The Dawn in Britain by Charles M. Doughty |
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 | The Dawn in Britain |  |
When lords have mourned, and noble women wept,
In hall, their fill; desiring him that dead
Is, whiles, with sighs, men name the hero oft;
One Radwald, mongst the Almains, gan rehearse;
(Left sick, in Thorolf's ships, had Radwald seen
That field;) how fighting gainst great armed inroad,
Fell Thorolf. Gathered to him hastily were,
From Elbe-land's borders, (home of warriors,)
Stout men, not many, which returned from Britain.
With riders, and with bowmen, Getas were
Great army. Thorolf then, all day, their charge
Sustained. Rattled loud dints, on shields, of spears
And swords; and oft seemed dimmed heaven and the world;
With the infinite many of shafts, which Getas shot.
In hall, their fill; desiring him that dead
Is, whiles, with sighs, men name the hero oft;
One Radwald, mongst the Almains, gan rehearse;
(Left sick, in Thorolf's ships, had Radwald seen
That field;) how fighting gainst great armed inroad,
Fell Thorolf. Gathered to him hastily were,
From Elbe-land's borders, (home of warriors,)
Stout men, not many, which returned from Britain.
With riders, and with bowmen, Getas were
Great army. Thorolf then, all day, their charge
Sustained. Rattled loud dints, on shields, of spears
And swords; and oft seemed dimmed heaven and the world;
With the infinite many of shafts, which Getas shot.
Round the ethling, foremost champions fell, till eve:
In tempest bursten was of Getas' spears,
His white-horse shield; his iron war-kirtle hanged,
Bloody, on his panting chest, to-hewed, to-rent.
Gold-bristles, then, the hero cast, to ground,
(His helm); so dasht, so hackt to shards, it was.
In tempest bursten was of Getas' spears,
His white-horse shield; his iron war-kirtle hanged,
Bloody, on his panting chest, to-hewed, to-rent.
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(His helm); so dasht, so hackt to shards, it was.
His enemies fled, when rang it on the stones,
Aback, aghast! Then seeing impossible thing,
Were scape this field; sith might not he, alone,
Contend, with thousand flocking enemies, champions:
Disdaining come, in Getas' hands, alive;
Calling aloud on Woden, his sires' Sire,
He leapt, midst thicket of strong Getas' spears;
And hewed him round, all-weary, as he was;
A bay of death. Then Thorolf's furious hand,
Point turned of spear, (which now he broken hath;)
Turned in against himself! and his great force,
Through-smote, neath his rent hauberk, his ribbed chest!
Aback, aghast! Then seeing impossible thing,
Were scape this field; sith might not he, alone,
Contend, with thousand flocking enemies, champions:
Disdaining come, in Getas' hands, alive;
Calling aloud on Woden, his sires' Sire,
He leapt, midst thicket of strong Getas' spears;
And hewed him round, all-weary, as he was;
A bay of death. Then Thorolf's furious hand,
Point turned of spear, (which now he broken hath;)
Turned in against himself! and his great force,
Through-smote, neath his rent hauberk, his ribbed chest!
Like to some root-fast pine, which gods, of storm,
At length o'erthrow, that ruins, in vast space,
Fell Thorolf forth! Sith, o'er his bleeding corse,
Fell, till the last one, Thorolf's lords and champions.
At length o'erthrow, that ruins, in vast space,
Fell Thorolf forth! Sith, o'er his bleeding corse,
Fell, till the last one, Thorolf's lords and champions.
But the same night his foes, which held that field,
Rendered great Thorolf, with his arms and harness!
Drawn forth, from bloody bank of mingled slain;
They sent his body, on bier of ashen green;
With heralds, granting pause of hostile arms,
In worship of the illustrious hero dead.
Rendered great Thorolf, with his arms and harness!
Drawn forth, from bloody bank of mingled slain;
They sent his body, on bier of ashen green;
With heralds, granting pause of hostile arms,
In worship of the illustrious hero dead.
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And was, when gathered spoil, at morrow's eve;
And buried now all weapon-slain, in field,
Bearing pine-boughs, with blackened visages,
In shining harness, Getas' princely men
Marched, men of stature, and many have war-wounds;
To Saxen Thorolf's solemn funerals.
And buried now all weapon-slain, in field,
Bearing pine-boughs, with blackened visages,
In shining harness, Getas' princely men
Marched, men of stature, and many have war-wounds;
To Saxen Thorolf's solemn funerals.
