I

  Sing O goddess,

  Sing of the son of Stavros,

  I will recount the famous deeds of Bessarion

  Who at the behest of Basileus Anicius IV fought the worst of the north’s barbarians

  Further north than the Herakleian-Mountains in the Dragon of the field

  Didst his fine armies make the enemy yield

  Such was the vanity of Ragimmund the Old,

  So that of all men he was the most bold,

  Heavy was the doom laid upon him,

  Scornful of those whom would send him to his tomb

  Thereon the fields of the Dragon,

  Therapon’s oracle, he did madden.

  Thus upon the Drake horn’s call,

  He would thus fall,

  No long time after,

  A banquet he would share,

  His vast kin without compare,

  Few to none did despair.

  Slow was his son’s son to lower his gaze,

  Ever watchful if never dazed,

  Romanus was he named,

  Roma his father’s spirit had enflamed,

  Unfettered by wickedness,

  Unmatched in goodness,

  Valorous in deeds as in nature,

  To anger as a glacier,

  Yet swift to prayer,

  Thus have I described the greatest raider,

  Of a line of mighty raiders,

  O how the gods did bless his ancestors.

  Blazen haired Romanus breaker of horses alone did consider her words.

  Thus was the nature of Romanus Steel Arm,

  That he sought to shield his kin from harm,

  The heir as former bards relate,

  By the favour of Zisa, destined to be great

  Now I shall sing of the line of Ragimmund,

  From the valley of Gormfiata,

  Came Theomund, who of old held the favour of Feronia,

  Who begat him in the land of mount Gormfiata,

  Great were the many deeds wrought in their wanderings,

  May the muses aid me in the capturing of their glory.

  II

  Bold as Mars was Theomund,

  Swift as Mercury fleet-foot,

  Clever as Odysseus who did much endure,

  Great as a dragon, In days of olde,

  when men were of same worth to gold,

  From his first steps he was hounded,

  As one who has astounded all with some grave crime

  Thus did he survive in the grime

  Deprived of dignity and sire,

  Whom the goddess did so desire.

  Born amidst snow and grief,

  Discarded as might a thief,

  An unwelcome false bauble,

  Neither did he crawl nor hobble,

  But since earliest days didst leap and stride

  Left at mountain’s foot

  Where none hold themselves aloof

  Thereupon high stone near where the lions abode,

  Dost stand to his lip she bestowed

  Leonine milk and love

  All whilst sweet Farona, in shape of dove,

  Didst observe,

  Many a songs he dost deserve

  Such was the majesty upon which he built

  name and fortune without guilt.

  Long was his voyage

  O’er land and hill

  So that he didst forage

  Til he had his fill

  Of his father’s men, both savage and loyal

  Many of the slavers he didst kill

  From Menelay the Proud, the joyous

  Slayer of infants, this he didst delight and thrill

  The unworthy king of Jarnmund ere the royal

  Theomund didst in his hall, amidst marble gild

  Gold bejeweled that left all joyous

  There Theomund by water most mild, didst kill.

