 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
Sons.
Of them what more?
Cædmon.
Those worship Dæmon-Gods.
The Winter-long, which hard is in their parts;
Where snow lies deep and grips the ground iron frost;
Drinking sweet mead and ale, in their lords halls,
With gaming and loud songs they wont to pass:
Songs of their War-god Woden, Lord of spears,
King of the slain; and vaunting hardy deeds.
But come in month of shipfare, they make yare
Long keels, with dragon prows and gilded ensigns,
To sea: being wholly set their heathen hearts,
On rapine; that is mostly on Cristen coasts:
And turn, with booty enriched, to their own hearths.
Be ever ready, O sons, to fight for Christ;
As have your fathers fought.
Sons.
Ye met them, where?
Cædmon.
Of them what more?
Cædmon.
Those worship Dæmon-Gods.
The Winter-long, which hard is in their parts;
Where snow lies deep and grips the ground iron frost;
Drinking sweet mead and ale, in their lords halls,
With gaming and loud songs they wont to pass:
Songs of their War-god Woden, Lord of spears,
King of the slain; and vaunting hardy deeds.
But come in month of shipfare, they make yare
Long keels, with dragon prows and gilded ensigns,
To sea: being wholly set their heathen hearts,
On rapine; that is mostly on Cristen coasts:
And turn, with booty enriched, to their own hearths.
Be ever ready, O sons, to fight for Christ;
As have your fathers fought.
Sons.
Ye met them, where?
Cædmon.
I mind it well, 'twas month then of new year,
When yean the ewes. Sounded fierce yell from shore,
Gainst cockcrow; and wé all heard it in the stalls,
Where we menservants slept. That yelling was
Of many throats, calling on heathen Gods.
We hasted to shore up, with beams, our gates.
When yean the ewes. Sounded fierce yell from shore,
Gainst cockcrow; and wé all heard it in the stalls,
Where we menservants slept. That yelling was
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We hasted to shore up, with beams, our gates.
Snatcht arms, and left our hounds the folds to watch;
And sacred sisters, sighing in the Church,
But strong in faith; upon their prayer-worn knees.
With men roused, from next steddings and nigh cotes.
That, heard our great-bells toll, came hieing to us;
Plough-folk, men wont, from dawn to dusk to break
The stubborn clod; we sped us to moot place.
And sacred sisters, sighing in the Church,
But strong in faith; upon their prayer-worn knees.
With men roused, from next steddings and nigh cotes.
That, heard our great-bells toll, came hieing to us;
Plough-folk, men wont, from dawn to dusk to break
The stubborn clod; we sped us to moot place.
The day was making then, nor long it was;
Ere we had sight of foemen coming on
With chant of battle-rage and weapon-song.
Were we two score, with billhooks armed the most.
A few with swords and some with scythes on staves.
And were they many more than we, tall wights;
Of violent looks, clad all in stiff buff-coats;
Wielding broad híde-shields, girt with bands of bronze.
With spears in their fierce hands and swords, whereon
Those set most store, (and they have cunning smiths,)
Of tempered steel. The breasts of chief ones fenced
Were, with iron rings.
Ere we had sight of foemen coming on
With chant of battle-rage and weapon-song.
Were we two score, with billhooks armed the most.
A few with swords and some with scythes on staves.
And were they many more than we, tall wights;
Of violent looks, clad all in stiff buff-coats;
Wielding broad híde-shields, girt with bands of bronze.
With spears in their fierce hands and swords, whereon
Those set most store, (and they have cunning smiths,)
Of tempered steel. The breasts of chief ones fenced
Were, with iron rings.
We, standing in await,
Fell on them out, from thicket place of rocks.
We knew that fighting must be sore to death.
Our brunt, at unawares, burst their shield-burg:
And drove them back, like to a tottering wave.
Come to hand-strokes, they could not stand before us;
For know, that GOD was ín that fighting, for us.
Told every stroke of ours; but dulled the edge
Was of their blades: that could not bite our flesh,
Wrapped only in a poor weed, of wadmel stuff.
Then great sword-swathe, shedding of heathen blood:
Straining our most hands billhooks, we reaped men.
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We knew that fighting must be sore to death.
Our brunt, at unawares, burst their shield-burg:
And drove them back, like to a tottering wave.
Come to hand-strokes, they could not stand before us;
For know, that GOD was ín that fighting, for us.