Nigh was that field of fight, to creeky haven;
On whose shole strand, lay Thorolf's snake-necked ships;
And the king's dragon-keel, with gilded ensigns;
Hight the Goldorm. There, after day's lament,
Of Thorolf's sea-folk; and few left of his,
'Scaped from that field, to ship; four enemy dukes,
And Catlif, (who the king of Getas' son,)
Convey great Brennid Thorolf, washed from blood,
Fair as in life, on his white battle-steed,
(Freyfax, borne in his ship,) upstayed to ride.
On whose shole strand, lay Thorolf's snake-necked ships;
And the king's dragon-keel, with gilded ensigns;
Hight the Goldorm. There, after day's lament,
Of Thorolf's sea-folk; and few left of his,
'Scaped from that field, to ship; four enemy dukes,
And Catlif, (who the king of Getas' son,)
Convey great Brennid Thorolf, washed from blood,
Fair as in life, on his white battle-steed,
(Freyfax, borne in his ship,) upstayed to ride.
Men of his keels, lift reverent down the dead;
And bear, slow-paced, on Catlif's door-like targe,
With mourning hearts, over salt strand, aboard
Goldorm; where, on high stool of polished elm,
Rune-graven, and dight with plates of shining brass,
They stay him up, on pillows. His dead brows,
Men crown with helm of antique Arthemail;
(Gift, which once Tuscan Arunt sent to Brennus.)
And bear, slow-paced, on Catlif's door-like targe,
With mourning hearts, over salt strand, aboard
Goldorm; where, on high stool of polished elm,
Rune-graven, and dight with plates of shining brass,
They stay him up, on pillows. His dead brows,
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(Gift, which once Tuscan Arunt sent to Brennus.)
They laid his bruised targe, of the linden, light,
Dight with hard hairy hide of the ureox;
(Gift of Hild, Elsing, who his foster, was;)
That glorious gleamed, with whorles of tin and brass,
Covering the hero cold, on his large breast.
Dight with hard hairy hide of the ureox;
(Gift of Hild, Elsing, who his foster, was;)
That glorious gleamed, with whorles of tin and brass,
Covering the hero cold, on his large breast.
His peers, (dead ethlings and companion warriors;)
Whose corses, in slow ox-wains, follow his,
Men lay him round, all on the rowers' banks.
Last Briton hounds, and his slain battle-steed;
To burn with him, in the two stems, they laid.
Whose corses, in slow ox-wains, follow his,
Men lay him round, all on the rowers' banks.
Last Briton hounds, and his slain battle-steed;
To burn with him, in the two stems, they laid.
His own then, and all truth-plight Geta men,
Great plenty of darts and shafts, which gathered were,
In slaughter field, heap round those Woden-dead:
So that was seen, like hoy, high-fraught, with wood,
Of Goldorm, soon, the royal warlike board.
Great plenty of darts and shafts, which gathered were,
In slaughter field, heap round those Woden-dead:
So that was seen, like hoy, high-fraught, with wood,
Of Goldorm, soon, the royal warlike board.
Then sea-folk smeared, the funeral ship, with pitch;
And cast in tallow and fat. Sit friends, sit foes,
Kindled great fires, with torches in their hands;
Waiting the cresset moon, when he should rise!
And cast in tallow and fat. Sit friends, sit foes,
Kindled great fires, with torches in their hands;
Waiting the cresset moon, when he should rise!
Lightens, before his coming, now wide East.
Gin shipswains, knees, from under Goldorm's bilge,
Withdraw and shoring-staves: climbed some, aboard,
Large mainsail hoise; and loose out to night wind.
Cast noble Getas gifts; saies storied bright,
With needlework; proud arms, into the ship,
Vessail and ornaments; to great Thorolf's spirit!
Gin shipswains, knees, from under Goldorm's bilge,
Withdraw and shoring-staves: climbed some, aboard,
Large mainsail hoise; and loose out to night wind.
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With needlework; proud arms, into the ship,
Vessail and ornaments; to great Thorolf's spirit!
In that, heard trampling hooves, and shimmering seen:
(Is dread, by night-time, sudden gleam of bronze!)
Getas, round shields embraced, grip long war-spears:
They, truce-plight foes, that funeral keel close round;
Ready, and need wére, to fight, till their own deaths,
Tall men of war, to ward great Thorolf's corse.
(Is dread, by night-time, sudden gleam of bronze!)
Getas, round shields embraced, grip long war-spears:
They, truce-plight foes, that funeral keel close round;
Ready, and need wére, to fight, till their own deaths,
Tall men of war, to ward great Thorolf's corse.
Heard lamentable women's shrieks, anon!
From steed, all of a foam, Elfrida, eftsoon,
Alights; true wife of that great hero dead:
And, ere-year, were their joyous spousals made!