  Of Agretius, none now sing

  Because he is no longer King

  Many a screams Theomund didst wring

  Within his halls, whilst courting

  The Queen who in preceding

  Days had by needle and thread spent her days decorating,

  Of his myriad weeks indulging

  In food and affairs, many are the tales that ring

  His story in those cruel days,

  Thurius from the Northern Plains didst spring

  His gaze fierce as a blaze,

  Giver of many a ring,

  Ne’er one to stand in a daze,

  None were more daring

  Into the Persean Plains he didst raid

  As was his wont dispensing

  Treachery and butchery, that his name might ne’er fade

  O how Thurius the most slathering

  Of his father’s killers, flames barely did abate

  This be why, of his evil we do still sing,

  In these lands, Theomund of fond memory,

  Many a-century

  Before, who didst make many a-enemy,

  Swept into camp amidst flame, Lo! He broke all serenity,

  Therein the dead of night, neither incrementally

  Nor didst he appear coincidentally,

  Thus, by blade that he didst wield cleverly,

  He laid many a men into lowly

  filth and earth, made of them but a memory,

  Thurius who trapped by reverie

  Who by sombrely

  Cast slumber, slept whilst his enemy fought betterly

  Than son and brothers to Thurius who cast such a disparity

  All broke to fly, no matter their hereditary

  Chieftain who in prior years slew every enemy,

  One and all, until nary

  A one could wield blade ordinarily

  Or extraordinarily,

  Lo! Theomund the most exemplary,

  Of warriors by now accustomed to regularly

  fought wars and feuds, due to filial fidelity

  At last laid into lowly

  earth and filth, Thurius who slew Fallronus by reason of jealousy,

  Thirty years priorly,

  At present with valour,

  To house-ruins of dour,

  Memories that induced fury

  in days of yore,

  Such was Theomund’s inheritance that yearly,

  Weighed heavy upon more

  Than simply his shoulders made weary

  By age that didst bury

  Many, and hour by hour,

  Greater and greater glory,

  Was made Theomund’s who in vigour

  Remain’d tested yearly,

  All while his wisdom in old lore,

  Grew and grew alongside his glory,

  This was his lot,

  All while worldly flesh began to rot,

  When an evil thought,

  Came to men whom the evil knot

  That bound them to him, wished undone,

  ‘It has indeed run

  Full course so that now what fear belongs to far-flung

  Past, and courage must now be wrung

  From us, as might from a she-wolf draw milk,

  Just as from a tape-worm silk

  Is drawn, and made in bulk

  In northern Lyonesse, where brick upon brick,

  éluan built his myriad palaces,

  He of the many gold chalices,

  So sayeth the sons of Thurius who gave way to fallacies

  Of the maddest sort, to repay the damages

  That Theomund inflicted upon them,

  In olden days when the stem

  Had been planted, and Theomund took their realm,

  And the frontier didst o’erwhelm,

  III

  Brief was his kingdom,

  That he garnered by wisdom

  As by valour,

  And his people’s rigour,

  Steel tipped blades aplenty,

  Used by many men who succumbed to war-frenzy,

  That they might sleep

  Bellies full and ne’er leap

  From bed to sword

  Thereby the northern sward,

  In fear as in apprehension

  And that they might grow in comprehension,

  Of all things natural,

  And break from pure pastoral

  Livings, in favour of wooden-keeps,

  That took many weeks

  To build, from foundations to roof

  Built as much by men’s backs as horse hoof,

  At night as by secrecy,

  Each of them sharing equally

  In the crime, though none felt guilty,

  To barbarous minds this sneakily

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  Done misdeed be the most naturally

