam up and away from those silent corpses.

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