Translated by Nancy Varian Berberick
The Fight at Finnsburu
................ "Are the gables burning?"
Hnaef answered boldly, the bright battle-king:
"No gable blazes! We greet no glaring dawn,
and here no winged dragon deals his fiery dread.
Here battle-light quickens, born of a broken oath,
and dark doom-criers shriek, blackest war-birds.
The moon stands still to stare at this shame,
as hungry wolves howl and war-wood shouts.
Shield will answer shaft! A shattered promise
flings this hall-lord, faithless Finn, into woe.
Wake now, my warriors! Lift bow and wield linden,
greet Frisian treachery with grey iron's grief.
Brave men, faith-fast, fight beside me at the door!"
Rose up his golden thanes, good men girded on swords.
Keen for the battle, worthy kin to kings,
Siegeferth ran to the door, bold Eaha drew his blade.
High-hearted Ordlaf, grey Guthlaf, and Hengest himself,
kept close beside. Those canny soldiers
defended the door, dared all for Hnaef.
Outside, Guthere spoke, Guthlaf's own brother
to Guthlaf's own son: "Garulf, good prince, hold back.
Don't risk life or redden blade in the fiery first rush."
Young Garulf didn't heed, he would not be held,
though fate forced an oath between his father and him.
Sharp, he shouted: "Say! Who holds the door?"
The hall-ward answered, the wide-known wanderer,
"Siegeferth am I, sworn to stand.
My sword's hard edge will hold this hall!"
Fierce battle-din flooded Finn's hall.
Shield warded breast, gripped swords shone,
Fated Garulf fell, first under the arrows' flight.
Then smoke rose up, reached sear ravens sailing,
and the golden war hawk hung over the hall.
Sword-light blazed, red on bleeding blades,
all of Finnsburuh fired would flame as bright.
No king can boast of braver men, nor any so bold
as these defending the door, dauntless against foes.
These were steadfast hearts, Hnaef's hall-friends.
Woven words have praised no men more worthy
of the golden gifts, the king-granted rings.
Five days, they fought. Not one fell.
Then one, sword-bitten, saw his blood surge.
A blade tore his byrnie, the edge burst his helm.
He went to his king, where war raged loudest.
Hnaef asked to hear how the soldiers fared,
and which of the young men ..................
The Ruin
Wonderful this warding wall!
Then fate broke the burgstede, battered giant's work.
Towers tumbled, gable's targe split,
age stole stout gates. Frost shines on lime,
chills the mother's breast, breaks earth's bond.
Wyrd drove down the wall-maker's dream,
earth-gripped, strong a hundred seasons since
doom found the folk. Of faith spoke this wall,
grey-cloaked, red-stained. To king after king
hard oaths and hoar gave this high-reaching friend
to stand stout under storm.
For memory men built, bold stone-wrights binding,
fitting stone to stone. Mead-halls soared.
High horns filled, flowed the foam of poet's ale.
Good gifts and gold gorged treasure-halls.
None changes fate. Chance and chant are stronger.
Great the sore sorrow in days of sickness.
Hearts bleed courage. Hard men are humbled
in wind-haunted streets, wail weeping in high halls
as idols decay, their dwellings drear temples
of midnight mourning, murdered dream-craft.
And this red tile, white-fingered roof-hoard riven,
falls on heaped howes. Here sleep brave men,
glad-minded soldiers, gold-gleaming kings.
War-wolves, sword-lovers! Wild and wine-flushed,
they looked on sweet treasures, on silver shining,
on chant-crafted gold-work and gem-carver's cunning,
on power and pride and precious wealth.
In this brave city, the bold bright kingdom,
stone houses stood...
The Home-Reft
Always the lorn one wakes waiting for a message
the Measurer's mercy. Yet, mournful in mind
each day he rows sorrowing his hand stirs the sea
he must journey far fare over freezing waves
wade the wanderer's path. Fate won't waver!
So says the Home-reft him mindful of hardship
and friends who fell in fearsome slaughter:
Alone in this dawn I have not but
my sorrow to speak. No kin of mine survives.
What my heart holds no dear friend hears.
I will trust the truth heed what sages tell
wise in the world: it is well for a man
to bind his heart bear it close in his breast
hide deep the mind-hoard think as he will.
The weary mind won't withstand fate
the haggard thought gives not hope or help.
Who longs for glory must hide his heart
coffin sorrow close bind his bitter care.
And so shall I stripped of my birth-land
sent far from kin fetter my heart
dark since the day I buried a dear prince
barrowed his bones his body beneath the stone.
Then I, wild in winter-grief went out on the sea
searching for a lord went out seeking a stead
where I might find folk warriors near or far
hale in gabled halls who know my own kin.
Who will offer comfort to me, home-reft
give me honor and joy? Only the exile knows
how cold a companion is wan-hearted sorrow.