  Performed crime in history,

  Up the stairway they creakily

  Went, up the fort their hypocrisy

  Took them, they went in utmost secrecy,

  Few they crossed, for many had drunk equally

  To the other, little knowing that they had drunkenly

  Imbibed wine drugged most unnaturally,

  Lo! How they began their butchery

  Whilst noble Theomund slept the dreamy

  Sleep of the righteous, His reverie

  Shared by his granddaughter who fearfully

  Clung to him, for fear of her nightmares that had cheekily

  Taunted her, to her grandmother’s irritation, she in full leniency

  Welcomed her, and awoke in supremely

  Disturbed horror that greedily

  Ate and devoured her every

  Tear and scream, which ceaselessly

  Echoed across myriad halls, ere her fearfully

  Screamed cries echoed weepily,

  Of their butchery, many do still whisper,

  Of Theomund many fond speeches still linger,

  His goodness many crimes didst hinder,

  Such his wisdom most barbarians and Dorians do remember,

  In manner most tender,

  Such be the love they still bear with such ardour

  That his name shall ring forever

  Down through the centuries, and through the winter

  Of Theodosianople and her every tower,

  Many the armies he didst render

  To naught forever,

  And feed to the crows whether in summer

  Or in autumn, ne’er to linger

  Thereupon battlefields where tears shower

  From feminine cheeks to water each flower

  That grows by every corpse, many an hour

  Ago, When men didst not cower,

  Such be their courage they didst tower

  High o’er their children of dour

  Mood and mien most sour,

  Hereupon his pyre, Cyneberht didst shower

  Coin and plum-peddles that the flames didst devour,

  From high walls to bower,

  The hungry fire in equanimity didst devour,

  Ne’er to return home to mother

  Or dearly beloved father,

  Ragimmund turn’d away his grief in full flower,

  IV

  Of Cyneberht son of Eadberht much be to tell,

  The poets and bards do still yell,

  And pray tell

  O Singers of Olde, of the doer of many deeds most fell,

  Of he who left Bruno in his death-knell,

  The butcher who didst most excel

  In days of yore all who dwell

  In north-flung lands, in the most fell

  Of misdeeds, all save Cyneberht who last bid him farewell

  By the mountain Nymph’s well,

  Vóreia was her name she who cast such a spell

  Upon Karlmund, and who gave him love and bell,

  Ere he was made to repel

  Old Karlmund, ere the other man didst quell

  His band, wherefore Cyneberht all still tell

  Sent him down to Queen Hel,

  Whereupon Cyneberht was struck by such a spell,

  That he didst all other men excel

  And in her eyes above all others seem to swell

  In deeds most brave and fell,

  That men will tell

  A thousand years hence, when all shalt dwell

  In ethereal lands, of many fields and many a well

  Of Theomund’s loss, minstrels weep

  Until tears an ocean deep,

  Hath been shed and sorrow high as the greatest heap

  Or Mountain, All while his son didst so leap

  From field to field away from the keep,

  That didst once guard him from all that dost creep

  In darkest and foulest night, those guards who once didst sweep

  From shade to shade, to keep

  Safe the sons of Theomund, that he might not reap

  Savage harvest of steel and none may sneak

  From barbarous outlands, into solid keep,

  Greatly Theomund once wander’d from valley to farm full of sheep,

  That none may weep

  Or lack for protection, and be lain onto a heap

  Of dirt before his time, and may only sleep

  When ready by own volition to sleep

  And to in his own bed reap,

  All that he should wish sweep

  To himself and retain more than solely sleep,

  V

  Away to the wild,

  Went Cyneberht, the child

  In his arms away from defiled

  Halls great and wide,

  Ruined by those most reviled,

  By the good for these be men bedeviled

  By wicked hearts most unmild

  In nature, for by evil they be beguiled,

  And thus they beguiled,

  Men strong and of mild

  Character, such be the mind

  Of those sworn to the enemy, who appalled

  All other men, both civil and wild,

  Cyneberht though no less mild

  Than those he loved, and with whom he once lived,

  Out into the wilderness they arrived,

  Near where many men once died,

  By the river Vóreia beside

  The Mountain that once surprised

  That warrior Cyneberht, who full of pride

  Didst challenge wild

  Nymph’s wits for the fate of the child,

  This she agreed and smiled,

  ‘By what means might men

  Claim that which is not their own,

  And that dost bend

  Them to its whims ere they be thrown

  From reason that they might lend

  Themselves their children and all else they own,’

  ‘That which ye speak be coin,’

  The captain Cyneberht didst rejoin,

  This ere he was to disappoint

  Her high hopes, when he didst not refrain

  His own query, ‘What do men anoint,

  that they might appoint,

  Those who half shalt disappoint,

  And the other half enjoin

  And bathe them in glory, and give them a voice

  Before those who appoint

  And offer them no choice,’

  Bewildered by this query,

  Alarmed by this merry

  Guard, consumed by the weary

  Duty laid upon him, she of the vast prairie

  In the valley of the mountain valley,

  Gave way to his victory

  Though it ran contrary

  To her innermost desire which she didst marry

  Though it weigh’d heavy

  Upon her, already

  By this time weary

  And angry,

  They in spite of being wary,

  Took up this most wondrous victory

  In the most merry

  Of mood, relieved even as she refused to ferry

  Them across her waves, so that they paid for her to ferry,

  And thus it was that they fled in a most unmerry

  Of mood, properly chastened and wary

  Of what she might demand of them after she didst ferry

  Them o’er waves fierce, strong and unwieldy,

  As they reached the shore

  They looked back on days of yore

  Recall’d ancient lore,

  Fearful that she might bore

  Into their bones and recall them to the fore

  Of her watery depths, both prepared for war,

  Their innermost core

  Deep and strong, they as always didst ignore

  Fear which is that which dost pour

  Itself upon the core

  Of all men, and weaken them more

  Than all else might, Knowing this, for

  He was no fool, he was to once upon the shore

  Turn to Ragimmund ne’er one to ignore

  Now the chance to teach him,

  ‘Observe and learn this lesson

  Learn the manly arts that ye dost not lessen

  In this he didst give expression,

  To that most manly profession,

  That which requires the utmost aggression,’

