Listen well! Let me tell you of the glory of the Spear-Danes’ kings in days long past, and the valorous deeds of those mighty princes.

Scyld Scefing, abandoned as a child, rose to seize the mead-benches from many tribes and troops of enemies. From this, he found solace. He grew under the heavens, thriving with honors, until each nation across the whale-road had to obey him and pay tribute. That was a good king!

A young heir, a child in the court, was born to Scyld, bringing comfort to the people who had long suffered without a leader. This heir was Beowulf, renowned far and wide in the Scandinavian lands, earning rich gifts from his father’s wealth through good deeds, ensuring that loyal comrades will stand by him in his old age when war comes. By praiseworthy actions shall a man prosper among any people.

At his fated hour, mighty Scyld passed away into the Lord’s keeping. His dear comrades bore him to the sea’s surf, as he had bid while still ruling the Scyldings. There in the harbor stood the ring-prowed ship, icy but eager, fit for a prince. They laid their beloved lord, giver of rings, in the ship’s bosom by the mast, surrounded by treasures and ornaments from far-off lands. Never was a ship more splendidly adorned with battle-weapons, war-gear, swords, and mail. A multitude of treasures lay upon his breast, destined to travel with him into the watery realm. They equipped him no less than those who had sent him forth as a child over the waves. They set a golden banner high above him and let the sea bear him away. Their hearts were heavy with sorrow. No man, no lord in hall or hero under the sky, can truly say who received that precious cargo.

Long was Beowulf of the Scyldings renowned as king, his father having gone elsewhere. To him was born Healfdene, who ruled the happy Scyldings, proud and warlike, for as long as he lived. Four children were born to Healfdene: Heorogar, Hrothgar, good Halga, and Yrse, a queen and dear bedfellow of the Battle-Scylfing.

Success in war and honor in battle were granted to Hrothgar, his loyal kinsmen eagerly obeying him as the band of young fighters grew into a mighty troop.

It came into Hrothgar’s mind to command the construction of a great mead-hall, a house so grand that men would speak of it forever. There, he would share out all that the gods had given him, save for ancestral land and men’s lives.

Word spread far and wide, and soon, the greatest of halls stood ready. Hrothgar named it Heorot and did not neglect his promise, distributing rings and treasure at the feast. The hall towered high, its gables adorned with horns, awaiting the surging blaze of hostile flames that hatred would soon bring.

In the darkness, a powerful demon lurked, unable to endure the daily sounds of joy echoing from the hall. The clear song of the scop and the strains of the harp filled the air as the warriors lived in ease.

Until one began to do evil deeds, a hellish adversary. This fierce spirit, called Grendel, haunted the borderlands, occupying the moors, fens, and fastnesses, dwelling among the monster-kin.

One night, Grendel came to the tall house, eager to see how the Ring-Danes had arranged it after their beer-drinking. Inside, he found a band of noble warriors, sleeping after the feast, knowing no sorrow or misery. Grim, greedy, savage, and cruel, the creature seized thirty thanes from their rest. Exulting in his spoil, he returned to his lair, carrying the lifeless corpses to his den.