938

<poem>      Here Athelstan king,      of earls the lord,      rewarder of heroes,      and his brother eke,      Edmund atheling,      elder of ancient race,      slew in the fight,      with the edge of their swords,      the foe at Brumby!(41)      The sons of Edward      their board-walls clove,      and hewed their banners,      with the wrecks of their hammers.      So were they taught      by kindred zeal,      that they at camp oft      'gainst any robber      their land should defend,      their hoards and homes.      Pursuing fell      the Scottish clans;      the men of the fleet      in numbers fell;      'midst the din of the field      the warrior swate.      Since the sun was up      in morning-tide,      gigantic light!      glad over grounds,      God's candle bright,      eternal Lord!      'till the noble creature      sat in the western main:      there lay many      of the Northern heroes      under a shower of arrows,      shot over shields;      and Scotland's boast,      a Scythian race,      the mighty seed of Mars!      With chosen troops,      throughout the day,      the West-Saxons fierce      press'd on the loathed bands;      hew'd down the fugitives,      and scatter'd the rear,      with strong mill-sharpen'd blades,      The Mercians too      the hard hand-play      spared not to any      of those that with Anlaf      over the briny deep      in the ship's bosom      sought this land      for the hardy fight.      Five kings lay      on the field of battle,      in bloom of youth,      pierced with swords.      So seven eke      of the earls of Anlaf;      and of the ship's-crew      unnumber'd crowds.      There was dispersed      the little band      of hardy Scots,      the dread of northern hordes;      urged to the noisy deep      by unrelenting fate!      The king of the fleet      with his slender craft      escaped with his life      on the felon flood;      and so too Constantine,      the valiant chief,      returned to the north      in hasty flight.      The hoary Hildrinc      cared not to boast      among his kindred.      Here was his remnant      of relations and friends      slain with the sword      in the crowded fight.      His son too he left      on the field of battle,      mangled with wounds,      young at the fight.      The fair-hair'd youth      had no reason to boast      of the slaughtering strife.      Nor old Inwood      and Anlaf the more      with the wrecks of their army      could laugh and say,      that they on the field      of stern command      better workmen were,      in the conflict of banners,      the clash of spears,      the meeting of heroes,      and the rustling of weapons,      which they on the field      of slaughter played      with the sons of Edward.      The northmen sail'd      in their nailed ships,      a dreary remnant,      on the roaring sea;      over deep water      Dublin they sought,      and Ireland's shores,      in great disgrace.      Such then the brothers      both together      king and atheling,      sought their country,      West-Saxon land,      in right triumphant.      They left behind them      raw to devour,      the sallow kite,      the swarthy raven      with horny nib,      and the hoarse vultur,      with the eagle swift      to consume his prey;      the greedy gos-hawk,      and that grey beast      the wolf of the weald.      No slaughter yet      was greater made      e'er in this island,      of people slain,      before this same,      with the edge of the sword;      as the books inform us      of the old historians;      since hither came      from the eastern shores      the Angles and Saxons,      over the broad sea,      and Britain sought,      fierce battle-smiths,      o'ercame the Welsh,      most valiant earls,

     and gained the land.</poem>

(Ingram, p.84-87)