  This he didst whilst he held him in an expression

  Of such paternal tenderness, as to convey the essence

  Of all he felt, all while he gave myriad suggestion

  To the boy who didst offer up in confession,

  No less an expression

  Of affection,

  Lo! He said ne’er wouldst their bond lessen

  No matter what aggression,

  They might summon

  Against those who might sow division,

  Theirs was a most sacred bond of utmost affection,

  VI

  By love as by duty,

  They were noosed,

  Many the years truly

  Wherein their foes wert loosed

  Upon the land where he explored fully,

  Land which he perused,

  In the most unruly

  Manner imaginable, that doomed

  Many before him, and which he truly

  Didst inherit from Theomund,

  Just as he pass’d it to his unruly

  Sons, by whom his foes fumed

  At and didst fully

  Consider no less

  Vicious than their utterly

  Indomitable sire, whom they wert no less fearless

  Than, such was their truly

  Great fame for valour and nobility,

  Thrice sworn,

  To just cause and hard-bitten road,

  One by age greatly worn,

  The other his shoulders’ still broad,

  That shall ne’er be shorn

  Of strength or slow’d

  By illness nor the thorn,

  Men dub age, that other men showed

  Whether high or low born,

  That in ancient and new days slowed

  One and all, be they in the world’s dusk or morn’

  Such be mortality that leaves all bowed,

  Lo! Didst the youth shorn

  Of hearth and home vow’d

  That he might someday return, whether young or worn,

  This oath he roared

  That the heavens that had borne

  Witness to countless dauntless deeds and men unbow’d

  Might see his deeds in dusk and morn’

  That he vow’d

  To undertake that of courage he might ne’er be shorn,

  VII

  In youth, as in dotage he ne’er wept,

  And ne’er he slept

  Always he crept

  That he might the enemy’s home wreck,

  And make certain they hath fled

  From hearth and home, and prove himself adept

  In war, as his ancestors against the inept,

  Thus he leapt,

  From battlements high, while others slept,

  And still many others crept,

  This they didst under his banner, that leapt

  With the wind, and swept

  O’er the battlements that many had once wept

  O’er, and which had been kept

  Well-preserved in good memory of incredible depth

  As in actual fact, Such be their greatness, yet still the theft

  Of Theomund’s fort many decades before, when all wert fed

  Well and truly, Such that bereft

  Of good times, only misery spread

  Now throughout the lands, as butter upon bread,

  Bread the masses unfed

  In sleep as in waking hours many wert left

  Utterly to the warlords’, bereft

  Of mercy and pity that those left

  To the utter dread

  Of those they dubbed lords, spread

  Throughout darkened lands, keen to spread

  Death to those guilty of theft

  Of their lord’s lands, he who lost his head

  By unjust blades, to Hraban the Red

  And his wicked brothers, whom lay abed

  Unknowing of the thread

  Of destiny they had bred,

  Yet still Ragimmund from battle ne’er fled,

  So that though he ensured they bled,

  Right honourably he fought the Red,

  Lo! All wert left

  Neither whole but dead,

  And to the flames he fed

  The keep of that which Theomund once held,

  Of his mother Ragimmund knew precious little,

  Lesser than his father, yet of nobler blood

  By far, she ne’er didst whittle

  At his reason or noble deeds that wert the root

  Of which many women choose to fiddle,

  That they might weaken a child’s mind’s food,

  Just as might their fathers’, those whom fate dost riddle

  With flaws aplenty, and dost loot

  Of all sense, leaving children with naught but spittle

  In them that the gods might exclude

  Them from Elysium realm of the most beneficial

  Men and peoples, lo! long didst she brood,

  All while she spun clothe by fingers most virile,

  In the keep thereupon the hill that didst include

  A moat of flames one that didst so bristle

  At men of good nature, and held a sorrowful-mood,

  Such that men of the most little

  Valour not of the line of Hrambert the Good,

  Didst quaver and swivel

  Upon their steeds though she was the least rude

  Of the northern lines, that which

  Dominated the north and didst feud

  With a great many of the witch’s

  Line and didst much to root

  Out the sons of Hrambert, and filch

  Them of all they had in lewd

  Spirits unjustly stolen from those less rich,

  Wealthy and good,

  They won this by the slaying of the witch

  And her brood,

  Ne’er valorous, ne’er loyal,

  She didst thus defile,

  All that is sacred,

  When her sons’ fates she refused

  To share, and left them to suffer,

  This she didst and ne’er didst utter

  Other than curses,

  And a great many verses

  Against those Ingram call’d kin,

  Ere their ranks she didst thin,

  Thus she didst foil

  Their victory, and leave them to boil

  In defeat,

  His tale one replete

  With such heroism,

  That he achieved by way of wisdom,

  Of his many wars,

  Against scores

  Of Ingram’s sons,

  along northern shores,

  Against they and Dwarves

  Most fell, he didst lunge,

  He whom their father abhors,

  Many implores

  Time and again, under the sons’,

  For she that adores,

  Justice and wars,

  He show’d little pity before the walls,

  Of their cities,

  This fathers

  And sons’

