Regnar Lodbrug's Epicedium
By H. P. Lovecraft
(1914)
(An 8th Century Funeral Song . . .
Translated from Olaus Wormius)
With our swords have we contended!
Come but new to Gothland's shore
For the Killing of the serpent
We have gain'd from Thor ( )
( )
From this deed they call me man
Because I have transfix'd the adder:
Shaggy Breeches from that slaughter.
( )
I have thrust a spear into the serpent
With metal brighter ( )
With our swords have we contended!
But a youth was I when eastward
In the channel of Oreon
With our foeman's gore in torrents
We the ( ) and wolves delighted;
And the yellow-footed buzzard.
There the harden'd steel resounded
On the high-wrought hostile helmets.
One vast wound was all the ocean
And the hungry raven waded
Searching for its carrion food
Deep in dead mens thick'ning blood.
With our swords have we contended!
Ere two score of years we counted
High we bore our glist'ning lances
Wide we heard our fame and praises.
In the east before the harbour
(Barons eight we overcome;)
We the rav'ning eagle glutted;
Dripping wounds fill'd up the ocean.
Weary of the hopeless fray,
All the host dissolved away
With our swords have we contended!
When the Vistula we enter'd
With our ships in battle order
We unto the hall of Woden
Sent the bold Helsingian foemen.
Then the sword-points bit in fury;
All the billows turn'd to life-blood
Earth with streaming gore was crimson'd;
Reeking sword with ringing note
Shield divided; armour smote.
(With our swords have we contended!)
(None had fallen on that day )
(Till on his ship Herauclus fell: )
(Than him before no braver baron )
Cleft the sea with ships of battle;
Never after him was chieftain
Lighter hearted in the fighting.
With our swords have we contended!
Now the host flung down their buckles;
Flying spears tore hero's bosoms
Swords on Scarfian rocks were stricking.
Gory was his shield in slaughter
Till the royal Rufus perish'd.
Sweat from weary hands and pale
Trickled down the suits of mail.
With our swords have we contended!
Copious booty had the ravens
Round about the Indirian islands,
In that single day of action
(One in many deaths was little. )
(The rising sun grew bright on spears)
In the forms of postrate warrior-men.
Arrows from their bows ejected;
(Weapons roared on Lano's plain. )
Long the virgin mourned that slaughter.)
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