In Bēowulf there is a dim minning of the
tale where for Herebeald would should understand Beald-here or Balder and Hæðcyn
for
Höðr:
Bīowulf
maðelade, bearn Ecgþēowes:
"Fela ic
on giogoðe guð‐rǣsa genæs,
orleg‐hwīla: ic þæt eall gemon.
Ic wæs syfan‐wintre, þā mec sinca baldor,
frēa‐wine folca æt mīnum fæder genam,
hēold mec and
hæfde Hrēðel cyning, 2430
geaf mē sinc
and symbel, sibbe gemunde;
næs ic him tō
līfe lāðra ōwihte
beorn in
burgum, þonne his bearna hwylc,
Herebeald and
Hæðcyn, oððe Hygelāc mīn.
Wæs þām yldestan
ungedēfelīce
mǣges dǣdum
morðor‐bed strēd,
syððan hyne
Hæðcyn of horn‐bogan,
his frēa‐wine flāne geswencte,
miste mercelses
and his mǣg ofscēt,
brōðor ōðerne,
blōdigan gāre: 2440
þæt wæs feoh‐lēas gefeoht, fyrenum gesyngad
hreðre hyge‐mēðe; sceolde hwæðre swā þēah
æðeling
unwrecen ealdres linnan.
Swā bið
geōmorlīc gomelum ceorle
tō gebīdanne,
þæt his byre rīde
giong on
galgan, þonne hē gyd wrece,
sārigne sang,
þonne his sunu hangað
hrefne tō
hrōðre and hē him helpe ne mæg,
eald and in‐frōd, ǣnige gefremman.
Symble bið
gemyndgad morna gehwylce 2450
eaforan ellor‐sīð; ōðres ne gȳmeð
tō gebīdanne
burgum on innan
yrfe‐weardes, þonne se ān hafað
þurh dēaðes nȳd
dǣda gefondad.
Gesyhð sorh‐cearig on his suna būre
wīn‐sele wēstne, wind‐gereste,
rēote berofene;
rīdend swefað
hæleð in
hoðman; nis þǣr hearpan swēg,
gomen in
geardum, swylce þǣr iū wǣron.
Beowulf spake,
Ecgtheow’s son:
“I survived in
my youth-days many a conflict,
Hours of onset:
that all I remember.
I was
seven-winters old when the jewel-prince took me,
High-lord of
heroes, at the hands of my father,
Hrethel the
hero-king had me in keeping,
Gave me
treasure and feasting, our kinship remembered;
Not ever was I
any less dear to him
Knight in the
boroughs, than the bairns of his household,
Herebald and
Hæthcyn and Higelac mine.
To the eldest
unjustly by acts of a kinsman
Was murder-bed
strewn, since him Hæthcyn from horn-bow
His sheltering
chieftain shot with an arrow,
Erred in his
aim and injured his kinsman,
One brother the
other, with blood-sprinkled spear:
’Twas a feeless
fight, finished in malice,
Sad to his
spirit; the folk-prince however
Had to part
from existence with vengeance untaken.
So to
hoar-headed hero ’tis heavily crushing
To live to see
his son as he rideth
Young on the
gallows: then measures he chanteth,
A song of
sorrow, when his son is hanging
For the raven’s
delight, and aged and hoary
He is unable to
offer any assistance.
Every morning
his offspring’s departure
Is constant
recalled: he cares not to wait for
The birth of an
heir in his borough-enclosures,
Since that one
through death-pain the deeds hath experienced.
He
heart-grieved beholds in the house of his son the
Wine-building
wasted, the wind-lodging places
Reaved of their
roaring; the riders are sleeping,
The knights in
the grave; there’s no sound of the harp-wood,
Joy in the
yards, as of yore were familiar.
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