se þe bisenceð sǣlīþende
eorlas and ȳðmearas.
Hē hafað ōþre gecynd,
50 wæterþisa wlonc, wrǣtlīcran gīen.
Þonne hine on holme hunger bysgað,
and þone āglǣcan ǣtes lysteþ,
ðonne se mereweard mūð ontȳneð,

* * * * *

From unsuspected foes, until at last
They choose a dwelling with the faithless one.
Then, when the fiend, by crafty malice stirred,
From where hell's torments bind him fast, perceives
That men are firmly set in his domain,
With treachery unspeakable he hastes
To snare and to destroy the lives of those,
Both proud and lowly, who in sin perform
His will on earth. Donning the mystic helm
Of darkness, with his prey he speeds to hell,
The place devoid of good--all misty gloom,
Where broods a sullen lake, black, bottomless,
Just as the monster, Fastitocalon,
Destroys seafarers, overwhelming men
And staunch-built ships.
Another trait he has,
This proud sea-swimmer, still more marvelous.
When hunger grips the monster on the deep,
Making him long for food, his gaping mouth
The ocean-warder opens, stretching wide