Told every stroke of ours; but dulled the edge
Was of their blades: that could not bite our flesh,
Wrapped only in a poor weed, of wadmel stuff.
Then great sword-swathe, shedding of heathen blood:
Straining our most hands billhooks, we reaped men.
Was I in my best age; and that same year,
Had borne, on my stoopt neck, an heifer forth,
In our Lent games. Those heathen hurled on heaps.
Nathless round Bloodaxe, their tall yarl, held fast
Few ones, his nigh of kin and oathfast men;
And ship-swains, thát fought on for their Lords life,
Unto the death.
Had borne, on my stoopt neck, an heifer forth,
In our Lent games. Those heathen hurled on heaps.
Nathless round Bloodaxe, their tall yarl, held fast
Few ones, his nigh of kin and oathfast men;
And ship-swains, thát fought on for their Lords life,
Unto the death.
Tall Bloodaxe, raging fought;
Shining the bronze scales ón his warlike breast.
In stature he exceeded all the rest;
As in his lineage, and his former deeds.
He wielded Sun-rayed shield; whose navel-spike,
Sharp cubit was of bronze. His high right hand,
Brandished bright heathen battle-axe renowned,
An heirloom in his House. And glowed his eyes,
In his war-fury, as the glede.
Shining the bronze scales ón his warlike breast.
In stature he exceeded all the rest;
As in his lineage, and his former deeds.
He wielded Sun-rayed shield; whose navel-spike,
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Brandished bright heathen battle-axe renowned,
An heirloom in his House. And glowed his eyes,
In his war-fury, as the glede.
Seen that
In him the battle was: from dying foe,
I wrested long two-edgéd sword; and leapt,
With cry to Heaven, under the young earls guard:
And fetcht, with strength, Heaven to me lent, a stroke;
Off hewing his right hand.
In him the battle was: from dying foe,
I wrested long two-edgéd sword; and leapt,
With cry to Heaven, under the young earls guard:
And fetcht, with strength, Heaven to me lent, a stroke;
Off hewing his right hand.
He stumbling forth;
I dasht aside his targe. And ón his helm,
Again, assembling all my force, I smote.
And clave the iron, under his dragon-crest:
And through his hairy scalp and long ringed-locks;
The blade sank to the shoulder, with that stroke.
And headlong he fell down; and lay along,
Great lifeless corse, all on a blood-stained turf.
I dasht aside his targe. And ón his helm,
Again, assembling all my force, I smote.
And clave the iron, under his dragon-crest:
And through his hairy scalp and long ringed-locks;
The blade sank to the shoulder, with that stroke.
And headlong he fell down; and lay along,
Great lifeless corse, all on a blood-stained turf.
His axe it was, that ín his fall, me hurt
Sore ín thís foot; whereof I halt thus yet.
With his bruised helm, I it dedicated sith;
Where ye sons have them seen, in holy Church.
Sore ín thís foot; whereof I halt thus yet.
With his bruised helm, I it dedicated sith;
Where ye sons have them seen, in holy Church.
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They seen his fall, and how they had the worse,
And many wounded were; gan to give ground.
Those fremlings, being amazed, dispersedly fought.
Some even, like to a troop of startled deer;
Forsaken of their War-gods, turned then their backs.
Nor long was, ere they all, a broken rout,
Confusedly fled.
And many wounded were; gan to give ground.
Those fremlings, being amazed, dispersedly fought.
Some even, like to a troop of startled deer;
Forsaken of their War-gods, turned then their backs.
Nor long was, ere they all, a broken rout,
Confusedly fled.
Then was, our strong-shot shafts,
From mighty bows, pierced many in downward paths,
Unto the bay; where, ín the rivers mouth,
Lay riding their war-keels of many oars;
Whose rowers, gone forth, them waited in the surf.
From mighty bows, pierced many in downward paths,
Unto the bay; where, ín the rivers mouth,
Lay riding their war-keels of many oars;
Whose rowers, gone forth, them waited in the surf.
But we, upon our part, with thankful hearts,
Pursued not forth. Of ours was no man slain.
Then gathering us together, and taken breath:
Bearing up our hurt ones, under their arms;
And leaving the dead foemen on the ground;
After this great salvation, we turned home;
To break our fasts.
Pursued not forth. Of ours was no man slain.
Then gathering us together, and taken breath:
Bearing up our hurt ones, under their arms;
And leaving the dead foemen on the ground;
After this great salvation, we turned home;
To break our fasts.
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |