Then song and music mingled sounds in the presence
of Healfdene’s head-of-armies {16c} and harping
was heard with the hero-lay as Hrothgar’s singer
the hall-joy woke along the mead-seats, making his
song of that sudden raid on the sons of Finn.
{16d}
Healfdene’s hero, Hnaef the Scylding, was fated
to fall in the Frisian slaughter. {16e} Hildeburh
needed not hold in value her enemies’ honor!
{16f} Innocent both were the loved ones she lost at
the linden-play, bairn and brother, they bowed to
fate, stricken by spears; ’twas a sorrowful
woman! None doubted why the daughter of Hoc
bewailed her doom when dawning came, and under the
sky she saw them lying, kinsmen murdered, where most
she had kenned of the sweets of the world! By
war were swept, too, Finn’s own liegemen, and
few were left; in the parleying-place {16g} he could
ply no longer weapon, nor war could he wage on Hengest,
and rescue his remnant by right of arms from the prince’s
thane. A pact he offered: another dwelling
the Danes should have, hall and high-seat, and half
the power should fall to them in Frisian land; and
at the fee-gifts, Folcwald’s son day by day
the Danes should honor, the folk of Hengest favor
with rings, even as truly, with treasure and jewels,
with fretted gold, as his Frisian kin he meant to
honor in ale-hall there. Pact of peace they plighted
further on both sides firmly. Finn to Hengest
with oath, upon honor, openly promised that woful
remnant, with wise-men’s aid, nobly to govern,
so none of the guests by word or work should warp
the treaty, {16h} or with malice of mind bemoan themselves
as forced to follow their fee-giver’s slayer,
lordless men, as their lot ordained. Should Frisian,
moreover, with foeman’s taunt, that murderous
hatred to mind recall, then edge of the sword must
seal his doom.
Oaths were given, and ancient gold heaped from hoard.
— The hardy Scylding, battle-thane best,
{16i} on his balefire lay. All on the pyre were
plain to see the gory sark, the gilded swine-crest,
boar of hard iron, and athelings many slain by the
sword: at the slaughter they fell. It was
Hildeburh’s hest, at Hnaef’s own pyre
the bairn of her body on brands to lay, his bones
to burn, on the balefire placed, at his uncle’s
side. In sorrowful dirges bewept them the woman:
great wailing ascended. Then wound up to welkin
the wildest of death-fires, roared o’er the
hillock: {16j} heads all were melted, gashes
burst, and blood gushed out from bites {16k} of the
body. Balefire devoured, greediest spirit, those
spared not by war out of either folk: their
flower was gone.