He has no dear friend -- it is hard for him --
no lord shields the exile. For him, no gold rings
earth's glory is gone. Frost grips his spirit
he grieves for what is lost friends and gold-gifts.
Other days haunt him again he hears his lord
honor him at feast. Joy is all crumbled.
He must go friendless himself alone
wanting well-loved speech the gold-giver's wisdom.
Often sorrow and sleep tie webs together
binding the banished the lonely one fast
in dreams of days when his dear lord
embraced and kissed him. Once more he lays
hand and head upon his friend's knee
again he finds joy beside his lord.
Then the lordless one stirs the friend-reft awakes.
He sees again the fallow water waves surge around him.
Sea-birds spread feathers wings wide to bathe
he sees hoar-frost and hail in hard-driven snow.
His woe increases heart-wounds weigh heavy
he longs for loved ones. Sorrow is made new
when memories of kinsmen drift through his mind.
He greets the ghosts gladly regards them
tries to touch his friends. They swim away again.
Those phantoms floating bring no familiar songs.
Care is made fresh for him who often sends
his weary spirit seeking over the sea's surface.
I can't think why through all the wide world
my mind will not darken be made dreary
when I ponder swift lives the proud men passing
now gone from the hall the bright young warriors.
So this middle-world crumbles each day fails.
None holds wisdom nor wields wit till he has
his share of winters. A wise man will have patience
he must not be hot-hearted nor ever word-hasty
nor too weak in war. He is never wan-minded
nor too timid or high-spirited nor too greedy
never too eager for glory before he knows himself.
When he offers oaths a wise man waits
until his heart is cool. Only then does he know
where the tempered thought will truly turn.
The wise seize omens know how ghastly will be
all the world when its joys stand in waste
as now wanderers see throughout this middle-world
wind blowing round towns walls staggering to stand
while rime-fingers scrape shattered stone-craft.
Wind moans in the hall the builder lies still.
Brave songs fail. Bold men have fallen
warriors proud by the wall. Some war forenamed
others ravens carried off hungry over the sea.
The dread wolf divided some shared them with death.
Was one of the loved dead by a lorn man settled
a prince stone-hidden safe in earth-embrace.
Thus did the Shaper lay waste this dear land.
The city stands idle the stone-craft of giants
now empty of song and the noise of townsmen.
Then a wise one looked out over the wounded place
thought about this dark life deeply considered
with heart-wisdom with far-faring memory
of great battle-slaughter. So did he speak:
Where has the horse gone? Where the gallant men?
Where is the gift-giver?
Where the golden feast-hall the songs on the benches?
Alas, the burnished cup! Alas, bright byrnied warriors!
Alas, the king's might! That time has perished
grown dark under night's helm as it never was.
Only the last of beloved men here stands among
dragon-adorned walls stone once wonderfully high.
Ash-spears savaged the men. Slaughter-greedy Fate
she of far fame forenamed them all.
And hail beats hard down on this stone-hill
storm-wind resounds snow binds the earth
in cold winter-dread when dark comes creeping
spreading night-shadow. North sends
hail-fare, icy spears sharp in malice.
All this wide earth fills up with grief
Fate sends shafts again she shapes the world.
Here are riches lent here are friends lent
here is man lent here is might lent,
all this earth is emptying.
So says the wise one sitting in thought:
A good man holds to oaths won't show his grief
pale child of his breast unless first he knows
how to mend his heart with courage heal it.
It is well to seek grace comfort from the Father
the Lord in heaven where all stands fast.
Deor
The Wermas showed Weyland seasons of sadness
heaped hatred upon the high-minded earl.
Came companions to him cold yearning and sorrow.
Winter-dark, wretched he wasted in woe
when Nidhud forced on him fetters.
That passed so shall this.
Beadohild keened her brother's cruel killing
and a worse song for her own sad state.
She swelled with her rapist's child.
Hard to see how sorrow would be redeemed.
That passed so shall this.
Ask! I remember Geat's wretched wife
Meadhohilde had vast grief of him.
Love, silent thief stole all her sleep.
That passed so shall this.
In Maeringasburg as many may know
Theodoric's hard hand for thirty years held.
That passed so shall this.
Worry's father wide-sung Eormanric
Ruled with rapine ruined the Goth people
Caught them and held. That wolf-king
chained many men to misery.
Woe upon woe they wished him dead.
That passed so shall this.
A man sighs in sadness separate from joy
in drear darkness he can but deem
his share of sorrow to be endless.
Wise God works change beyond this world
men find glory gold and good favor
while some find woe. I will speak of myself
how once I was Heoding's scop
held high by my lord. Deor he named me.
Season on season I served him well
held land of him till Heorenda
wit-crafty wanderer my land rights won.
Gifts granted him once were given to me.