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

78from 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,

79young 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.