Monthly Archives: March 2017

Hildeburh’s Lament VII

Then Wyrd wrought us
Reams of woethread.
Our new allies,
The Northjutes, came
To pay us a visit,
Two people meeting.
Oh, if we’d known
Their ignoble purpose:
Having heard of
Hnæf ’s famous wealth,
They plotted and planned
To please their greed
For golden rings
Gleaming with runes.
With wine and weal
We welcomed the Jutes,
Allwhile awaiting
Warriors on horseback,
Danes from Danemark,
The doomed Shieldings
Caught twixt cruel Wyrd’s
Cords and distaff.

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Hildeburh’s Lament VI

Then glad and grim
The good and the bad
News from Danemark,
Dearest homeland,
Reached attentive ears
Eager for tidings.
My father had fared
Forth to the halls
Of his own fathers
As all are fated to.
But my brother, now king,
Was coming to the Burg.
Hnæf! How I’d missed him
My heart’s companion.
Double daggers
Drove through my bosom;
The sad one for sorrow
Smiting with tears,
The other for gay gladness
Giddy with joy.

The pangs of impatience
In preparing wore off.
The royal visit,
A rare occasion,
Requires much work
For Queens to do:
The hall and hearth
From high to low
Must gleam with gold,
Glitter with silver,
The food for feasts
Found and stored well,
And servants instructed
In the smallest matters.

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Hildeburh’s Lament V

Friesland’s fens
Fallow marshes
I grew in time
To regard as home;
Like plants become peat
My place I found
Slowly but surely
Settling into the land.

I soon found my husband’s
Fierceness in battle
Stayed on the battlefield
Like the blood of the slain;
At home and in hall
The hardened warrior rested.
In the mighty Burg,
Unbreachable isle,
The seawolf felt safe
From scathe and harm.
Open handed
To his hearthfellows,
He spent more than he owned:
Mailcoats paid
With next raid’s treasure,
Wrought goldwork.
As winters wore
And waters thawed,
We became used to
Each other’s company
As we shared the weal
And woe of life.

Fróda our firstborn
Filled my heart
With the homely cares
Of happy mothers.
The Frisians bore me
No festering grudge
For soon Finn’s Fróda
Was Finnesburg’s
Dearest darling,
Doted on by all.

Yet sometimes the wind’s whispering,
The whinny of horses,
Or the stamping feet
Of the fastest steeds
Ran my heart through
With an unhealable wound
Ripping open the scar
I’d sealed before —
But I learnt to live
In a land not my own.

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