XXXIV

ever was I any less dear to him Knight in the boroughs, than the bairns of his household, Herebald and Haethcyn and Higelac mine. To the eldest unjustly by acts of a kinsman Was murder-bed strewn, since him Haethcyn from horn-bow His sheltering chieftain shot with an arrow, Erred in his aim and injured his kinsman, One brother the other, with blood-sprinkled spear: ’Twas a feeless fight, finished in malice, Sad to his spirit; the folk-prince however Had to part from existence with vengeance untaken. So to hoar-headed hero ’tis heavily crushing To live to see his son as he rideth Young on the gallows: then measures he chanteth, A song of sorrow, when his son is hanging For the raven’s delight, and aged and hoary He is unable to offer any assistance. Every morning his offspring’s departure Is constant recalled: he cares not to wait for The birth of an heir in his borough-enclosures, Since that one through death-pain the deeds hath experienced. He heart-grieved beholds in the house of his son the Wine-building wasted, the wind-lodging places Reaved of their roaring; the riders are sleeping, The knights in the grave; there’s no sound of the harp-wood, Joy in the yards, as of yore were familiar.