Beowulf: A New Verse Translation

by Seamus Heaney

Published by Farrar Straus & Giroux

208 pages, 2000



 

 

 

 

Composed toward the end of the first millennium of our era, Beowulf is the elegiac narrative of the adventures of Beowulf, a Scandinavian hero who saves the Danes from the seemingly invincible monster Grendel and, later, from Grendel's mother. He then returns to his own country and dies in old age in a vivid fight against a dragon. The poem is about encountering the monstrous, defeating it, and then having to live on in the exhausted aftermath. In the contours of this story, at once remote and uncannily familiar at the end of the 20th-century, Seamus Heaney finds a resonance that summons power to the poetry from deep beneath its surface.  

 

 

 

So. The Spear-Danes in days gone by 
and the kings who ruled them had courage and greatness. 
We have heard of those princes' heroic campaigns. 

There was Shield Sheafson, scourge of many tribes, 
a wrecker of mead-benches, rampaging among foes. 
This terror of the hall-troops had come far. 
A foundling to start with, he would flourish later on 
as his powers waxed and his worth was proved,
In the end each clan on the outlying coasts 
beyond the whale-road had to yield to him 
and begin to pay tribute. That was one good king. 

Afterwards a boy-child was born to Shield, 
a cub in the yard, a comfort sent 
by God to that nation. He knew what they had tholed, 
the long times and troubles they'd come through 
without a leader; so the Lord of Life, 
the glorious Almighty, made this man renowned. 
Shield had fathered a famous son: 
Beow's name was known through the north. 
And a young prince must be prudent like that, 
giving freely while his father lives 
so that afterwards in age when fighting starts 
steadfast companions will stand by him 
and hold the line. Behaviour that's admired 
is the path to power among people everywhere. 

Shield was still thriving when his time came 
and he crossed over into the Lord's keeping. 
His warrior band did what he bade them 
when he laid down the law among the Danes: 
they shouldered him out to the sea's flood, 
the chief they revered who had long ruled them. 
A ring-whorled prow rode in the harbour, 
ice-clad, outbound, a craft for a prince. 
They stretched their beloved lord in his boat, 
laid out by the mast, amidships, 
the great ring-giver. Far-fetched treasures 
were piled upon him, and precious gear. 
I never heard before of a ship so well furbished 
with battle tackle, bladed weapons 
and coats of mail. The massed treasure 
was loaded on top of him: it would travel far 
on out into the ocean's sway. 
They decked his body no less bountifully 
with offerings than those first ones did 
who cast him away when he was a child 
and launched him alone out over the waves. 
And they set a gold standard up 
high above his head and let him drift
to wind and tide, bewailing him 
and mourning their loss. No man can tell, 
no wise man in hall or weathered veteran 
knows for certain who salvaged that load. 

Then it fell to Beow to keep the forts. 
He was well regarded and ruled the Danes 
for a long time after his father took leave 
of his life on earth. And then his heir, 
the great Halfdane, held sway 
for as long as he lived, their elder and warlord. 
He was four times a father, this fighter prince: 
one by one they entered the world, 
Heorogar, Hrothgar, the good Halga 
and a daughter, I have heard, who was Onela's queen, 
a balm in bed to the battle-scarred Swede. 

The fortunes of war favoured Hrothgar. 
Friends and kinsmen flocked to his ranks, 
young followers, a force that grew 
to be a mighty army. So his mind turned 
to hall-building: he handed down orders 
for men to work on a great mead-hall 
meant to be a wonder of the world forever; 
it would be his throne-room and there he would dispense 
his God-given goods to young and old - 
but not the common land or people's lives. 
Far and wide through the world, I have heard, 
orders for work to adorn that wallstead 
were sent to many peoples. And soon it stood there, 
finished and ready, in full view, 
the hall of halls. Heorot was the name 
he had settled on it, whose utterance was law. 
Nor did he renege, but doled out rings 
and torques at the table. The hall towered, 
its gables wide and high and awaiting 
a barbarous burning. That doom abided, 
but in time it would come: the killer instinct 
unleashed among in-laws, the blood-lust rampant. 
| March 2000

Copyright © 2000 Seamus Heaney

 

SEAMUS HEANEY received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1995. A resident of Dublin since 1976, he teaches regularly at Harvard University. His most recent collection of poems is Opened Ground (FSG, 1998).