Beowulf

XXIII

Now that sword began,

from blood of the fight, in battle-droppings,[3]

war-blade, to wane: 'twas a wondrous thing

that all of it melted as ice is wont

when frosty fetters the Father loosens,

unwinds the wave-bonds, wielding all

seasons and times: the true God he!

Nor took from that dwelling the duke of the Geats

save only the head and that hilt withal

blazoned with jewels: the blade had melted,

burned was the bright sword, her blood was so hot,

so poisoned the hell-sprite who perished within there.

Soon he was swimming who safe saw in combat

downfall of demons; up-dove through the flood.

The clashing waters were cleansed now,

waste of waves, where the wandering fiend

her life-days left and this lapsing world.

Swam then to strand the sailors'-refuge,

sturdy-in-spirit, of s