The Nacreous Oughts

04 August 2008

   "Sons' Loss"

Much doth it tax me
My tongue to move,
Through my throat to utter
The breath of song.
Poesy, prize of Odin,
Promise now I may not,
A draught drawn not lightly
From deep thought's dwelling.

Forth it flows but hardly;
For within my breast
Heavy sobbing stifles
Hindered stream of song--
Blessèd boon to mortals
Brought from Odin's kin,
Goodly treasure, stolen
From Giant-land of yore.

He, who so blameless
Bore him in life,
O'erborne by billows
With boat was whelmed.
Sea-waves-flood that whilom
Welled from giant's wound--
Smite upon the grave-gate
Of my sire and son.

Dwindling now my kindred
Draw near o their end,
Ev'n as forest-saplings
Felled or tempest-strown.
Not gay or gladsome
Goes he who beareth
Body of kinsman
On funeral bier.

Of a father fallen
First I may tell;
Of a much-loved mother
Must mourn the loss.
Sad store hath memory
For minstrel skill,
A wood to bloom leafy
With words of song.

Most woful the breach,
Where the wave in-brake
On the fencèd hold
Of my father's kin.
Unfilled, as I wot,
And open doth stand
The gap of son rent
By the greedy surge.

Me Ran, the sea-queen,
Roughly hath shaken:
I stand of beloved ones
Stript and all bare.
Cut hath the billow
The cord of my kin,
Strand of mine own twisting
So stout and strong.

Sure, if sword could venge
such cruel wrong,
Evil times would wait
Ægir, ocean-god.
That wind-giant's brother
Were I strong to slay,
'Gainst him and his sea-brood
Battling would I go.

But I in no wise
Boast, as I ween,
Strength that may strive
With the stout ships' bane.
For to eyes of all
Easy now 'tis seen
How the old man's lot
Helpless is and lone.

Me hath the main
Of much bereaved;
Dire is the tale,
The deaths of kin:
Since he, the shelter
And shield of my house,
Hied him from life
To heaven's glad realm.

Full surely I know,
in my son was waxing
The stuff and the strength
Of a stout-limbed wight:
Had he reached but ripeness
To raise his shield,
And Odin laid hand
On his liegeman true.

Willing he followed
His father's word,
Though all opposing
Should thwart my rede:
He in mine household
Mine honour upheld,
Of my power and rule
The prop and the stay.

Oft to my mind
My loss doth come,
How I brotherless bide
Bereaved and alone.
Thereon I bethink me,
When thickens the fight!
Thereon with much searching
My soul doth muse:

Who staunch stands by me
In stress of fight,
Shoulder to shoulder,
Side by side?
Such want doth weaken
In war's dread hour;
Weak-wing'd I fly,
Whom friends all fail.

'Son's place to his sire'
(Saith a proverb true)
'Another son born
Alone can fill.'
Of kinsmen none
(Though e'er so kind)
To brother can stand
In brother's stead.

O'er all our ice-fields,
Our northern snows,
Few now I find
Faithful and true.
Dark deeds men love,
Doom death to their kin,
A brother's body
Barter for gold.

Unpleasing to me
Our people's mood,
Each seeking his own
In selfish peace.
To the happier bees' home
Hath passed my son,
My good wife's child
To his glorious kin.

Odin, mighty monarch,
Of minstrel mead the lord,
On me a heavy hand
Harmful doth lay.
Gloomy in unrest
Ever I grieve,
Sinks my drooping brow,
Seat of sight and thought.

Fierce fire of sickness
First from my home
Swept off a son
With savage blow:
One who was heedful,
Harmless, I wot,
In deeds unblemished,
In words unblamed.

Still do i mind me,
When the friend of men
High uplifted
To the home of gods
That sapling stout
Of his father's stem,
Of my true wife born
A branch so fair.

Once bare I goodwill
To the great spear-lord,
Him trusty and true
I trowed for friend:
Till the giver of conquest,
The car-borne god,
Broke faith and friendship,
False in my need.

Now victim and worship
To Vilir's brother,
The god once honoured,
I give no more.
Yet the friend of Mimir
On me hath bestowed
Some boot for bale,
If all boons I tell.

Yea he, the wolf-tamer,
The war god skilful,
Gave poesy faultless
To fill my soul:
Gave wit to know well
Each wily trickster,
And force him to face me
As foeman in fight.

Hard am I beset;
Whom Hel, the sister
Of Odin's fell captive,
On Digra-ness waits.
Yet shall I gladly
With right good welcome
Dauntless in bearing
Her death-blow bide.

--Egil Skallagrimsson (tr W C Green)

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