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The Swarm: Beowulf

In that old Anglo-Saxon pagan poem "Beowulf" of the seventh or eighth century, mead flows freely.

Hrothgar was the son of Healfdene, who was the son of an older Beowulf. "Through Hrothgar's mind it ran that he would bid men make a hall, the greatest mead-house ever known, and there within deal out to young and old all that God gave him, except the share of the people and the lives of men. Widely it was proclaimed through this mid earth to many a tribe that a Folkstead was building. When it was ready, to this greatest of halls he who had strength in his word gave the name Heorot. He belied not his pledge, but dealt out bracelets and money at the feast. The hall rose high and horn curved. There was the harp strung, loud was the song of the gleeman, who said he could tell from far back the beginning of men, and told how the Almighty wrought. The band of guests lived happily till one wrought like a fiend." This one who thus wrought was Grendel, a monster of the fens, son of a daughter of Cain.

Every night he entered the hall and killed the heroes. Beowulf the Goth came from over the seas to rescue them, and Hrothgar's queen at the banquet given to Beowulf, their deliverer, passed the cup. "Then she went round, and gave on every side rich vessels to old and young, until she bore the mead-cup, bracelet-covered queen, to Beowulf."

Beowulf killed the monster, and presents were heaped upon him and his followers.

The queen said: "Take this cup, dear lord, and be thou happy, golden friend of men; speak to the Goths kindly. Heorot, bright hall of rings, is cleansed. Enjoy the mead of the many, and leave to thy sons folk and land when thou must forth to behold God."

Mead The mother of Grendel appeared to avenge her son and was followed to the fen and slain; thereupon, their work finished, "The bright warriors went to the ship, laden with weapons, steeds, and gold; the mast rose over Hrothgar's boards. Beowulf gave to the boat-guard a sword bound with gold, and on the mead-bench he was afterwards the worthier for that heirloom."

From a fragment of heroic Anglo-Saxon poetry we get this : "Never have I heard of sixty conquering heroes who better bore them at a conflict of men, nor ever requite song or bright mead better than his young warriors requited Hnæf."