I
Bold was Gwilherm’s line,
Steely their resolve,
Where royalty may decline,
And didst dissolve
If in time,
Thus, power starved
Rulers of Brittia, who reduced to swine,
Didst their people involve,
In shedding all that is benign
They lost favour of the divine,
Yet ne’er didst Gwilherm’s line
Fail and decline,
Icy was their exterior,
Unbending their iron,
Lo! Their shields wert superior,
Many their swords that had torn,
Asunder the prettier
Arms and many bucklers,
Of their foes, who wearier
Of battle and of their own colours,
Didst tender their surrender,
Behold the inferior
Arms of their enemies,
That didst falter
Where Gwilherm remain’d fierce,
Against those who perpetuate slaughter,
His blades e’er keen to pierce
Tyrant and rebel who oppress’d smaller
Folk, and were thus guilty of wicked conflict,
Bold was Gwilherm in younger
Days, when all men wert astonish’d
By how he ne’er lack’d for wit
Or for courage and how he didst eclipse
His brothers and peers, with how fit
He was, and how he could convince
The most recalcitrant of bird
To flutter and sing and submit,
Lo! Gwilherm of Gwilherm’s lineage,
Majestic and leonine,
His a name even the most oblivious
Praised and knew, and sang in a myriad
Of voices o’erjoyed by his serious
Manner that didst in that period
Win him praise from the least gregarious
To most, such was his superior
Nature, that was as great as it was imperious,
Both of which wert but a material
Part to the whole of his valorous
Person that men still do sing of,
II
In days of yore,
When the boar
Ruled and tore
The realm, and didst more
To harm and dealt twelve score
Losses that bore
Deep into Brittia, before
She turn’d once more
To tear and war
With those who wore
Her badge and bore
Her name and more
Deep within their heart’s core,
So that all became sore
And bloated with hate for
He who ruled over their every shore,
From Estria in the east, to western Elnore
In the lands nearest to Ergyng where war
Haunts e’ery shore,
Since days of yore,
And where the old lore
Of the Elves all still do adore,
Even as all dost implore
Them with a great tenor
To hurry to their aid, that they might endure
The yoke of Æthelwulf II, who held much hate for
His own people, and his neighbour
Who didst deplore
Ergyng’s long fall to mere décor
Of Bretwealda, at the hands of more
Than one tyrant’s rule, lo!
Hers was a fallen glory,
One that now didst tarry,
To her own end she didst hurry,
Under a King who ruled unlawfully,
As all tyrants do so rule,
Submission but fuel
To his flames, so cruel
Didst he rule
That none didst defy
Without impunity, a great cry
Erupted that tore its way up high,
That some mercy he might apply,
In defiance of those who rule the sky,
The gods from on high,
He was to as all of his do, defy
All who didst lord above him, ply
Cruelty after cruelty, in his eager attempt to deny
Peace to those around him, and who didst shy
From combat that they might tend their farms and dye
The land green and yellow and vie
With the earth everyday, aye
His was the greatest savagery, which he didst ally
To his innate wit, the most sly
Of his brethren, Ygonis it was who didst cry
Out time and again, against nigh
On all the gods who ruled the sky,
Such was his hatred, he didst thrice daily deny
Them all, and thrice daily seek to defy
Them one and all, and vow to supply
To Orcus a daily supply
Of visitors, many wert those he left to lie
In the fields, and in the sea, where none may buy
Passage to Erebus, and may ne’er fly
To Valhalla, such was his desire to deny
Them one and all, the joy to with kinsmen peacefully lie,
Stubborn as a mule,
He shunned man’s rule,
Even as they didst assume
That they might fool
And resolve their dispute
With him by many a gift of many a tool,
And of money, thus was the nature of the misrule
That spread through Brittia that dost consume
Others’ flowers in full bloom,
Such was the cruel
Nature of those who didst rule
O’er her and her sons’, who didst brood
And seek to o’errule
The tyrants’ dues,
And the Cyclops’ doom
That was cast upon them,
III
Favour’d by fate
As by Ziu the Valiant,
He was made
To bid farewell
To his father the most gallant
Of men, whereupon he journey’d
Far to the distant dell,
There where the harried
Cyclops Ygonis dwelt,
He it was who had had dealt,
A wicked blow to Brittia
By way of his initial
Disdain for the men
Of Brittia, who fail’d to fend
Tall as a temple,
Cunning yet simple,
Was the rapacious giant,
He who was the most defiant,
And the most strident
Of all, Ygonis the Tyrant
Was his name, ne’er silent
When he might resolve in violent
Manner that which men
Might prefer to mend,
So that they didst tend
To their wounds again and again
Rather than to defend
Against Ygonis who didst offend
Time and again,
Deep in caverns’ shadows,
Where beasts hid their sorrows,
‘Twas therein the shadows,
Where neither light nor arrows
May pierce that only he knows,
He left those he imposes
His will upon, heroes
And plebs alike, even as patricians their arrows
Hidden, fled away to the barrows,
That they might avoid more sorrows,
To which plateaus
Didst they fly? What shallows
Didst they think to hide from his shadows?