With her rides an armed company; and, lo, old Gizla,
Mourning milk-mother of the ethling Thorolf.
From steed, all of a foam, Elfrida, eftsoon,
Alights; true wife of that great hero dead:
And, ere-year, were their joyous spousals made!
With her rides an armed company; and, lo, old Gizla,
Mourning milk-mother of the ethling Thorolf.
Warned them prophetic virgin, Veleda, crying,
Yester, from tower-head, in the wind; she saw
Great Thorolf's ghost, received amongst the gods!
Haste men to sea-strand; where they, yet, should find
His body slain, mongst oath-plight enemies.
Yester, from tower-head, in the wind; she saw
Great Thorolf's ghost, received amongst the gods!
Haste men to sea-strand; where they, yet, should find
His body slain, mongst oath-plight enemies.
With few, they hied then, hither; on swift steeds;
Nor stinted, day-time, nor night-long, to ride;
Abstaining from all kindly nourishment.
Last heard they, of some wayfaring man, this eve;
Where lay that death-field, fast by the salt waves;
And Thorolf dead, mongst soothfast enemies!
Nor stinted, day-time, nor night-long, to ride;
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Last heard they, of some wayfaring man, this eve;
Where lay that death-field, fast by the salt waves;
And Thorolf dead, mongst soothfast enemies!
Those noble ladies; in whom life and breath
Remains, uneath, Getas lift on the ship.
Shrieks Elfrida, beholding, under stars,
How her dead Thorolf sits, a solemn corse,
Among the dead. She, passing to him, swoons.
But Gizla, kissed the lord, son of her paps,
From head to foot, fell down, at Thorolf's knees;
And there lay still, in cloud of death; for brast,
The weary heart, within her feeble breast.
Remains, uneath, Getas lift on the ship.
Shrieks Elfrida, beholding, under stars,
How her dead Thorolf sits, a solemn corse,
Among the dead. She, passing to him, swoons.
But Gizla, kissed the lord, son of her paps,
From head to foot, fell down, at Thorolf's knees;
And there lay still, in cloud of death; for brast,
The weary heart, within her feeble breast.
The queen reviving, in the evening wind;
When Gizla she beheld already passed!
Disdaining any her, to her dead love,
Prevent, in cragged path, of Hel, swart goddess,
Uprose; and embraced Thorolf's shielded corse;
Her white hand, ere there any might withhold;
Snatcht spear-head, of those heaped from slaughter-place,
Wherein he fell, she launcht her widow's breast!
And sinks Elfrida, bleeding, on them both.
When Gizla she beheld already passed!
Disdaining any her, to her dead love,
Prevent, in cragged path, of Hel, swart goddess,
Uprose; and embraced Thorolf's shielded corse;
Her white hand, ere there any might withhold;
Snatcht spear-head, of those heaped from slaughter-place,
Wherein he fell, she launcht her widow's breast!
And sinks Elfrida, bleeding, on them both.
Great sigh went up, from all that mourning folk!
And she, nigh-spent, makes sign, with dying hand!
On whose white wrist, shines long-wreathed golden bracelet;
And, from her bright brow, as she beckoned, sliding
Her rochet, that is hemmed with precious ermine;
The fainting lily-fair young queen is seen,
Gold-dight. Upon her front, moon-sheen broad fret,
Of far-fetcht pearls; and hangs, like Brisings-men,
Of sea-stones, dew-drop clear, a shining lace,
Down from her gracious neck: (will Chaucan's queen,
Elfrida, her spousal ornaments bring again,
To Thorolf, even in hell!) Sign, makes she then;
Put fire, launch out! Priests hallow Thorolf's corse
With the hammer of high Thunor god: sith all
Those corses dead; and they her dying bless!
Many together heaving, then, thrust forth,
From shore, the funeral ship, down to salt deep!
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On whose white wrist, shines long-wreathed golden bracelet;
And, from her bright brow, as she beckoned, sliding
Her rochet, that is hemmed with precious ermine;
The fainting lily-fair young queen is seen,
Gold-dight. Upon her front, moon-sheen broad fret,
Of far-fetcht pearls; and hangs, like Brisings-men,
Of sea-stones, dew-drop clear, a shining lace,
Down from her gracious neck: (will Chaucan's queen,
Elfrida, her spousal ornaments bring again,
To Thorolf, even in hell!) Sign, makes she then;
Put fire, launch out! Priests hallow Thorolf's corse
With the hammer of high Thunor god: sith all
Those corses dead; and they her dying bless!
Many together heaving, then, thrust forth,
From shore, the funeral ship, down to salt deep!
| The Dawn in Britain | |