The Lay of Hildebrand

. . . I heard it said . . .
that as foemen in fight sole faced each other
Hildebrand and Hathubrand, two hosts between.
There son and father their fighting-gear tested,
made ready their battle-weeds, belted the sword
o'er their ring-mail, the heroes, who rode to the fray.

Hildebrand spake, Herebrand's son, —
. . . he was riper in years,
the older man: to ask he commenced,
though few his words, who his father was
of human folk . . .
. . . "or of what race thou mayst be,
if thou namest one only, the others I know.
All kindred I ken in this kingdom, O youth!"

Hathubrand spake, Hildebrand's son: —
"Trusty people have told to me,
who, old and wise, knew ancient ways,
my father was Hildebrand: Hathubrand I!
Long ago went he eastward; from Otacher's hate
with Theotrich fled he, and thanes in plenty.
In his land he left forlorn behind him
bride in bower and boy ungrown,
reft of inheritance: rode he yet eastward!
Theotrich later, in thronging perils,
of my father had need: 'twas so friendless a man!
Boundlessly angry at Otacher was he,
the trustiest thane in Theotrich's service,
ever front in the folk-rank, too fain for battle,
famous was he among fighting-men bold!
I believe not he lives." . . .

Hildebrand spake, Herebrand's son: —
"But High-God knows, in heaven above,
that thou never yet with such near-kin man,
hero brave, hast held thy parley!"

He unwound from his arm the winding rings,
of kaiser-gold wrought, that the king had given him,
Lord of the Huns: "In love now I give it thee."

Hathubrand spake, Hildebrand's son: —
"With the spear should a man receive his gifts,
point against point . . .
Thou art over-crafty, thou aged Hun, —
enthrallst me with speech to o'erthrow me with spear.
Old as thou'st grown, bear'st only guile!
Seafaring folk have said to me,
come west over Wendelsea, — War hath seized him.
Dead is Hildebrand, Herebrand's son!"

Hildebrand spake, Herebrand's son . . .
"Well can I see by thy war-gear now,
the ruler thou hast at home is rich,
nor under this king wast thou cast into exile.
. . . Wellaway, God all-wielding, fate's woe is upon us!
I was summers and winters full sixty a-wandering,
and still was I chosen with chief of the troops;
yet at no burg was death ever dealt me by man.
Now my own sweet son with sword must hew me,
fell me with falchion, or fall at my hands!
— Yet 'tis easily done, if thou doughty be,
from so old a man his arms to take,
to seize the spoil, if such strength be thine.
Most infamous were he of East-Goth folk
who should keep thee from combat so keenly desired,
from fight with foe! Let the fated one try
whether now his trappings be taken from him,
or both of these breast-plates he boast as his own."

Charging with ash-spears, clashed they first,
with sharpest shafts the shields that clove.
Then strode to the struggle those sturdy-warriors,
hewed in hate on the white-faced shields,
until both of the lindens little grew,
all worn with weapons. . . .