II.

Beadohild too, for her brother's death
Stricken at heart, yet more bewildered
Knew too well of her sorrows certain-
Birth of a babe, yet knew no further
What in the end her fate should be.
That was endured, so this may be.

III.

The shame of Hild from many we gathered,
The passion of Geat that had no bounds
Till sorrow of love his sleep consuméd.
That was endured, so this may be.

IV.

For thirty winters Theodric wasted
In Burg of the Merings, full many knew it,
That was endured, so this may be.

V.

Of Eormanric, the wolvish-minded,
In songs we've heard, of his wide domain
Mid Gothic peoples, a tyrant king.
Many a warrior, clothed in misery
Sat despairing, wistful, praying
For the closing day of his evil rule.
That was endured, so this may be.1

VI.

Now of myself the tale I tell you-
Once of the Heodenings scôp was I,
'Dear to my master, Deor my name,'
Many a winter, happy my service
Under a good lord, till Heorrenda,

Crafty in song, for himself the guerdon

Gained that the earl-guard granted to me.

That was endured, so this may be."

Of true epic quality are the two fragments, about sixty lines, preserved in a manuscript in the National Library at Copenhagen, entitled Waldhere (or Walter), which appear to have formed part of an heroic narrative, perhaps the equal of Beowulf, in its original and complete form. The story, of which a part is here told, exists in a medieval Latin version, Waltharius, and it was probably one of the most popular tales of the early Germanic cycle. Unhappily the portions extant in Old English give only two incidents, the first in which the hero, Walter, pursued by A probable interpolation of seven lines is here omitted.

F

Guthere and Hagen and their comitatus, as he flies from the court of Attila with his betrothed bride, Hildegyth, and a great treasure, during a pause in the fight is, for a moment, weary and disheartened, and is urged to fresh activity by Hildegyth, who reminds him of his former valour; the second that in which Guthere advances, boasting his mighty sword and its history, and is met by the defiance of Walter, and a haughty summons to advance and take possession, if he can, of his armour. These challenges and counter-challenges of chiefs belong to epic poetry from Homer to Milton.

The story as we know it from the Latin version tells how Walter, set upon by Guthere's companions, slays one after another, till Guthere and Hagen only are left. A terrific combat ensues in which all three receive dreadful wounds, and weary of an indecisive fight agree to peace. Their wounds are dressed by Hildegyth, and in high good humour after the winecup has gone round Guthere and Hagen return, leaving Walter to pursue his journey to his own country where, on his father's death, he succeeds to the throne and lives and reigns for thirty years. I give a version of the most striking passage.

"Then did Hildegyth

To valiance heat him:
Truly of Wayland
Weakeneth never

Work of his hands

With men, who Mimming,

Hoary of edges,

Wield in their war.

Heroes in plenty

Blood-boltered, sword-stricken,

Have tasted its terror.

Attila's foremost one,

Let not thy valour

Droop, nor thy lordship

Fail thee to-day.

Now hath the day dawned

That leadeth thee one way
Or else another, to
Ending of life, or to
Glory that ends not-
Thee, son of Ælfhere,
A man amongst men.
Never at sword-play,
O chief, have I heard it
That thou in fear sharing
Fled from the foe,

Nor yet at the wall sought
Safety from warriors,
Shielding thy body,

Though on thy breast-byrnie
The blows of the foemen
In plenty were ringing.
But ever in fighting

Wert thou with the foremost,

Far in the front of it

Waging thy war.

So that I feared for thee
Too fiercely seeking,
In clash of the conflict,
The combat with heroes.
Now, therefore, on honour
Bethink thee, and glory
With fortune thy friend."

Of a portion of the second fragment the following is a free

rendering:

"Then thus spake Walter,

High-renowned hero,
In his hand holding
Weapon for battle, his
Trusty war-helper.

Great was thy hope, O thou
Friend of Burgundians,

That Hagen's hand-craft
Would break me in battle,
Disable for war.

Do thou, if thou darest,
From me, who am weary
With toil of the conflict,
My byrnie tear from me,
That here on my shoulders
Shines now in its glory
Bright studded with gold.
Good armour for Atheling,
If he with his hands may
His heart and his life now
Guard from his foes, for
It faileth me never
When close the unfriendly,

As ye now beset me,

Beset with their blades."

