By Constance Hieatt
Special and lovely, Beowulf brings to existence a society of violence and honor, fierce warriors and bloody battles, lethal monsters and recognized swords. Written by way of an unknown poet in concerning the 8th century, this masterpiece of Anglo-Saxton literature transforms legends, fantasy, historical past, and historical songs into the richly coloured story of the hero Beowulf, the loathsome man-eater Grendel, his vengeful water-hag mom, and a treasure-hoarding dragon. The earliest surviving epic poem in any sleek ecu language. Beowulf is a stirring portrait of a heroic world–somber, substantial, and luxurious.
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Extra info for Beowulf and Other Old English Poems
That was the last," the armaragor said, awe plain in his voice. " "Then drop the sack and help shift the wardrobe," the sorceress said impatiently. " Hawkril hastened. —but by hurling their shoulders against it in unison and running as if charging a ram through a door, the procurer and the armaragor managed to scrape it across the floor to stand under one of the lamps. Craer frowned at it, swung its doors wide, pulled an interior drawer out enough to serve as a foothold, and nodded in satisfaction.
The moss-girt stones were slippery but the way all too short. They reached the shattered archway in a matter of moments. " Delvin murmured, pausing beside the crumbling stone wall. His voice was not quite steady. "Yes," Helgrym replied, in a bleak, weary whisper. " Together they stepped through the arch into the haunted darkness. The foreyard of the Silent House had once been a park studded with small formal gardens and later a place where bastard family offspring, much-loved servants, and better-loved horses and hounds were buried by a long line of Lords Silvertree.
Horns, but swordsmen are so stupid! " The hand that slapped her jaw then snapped her head back, stung forth a flood of tears, and hurled her bodily back against a wall with a grunt of pain. Embra found herself on the floor, with the taste of blood in her mouth and her head singing a new tune. She looked up through watery tears at the armaragor standing over her, his jaw set and his face dark with anger. He seemed to be waiting for her to rise so that he could knock her down again. A man she'd kept alive half a dozen times this night, thus far, and—ah, to horns with it!
Beowulf and Other Old English Poems by Constance Hieatt