  Ne’er didst forget nor could ignore,

  VIII

  Of Ingunn’s father, men also speak well,

  For him many art the bells’ that toll still,

  Therein the far north where the Valtherii dwell,

  They for whom life depends on will,

  By steel and fury they thrive,

  They whom drink fine wine and swill,

  In eager spirits, that which dost revive

  Even the least lively

  Of folks, and whom far and wide

  Hath all hear’d his finely

  Woven tales which abound even in fair Doria,

  He of the most lightly

  Disposition that ne’er inspired nausea

  In his foes, as he rightly

  Lived therein the north, away from arboreal

  Civilization that didst eradicate dishonesty,

  Many the dread beasts they in memorial

  Of blood most innocently

  And unjustly slain, that they might on manorial

  Earth and those wildly

  Untamed that they might by primordial

  Sense of right, lay in lowly

  Manner those monsters forged by bestial

  And unearthly

  Hands, those sons of Hydra

  That Herakles didst not justly

  Lay low, they slew and after the Hydra’s

  Brood the mightiest of wickedly

  Wrought cubs of multi-faced wolves,

  Those many they slew decidedly,

  As easily by arrows that pierce doves,

  Of his son’s claims to fame,

  He who none couldst tame,

  Nor seize and take,

  Ingomar was his name,

  Father and son, whose glory ne’er didst wane,

  Both brought to shame,

  By the bitter flame

  Of Kunibert who didst defame

  The son and his bride, that most famed dame

  Leutgard, of renown’d beauty, that all didst proclaim

  The fairest dame

  In all of the land, she of unlimit’d fame,

  She whom Kunibert didst profane,

  That he might slake

  His hunger for her mane

  As he didst for her name,

  Lo! The untold pain

  He didst inflict upon her, why none couldst explain,

  Though he had little to gain,

  Such was his profane

  Nature that he didst so maim

  Her in spirit and fame,

  Ingomar didst venture

  To seize in northron forests,

  The shadow’d King,

  Who by his seizure

  Of the dainty lady who in abhorrence

  Of him, didst cry and sing

  In a flurry of tears of how he didst censure

  Her by word as by actions,

  And whom had by dint

  Of these sacrilegious errors

  Won for himself, the abhorrence

  Of Ingomar and his father the King,

  That they might thus spread terror

  To he who unleash’d evil in torrents,

  Lo! The vast number of those he didst fling,

  To their doom out of fervour

  For cruelty such be the way of tyrants,

  By strangulation as by swordsmanship,

  He didst demonstrate refusal to worship

  He who sought to steer the ship

  Of tribal states, away from steady waters

  To murky places ere he falters

  Between wicked glee, and uncertainty to please his daughters,

  They whom didst seize command,

  Ere they made endless demands

  Of men and beasts, through the land,

  Aflame came he, to hearth and home,

  Ere he set aflame, after years wherein he didst roam,

  He and his father, aid’d by many a gnome,

  Those Elves that didst love always blade

  And slaughter, and didst bade

  Lord and daughters farewell, ere they set them aflame,

  IX

  Lo! The glories of the line of Kings,

  Who didst precede Theomund King

  They who as he didst give over many rings,

  They that glittered in spite of the many sins

  Countless in nature,

  Due to the rupture