Of battle pieces there is none finer or more worthy, like Waldhere, of a "son of Homer," than The Fight at Finnsburh, a poem which carries us straight to the mead hall and the feast of heroes, to the songs and stories recited by the bard at tribal gatherings, to the chants that pleased our warlike forefathers. It is, like Waldhere, a fragment, and was discovered in the library of Lambeth Palace. Almost certainly it belongs to the

same period as the lays from which Beowulf was drawn, and for rapidity, vigour, and dramatic fire eclipses perhaps any single passage in that great poem. The interest of Finnsburh is enhanced by the fact that it tells part of a story, the conclusion of which is incidentally given in Beowulf. Finn, the Frisian monarch, at feud with Hnaef, treacherously invites him as his guest to Finnsburh, but in the night surrounds and attacks the hall in which his guest and comitatus are lodged. The portion of the poem that is preserved opens with the moment at which Hnaef, aroused from sleep, calls his men to arms. Singularly Homeric it is in spirit, and may well remind the reader of the twelfth book of the Iliad, where Hector and the Trojan allies broke through the Achaian wall. From the minstrel who sings in Heorot we learn that in the end Hnaef is slain, but that Hengist his successor in the leadership works full vengeance for his lord in Finnsburh.

From the following version the contents of the poem may be gathered.

Then to his warriors called he, the young king-
Not from the East this glare, nor from the flight

Of any dragon, nor the hall fire's blaze.

Yet here it burns; without, the birds of war

And the grey-coated wolf await the slain,

While harsh the war-wood rings, spear answering spear.
There shines the moon mid clouds, to men below
Hateful destruction threatens-Wake you now,
My warriors, wake, and mindful of your lands
With one heart fight, and foot to foot engaged.'

Then they rose up, the gold-decked thanes, and girt
Their swords about them, and those mighty ones
Sigeferth and Eawa, sprang to the door, and drew
Steel, and at the other doors Hengist himself
Ordlaf and Guthlaf stood, and now without
With Guthere Garulf spake- Not yet for thee 1
The battle at the doors, where some bold chief
May snatch thy weapon '-fiercely stood he there
Armed, and above the voices cried across
The entrance, hero-like, Who holds the door?'
"Sigeferth am I, of valiant sword-men lord,
Warrior well known to fame and used to wars,
Old in the fields of pain; here waits thee now
Of life or death, whichever thou mayest choose.'
Then high in hall arose, mid clashing shields,
The din of slaughter, and the bone-guards burst
And the floors groaned, and of the Frisian chiefs
First in the battle Garulf fell, the son

1 As too young.

Of Guthlaf, and around him many a man,
A ring of slain-swarthy and sallow brown
The raven circled, while the flashing blades
Gave light as if Finn's burg were all ablaze.
Never of warriors worthier have I heard,
Sixty more noble, who with song and mead
Requited by their lord, gave Hnaef his due.
Five days they fought, and in their fighting none
Of them that held the door fell in that fray.
Then forth there fared a wounded man, his helm
Pierced, as he told, his breastplate hacked, his gear
All shattered, and the shepherd of his folk

Swift questioned all the warriors of their wounds."

Beside Finnsburh, though far separated from it in time, must be placed The Battle of Maldon, or the Death of Byrhtnoth,1 a tenth or eleventh century poem, charged with the same spirit of warrior pride and delight in grim, unyielding resistance. The hero and the fight against the Northmen it describes are historical, an authentic document of the times, when—

66

"Men's cheeks faded

On shores invaded
When shorewards waded
The lords of fight;
When churl and craven
Saw hard on haven
The wide-winged raven
At main-mast height;
When monks affrighted
To windward sighted
The birds full-flighted
Of swift sea-kings."

The battle took place near the town of Maldon, on the banks of the tidal river Panta, now called the Blackwater. The town lies on a hill; immediately at its base flows one branch of the river, while another, still crossed by a medieval bridge, flows at a little distance to the north. The Danish ships seem to have lain in the branch nearest to the town, and their crews must have occupied the space between the two streams, while Brihtnoth came to the rescue from the north. He seems to have halted on the spot now occupied by the church of Heybridge, having both streams between him and the town." 2 Anlaf, the Danish leader, with a great fleet, had harried Sand

Edited in the Belles-Lettres Series by Dr. W. J. Sedgefield.
Freeman's Norman Conquest.