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YEAR Undated.
(937 A.D.)

VII. HISTORIC WAR POEMS


[429]
From Early English Poems Selected and Edited by Henry S. Pancoast and John Duncan Spaeth; Henry Holt and Company, New York; 1911.


THE BATTLE OF BRUNNANBURG

(From the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle)





Æthelstan Lord, and leader of earls,
Gold-friend of heroes, he with his brother
Edmund Ætheling, agelong glory
Won in war with weapons keen
82 5
By Brúnnanbúrg. they broke the shield-wall;
With offspring of hammers they hewed the lindenwoods,
Heirs of Edward. Oft had they driven
The foe from the land, and foiled the invader,
True to their blood in battle defending
10 Their hoard and their home. Huge was the slaughter
They made of the boat-crews of the Scotsmen.
Doomed men fell. The field was drenched;
Ran with the blood of the bravest fighters
15 Bright candle of God, came in the morning-tide
Gliding o’er earth, till the glorious creature
Sank to its setting. The slain lay thick;
Maimed by the spear lay many a Northman,
Shot over shield; shattered and war-spent,
20 Many a Scot. But the men of Wessex
Drove all day the Dane-folk before them;
Hung of the trail of the troop that they hated;
Hewed from behind the host of the pirates,
With weapons new-whetted. Not one of the rovers
25 Who came with Anlaf across the water
Aboard his war-ship, bound for our shores,
Fated to fall, found that the Mercian
Refused him hand-play. Five young chieftains
Lay stretched on the field. Seven great earls
30 Of Anlaf were killed, and countless others
Of boatmen and Scotsmen. Barely escaped
The Northern leader. Leaving in haste,
With a handful of men, he made for his ship.
They cleared the craft, the king put out
35 On the fallow flood. He fled for his life,
Also the cunning Constantinus
Home again stole to his haunts in the north.
Little ground had the gray old leader
To brag and to boast of the battle-encounter,
40 Stripped of his clansmen killed in the slaughter.
83 Alone he returned, his own son dead,
Left on the battle-field, bloody and mangled,
Brave young warrior. No bragging for him,
Grisly old traitor, of glorious sword-play;
45
Little for him or Anlaf to laugh about,
In midst of the wreck of their mighty array.
No boasting for them that they had the better
In the crashing of helmets, the heat of the conflict;
The splintering of spears, the struggle of heroes;
50 The grinding of weapons, the game of battle
They chose to play with the children of Edward.
So parted the Northmen on their nail-studded ships,
Blood-reddened wreck and remnant of lances;
Sailed o’er the deep again, Dublin to seek,
55 And the shores of Ireland, shamed and defeated.


Back to the Wessex home, went the two brothers;
King and Ætheling, came to their own again;
Victors in triumph returned from the war;
Leaving behind, the horn-billed raven
60 The gloomy-coated, to glut on the carcasses;
Leaving behind, the white-tailed eagle
Perched on the corpses to prey on the carrion;
Leaving behind, the haggard kite,
And the gray-wolf gaunt to gorge on the slain.


65 Never was made a mightier slaughter;
Never sword reaped a ruddier harvest
Of high-born heroes, here in this island,
Since hither of old, Angles and Saxons,
— So say the chronicles, — sailed from the Eastward,
70 Crossed o’er the billows, to conquer the Britons;
When haughty battle-smiths hammered the Welshmen
And honor-keen earls first entered this realm.








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