  That didst occur

  Betwixt they and Doria, which sought to nurture

  Peaceable bonds and good cheer,

  That they might rear

  That which men hold most dear,

  And be kept away from the leer

  Of vicious, cruel war and her grasping hands,

  That might tear apart countless lands,

  This was the line of Ingunn’s kin,

  Thick was their blood,

  And their heroics ne’er didst thin,

  Their ways rude,

  Wert to rule

  O’er all the Valtherii, mightiest of the tribes,

  Alone they refused Dorian bribes,

  By dint of strength,

  As by their lives’ length,

  They wert most revered,

  Yet ne’er didst they endear

  Themselves amongst their neighbours,

  Such was their labours,

  In days previous,

  That they fulfill’d by devious

  Means, that they might lord o’er northern woods,

  That neither hurricane nor floods,

  May o’er take and destroy,

  Just as no god may disrupt their joy

  Or so they didst claim,

  And ne’er to reclaim

  That which they held dearest,

  And which lay nearest,

  Of these great deeds,

  None of them destined to mislead

  In judgment or in act those they freed,

  Of a far greater breed

  Than most, they wert ne’er to lead to the weeds,

  Or into the fens, nor make bleed

  Their own, such be their creed,

  As Kings of olde, that they sought to exceed

  One another in deed

  As in songs told o’er mead

  And hallow’d halls, such be their creed,

  That they had need

  To do so, this none disagreed,

  For all agreed,

  That their shared glory didst supersede

  That of the individual’s greed,

  And profaned need

  To be heard

  Above the voices of the rest, that they might mislead

  Their kindred and all those of shared breed,

  Such be the northern barbarians creed,

  And magnificent ways, Lo! They ne’er be weak-kneed,

  Nor didst they revealed

  In high and lowly acts, ill-conceived

  Glories, but rather well achieved,

  And ne’er keen to hath review’d

  Their own actions, such be their high-achieved

  And highly agreed,

  Yet all such deeds

  Wert acclaimed

  All throughout the most wide

  Of lands of Doria also, and thus they wert widely well-received,

  X

  Much affect’d wert the warrior’s

  Line that claim’d a hero’s

  Fame, won by many wars,

  As by heroes

  Of olde, who more than courtiers,

  That so awed the victorious

  Champions’ who won glories

  Untold and unheard of to noble Dorians,

  Treacherous as praetorians

  Noble as champions,

  Such be the honour of barbarians,

  Along the north’s coasts,

  They didst toast

  And roast,

  Pigs and cows, and boast

  Of wealth unequalled, gotten by they and their devotees,

  The finest of hosts,

  None dared to suggests,

  They be the worst

  Of men and lords that exist

  In the north, greatest of north-folks,

  Barbarous as beasts,

  Lo! The vastness of Ragimmund’s tribe,

  That didst in war didst thrive,

  All whilst they strive

  East that they might contrive

  Always to seek to derive

  Glory and satisfaction from war and strife,

  That their enemies might describe

  Their peoples and deride

  Them as barbarous, ne’er didst deprive

  Them of their own opinion, or leave them cover’d in hives,

  Such be their indifference and glory, their design,

  Where might they thrive?

  Why in the wilderness, where all must survive,

  And what be their wilderness where they strive?

