Valery Bryusov
The Old Viking

He stood on the cliff and the wind in his face there was mocking
And chucking with thistle-like prickles its spraying and foaming.
The billow arose and then crumbled, white-headed. And knocking
The sea at the granite sheer walls it slapped in the gloaming.

And tacking beyond there a sail the expanses was threading,
To Vinland his son his unshakeable course now directed.
Each moment elapsing between them the ocean was spreading –
The voice of the sea like funereal cry was projected.

And there out beyond in the water’s unending waste spaces
Afresh will erupt the old battles where looming is Skraeling;
Yet he will remain in the safety of burial places,
And hear how the women with praying are timidly wailing!

Oh, woe to the one who then witnessed his children’s own children
Departing for lands his vainglorious sword could not plunder!
For those who by military bugles no longer are summoned
To terms must now come with their grandfathers’ glory and thunder.

For ever I want to be ready and strong for the battle,
So, granite and slimy, the walls may not, heavy, oppress us,
As vessel is sailing amidst all the howling and rattle
And spatter and foam hit our face as the winds then address us.

Translated by Rupert Moreton