The Welding of the Race ("449"-1066) :: THE BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH (937).

THE BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH (937).

Source.—Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Translated by W.

[Note that the lines are to be read across the page.]

Here the King Athelstan,	of earls the ruler,
of heroes the ring-giver,	and eke his brother,
Edmund the Atheling,	long-lasting glory
won in the battle	with edges of swords
near to Brunanburh:	the shield-wall they clove,
they hewed the war-lindens	with leavings of hammers,
the heirs of Eadweard;	as was befitting them
from their forebears,	that they in battle oft
against every foeman	the land defended,
hoard and homesteads.	The foeman cringed,
the Scottish people	and the seamen,
fated to death, fell:	the field grew wet
with blood of fighters,	since the sun up
at morning tide,	glorious star,
over lands glided,	God’s shining candle,
the eternal Lord’s,	till the excellent creature
sank to her seat.	There lay many men
with spears done to death,	heroes of Northmen
over their shield shot,	as eke the Scottish,
weary, of war sad.	Wessex men onwards
the live-long day	in their companies
footprints followed	of loathed peoples;
hewed they the runaways	behind terribly
with swords milled to sharpness.	Mercians refused not
the hardest of handplay	to one of the heroes
of those who with Anlaf	over the wave-mingler
in the ship’s bosom	sought for the land
fated to fighting.	Five there lay
on the battle-field	kings all-youthful
by swords laid to sleep,	as also seven
of the earls of Anlaf,	countless of the army
seamen and Scottish.	There was put to flight
of Northmen the chief,	by need compelled
to his ship’s stem-piece	with small company:
the ship pressed afloat;	the king away went
on the yellow flood,	his life he rescued.
So there eke the sage one	came by fleeing
north to his kindred,	Constantinus,
hoary fighter;	he could not exult
in mingling of swords:	he was reft of his kinsmen,
deprived of his friends	on battle-field,
cut off in the contest,	and he his son forsook
on place of fighting	foredone with wounds,
young in the warfare.	He could not boast him,
grizzly-haired hero,	of clash of swords,
old wrong-doer,	nor Anlaf the more,
with their leavings of armies;	they could not laugh
that they in battle-work	better men were
on the battle-field,	in banner’s conflict,
in meeting of spears,	in moot of heroes,
in weapon’s contest,	that they on the death-place
with Eadweard’s	children contended.
Failed him the Northmen	with their nailed ships;
dreary those left by spears,	on dashing ocean,
over deep water,	Dublin they seek
and again Ireland	in shameful wise.
Likewise the brethren	the two together,
the king and Atheling,	sought their kindred,
West Saxons’ land,	in war exulting.
Left they behind them	corpses to share
to old dusky-coat,	to the swart raven,
with horny nib,	and to the grey-coat,
the eagle white-tailed,	the prey to enjoy,
to the greedy war-hawk,	and the grey beast,
the wolf in the weald.	Was not more slaughter
in this island	ever till now
of folk cut down	before this time
by swords’ edges	as the books tell us,
and ancient wise men,	since from east hitherwards
Angles and Saxons	up to land came,
over broad oceans,	Britain they sought,
proud smiths of war	the Welsh overcame,
earls eager for fame	they won this country.

Clyx.com