  Why in battle, that be where they derive

  Satisfaction and joy,

  These be the ancestors

  Of whom to this hour

  All sing still,

  Their ancient glories

  Their lives incomparably dour

  Neither farmers nor mills

  Wert they, nor cowards,

  Fierce as lions, ne’er didst they sour

  And shake, or wear frills,

  Such was their courageous

  Disposition and valour,

  XI

  O Goddess let us sing now

  Of the heroism of Ragimmund the Bold,

  Of how in his youth

  Ragimmund didst slay the most foul,

  Ne’er one to fold

  Before King, lord or duke,

  Always didst he choose,

  Fierce and bold, three ladies he didst woo,

  Ne’er once didst he lead them to woe,

  Save for the Lady of Demoé

  She whom many sought to woo,

  And who was most true

  To Ragimmund, after he didst pursue

  She and others, this she knew

  Yet still she chose him, so that she didst subdue

  Her own envy, and gave him not a few

  Children, but a great many that didst dispute

  Doria’s claim to northern lands all knew

  To be true,

  Of the Lady Rufiana, his mighty wife,

  The Red Lady,

  Who gave for him her life,

  And ne’er gave way to lazy

  Habits or lax morality, who gave in gift the knife

  Of her father’s father, fond was his memory

  Of that day, though it be rife

  With strife and hazy

  Peace, that bespoke to a poor life

  One that he might regret and fight

  To redeem from, and in this he was ne’er lazy,

  XII

  Many wert his heirs’,

  And many their own heirs,

  Not a one short of hair,

  Ne’er fearful and always keen to dare

  Where others might not fare

  Half so well, and might despair,

  First among them was the Fair-hair’d

  Adalwin, whom he didst rear

  To greatness and majesty, for he was heir,

  Adalwin, mighty and fierce,

  Didst father thrice

  The sons of others; Stavros, ?lfstan and Bertrand, each one a prince

  Of greatest virtue, who ne’er shirked from conflict,

  Adalwin who’s spear didst pierce

  Foe and villain, and hero alike, myth

  And legend that he was, he who fill’d many with bliss

  His bravery none e’er could dismiss

  His spear like Gungnir, ne’er didst miss,

  Always didst it pierce,

  Not once but thrice,

  All who didst oppose the mightiest of Ragimii’s princes,

  Stavros came next,

  Ne’er was he at rest,

  Always he didst vex,

  His wits such that he didst perplex,

  Even the finest of generals, against

  Whom he didst test,

  Always didst he best,

  Them no matter if from east or west,

  His greatness many came to expect,

  Always his nobility his prisoners didst express

  Admiration for, and always didst respect,

  Of his axe, none didst suggest

  Was any less

  Sharp, than that of his perfect

  Brother, whom he ne’er didst object

  To, or place himself against,

  Such be the beauty of their brotherly bond, that they ne’er didst vex

  Nor wish to see the other put to rest!

  Of Theomund the third child,

  The fiercest in battle and most wild,

  Barbarous and long-bearded, yet mild

  Of mood, yet easily the most beguil’d,

  By womanly charms, as by gestures most kind,

  Thus he didst depend upon Stavros, and required

  His guidance, though of the reviled

  It where women wert concerned, such was how he lived,

  Of his sons, nine there wert! And well-defined

  They all wert, each one derived

  Their nature from their brave and kind

  Father; of Ragimos the eldest and least kind,

  Minstrels still whisper’d

  When last in the north and west

  Went I, and of Theowin of immense pride,

  And quick to anger, his guide

  And younger brother, Theomund the Younger, who didst ride

  Far and very wide,

  Both born of one mother, she who obliged

  Her predecessor with poison, and whom all feared,

  Next came Sugimmond the Kind,

  All didst love him far and wide,

  ?lfwin of the lovely bride,

  Whom always didst quarrel and despised

  Those who longed for his bride,

  Sixth was the pride

  Of the pack, and least despised,

  Cynesige the seer, who revised

  Always his father’s schemes, and advised,

  Seventh was the mountain-sized

  Chlodulf the Strong, fierce-eyed,

  Eighth Burghead the most refined,

  Always he longed for the south that he eyed

  Wistfully, best of all musicians of those inscribed

  In the lineage of Ragimmund, ne’er he lied,

  Ninth Dunstan who thrived

  In ill and misfortune of others, such be how he lived,

  Next came Eadwig, always eager for a quarrel,

  He of the most feral

  Temper, and most foul strength that endures all peril,

  Set before him, and left many sterile

  Cadavers, such be his glory and more than several

  Deeds of utmost heroism,

  Thence came Eileifr the Devious,

  Where the previous

  Brothers good and true, Eileifr was lascivious,

  Offering the least amount of obedience,

  His daughter though easiest

  To name, was also the least obsequious,

  She of the kindliest

  Of mien, and most ferocious of warriors,

  The Lady Farahild, most beauteous

  Of the shield-maidens of the north-west,

  Faroald the youngest of all,

  Who ne’er didst suffer the same fall,

  Mighty in arms, and limbs tall,

  The minstrels still do recall,

  How he ne’er didst crawl,

  But rather galloped, and raced, until the final

  Days and hours stood before him, and he with a pall

  O’er his head threw himself forward, no one’s thrall,

  Of these mighty sons Ragimmund was utterly proud,

  Ne’er didst he fall foul

  To rage or to lay upon their women-folk their shrouds,

  To leave their men bow’d,

  Without reason or honour, such was his spirit made profound

  By faith as by manly nature, even as he was foul

  And cruel when enraged, and of untamed faith and quick to wound

  Those around him, such was his nature proud,

  For this as for much else, his women wouldst bear their shrouds,

  And his sons’ would be left unproud,

  Grandchildren to sorrow bound,

  Such was the price of his greed that didst resound

  To Doria as to heaven, and o’er the waves and mounts,