To their King’s fortress plateaus
Away they went, that they might call on his swords and arrows,
‘Bah, hardly my concern,’
Sayeth the King,
Whereupon he didst turn
Away from those who didst sing
Of their sorrow, his face stern
Ne’er generous with giving gold or ring,
His was a steely reign, they didst learn,
And in sorrow they didst bring
Myriad gifts they wert to turn
O’er to aid in their pleading,
Yet still he didst not return
Their generous gift of silver and ring,
So that they didst burn
With humiliation such was the sting
Of their pain that they ne’er again didst yearn
For his ruling as King,
IV
Dark was the cavern,
To which he fled, taking ashen
Maids that he might feast upon them,
Lo! Behold how he didst condemn
There within dark labyrinthine
Halls he didst hold them,
There he left all, with nary a sheet
To cover themselves with, such was his dominion
Over his every victim,
When they didst not do as he had bidden,
Their men folk having ridden
Thither south that they might plead
And have their pleas read,
By King and court,
That he might thwart
The Cyclops’ who by brazen
Wit as by strength didst warp
Land and locality for his own consideration
And his alone,
Of maidens Ygonis knew many,
More than a score or twenty,
He stole away,
Ne’er one to tarry
He swallow’d them one and all,
None could stand quite so tall
As he, such was the pall
He cast and how small
Ygonis reduced all who answer’d the call,
Such was the squall,
Cast upon every hall
In Lyndran, where stands tall
Many a high-wall,
Behind which many wert the ball
That wert held, and many the thrall
Who wish’d to dance, drink and drawl
In even the lowliest of hall,
Ygonis didst appal
All good men, and leave many a shawl
By the side of the sea, after he didst maul
Many an innocent maid, who ne’er at fault
Many still recall
Fondly, if sadly such is the pall
Of their sorrow and such the shrillness of their call,
Yet none answer’d the call,
Neither lord nor King most tall
Wouldst risk a fall
And halt
The Cyclop’s myriad assault,
Bleakly their ransoms they ne’er didst stall,
Yet still he didst default,
And still their King they didst call
And pay heed to, that he might gall
And gore apart the beast and make him bawl
By way of iron and steel, and his innards sprawl
Across land and sea, and thus make him fall,
V
The King’s mother, Cynehild
He didst seize,
And as captive he might still
Hold her, that she might please
Him in his hill,
To her he left neither bread nor cheese,
Such was his ill-will,
And such his desire he ignored her pleas,
Thus, he refused to offer her, her fill,
Full of sorrow’s disease
She might well cry out beneath the hill,
Yet ne’er again wouldst her pleas
Bring her succour, he didst instil
In her, proud Cynehild,
‘For pity’s sake’
She didst plead,
Still he didst not by creed
Or by act pay heed
To her or concede,
Where another might read
Guilt or regret, instead
All that could be read,
Upon him was mirth wed
To mockery for he was no friend
To her or anyone, his cruelty didst extend
Far, far ahead,
Of that of any other, and was without end,
Ne’er didst he commend,
To another anyone, rather to send
Them to spend,
The rest of eternity without end,
In the realm of the dead, there where all descend
Before the face of Orcus, whom none may offend
Without fear, this he didst and ne’er didst mend
His ways, until he met his end,
Thrice she might hath escaped,
Twice she sought to beg,
And twice she was denied,
Lo, how he didst wreck
Land and lady’s honour,
Whether she bent her leg,
Or stood tall his demeanour,
Ne’er didst change or beg
Forgiveness, that in that hour
All oaths he would renege,
Such was his character’s valour,
VI
Moved by pity as by valour,
Gwilherm at noontide’s hour,
Didst endeavour
Though none of those of the flower
Of Brittia’s youth wouldst scour
The land to rescue the dour
King’s mother, who prouder
Than any other had made many cower,
This though made many cry louder,
Out of pity and kindnest he mounted his charger
That he might rescue she that others
Had scorned rescuing, ne’er one to flounder
In cowardice, he didst power
Across fields, braver
And fiercer
Than all other men, journeying e’er more
To the north that he might rescue her,
Swift didst he travel,
That he might unravel
And do battle,
That Queen Dowager and cattle
Might be restored and thus unravel,
This he didst and didst rattle
All near the cavern, on his arrival,
The cavern he didst find,
And deep within its shadowed halls,
He ne’er reclined,
Nor was he to climb o’er walls,
Such was the derelict defences Ygonis declined
To build, such his lazy ways,
While he reclined
Gifted much in the way of mead days
Prior by Gwilherm whom refined
This mead that he didst give away,
Dress’d in old raiment
Thus he didst play
His voice his instrument,
Ne’er very far away,
Greatly didst Ygonis drink as one triumphant,
VII
In battle Gwilherm triumph’d,
In days past by harden’d valour,
As he might hath done against the giant,
Wert he of lesser wit and demeanour,
Generous and cunning, he wouldst rather
Do battle by wit in that hour,
Than to submit and clatter
His way whither without valour,
He tied thrice together
Spears high as a tower,
And thrust forward against the coward,
That he might lower
Him down below the flowers,
Taunted and reeling from the loss,
Of his captive,
Charged he didst across
His cavern, ne’er adaptive
To rude circumstances ne’er didst he gloss,
Made far less attractive,
By spear thrust that was thrown
By might of arms that the captive
Might flee, and flee by way of his horse,
Ne’er very passive,
Gwillherm, his foe blinded perforce
Refused to remain inactive,
Sword in hand hew’d apart by force
As by skill, this foe who blind’d was less reactive,
Thus didst Ygonis meet his end,
His suffering ne’er didst he extend,
Such was the generosity of his foe,
Who ne’er meek as a doe,
Tore his head from him,
All from most high to most dim
Might know he didst slaughter
The giant and that he didst not falter,
Thus, didst he rescue Cynehild,
Who dost hold him still
In highest regard,
Even as he is still her grandson’s guard
There's nothing quite like a little epic poetry in the morning! I notice again the interesting fusion of Norse and Greek figures. I'd never have the patience to work something like this into verse.