The splendid hall resounded, and to all Danes,
fortress-dwellers, every keen one,
and to heroes, was a bitter ale dispensed.
Ireful were both, furious guardians of the house.
The house over-echoed. There was much wonder
that the wine-hall withstood those battle-brave ones,
and that it fell not to the ground, that beautiful fold-building,
but it held fast, with iron bands inside,
so skillfully smithed. There fell away from the hall
many meed-benches, as I have heard,
gold adorned, where the grim ones fought.
Wisemen of the Shieldings had never expected that any man,
even the best and the bone-decorated, by common means
might break it, or wreck it with cunning,
unless flame’s embrace swallowed it in the heat.
Then a sound ascended upward,
altogether new, that direly stood the North-Danes
with fear. Everyone there in the walls heard weeping,
a terrible song to sing, the enemy of God
sang victoryless, sore he bewailed, as Hell’s captive.
He held him fast. He who was with might
the strongest of men on that day of this life.
The shelterer would not for anything
let that death bringer go alive,
nor did he consider his living days
otherwise useful to any of his tribesmen.