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,