Mount Lafayette in Winter by Thomas Hill
TO BLODEUCOED ON A CRAG
No greater thing is grown on earth
than that which waxes within the womb
of mighty mothers; the sword meeting
of peaceful women a treasure weaves
above the riches of burnished gold
and gleaming silver. It swims within,
then flees the stomach, the first of homes,
then suckles at the swollen breasts
of a beauteous mother. How marvelous!
Before me now is yet another.
Her name is Blodau, and blessed was she
By Blédgifa: now grows a babe
within her womb. The woman wealh
and Eorling scop within a year
will share a healthy and handsome child.
‘Praise day at even,’ is often said
by men much wiser than youthful me.
But hope forever is often had
by those who seek it, and Sexwulf has
in early love for his unborn baby.
From me, I hope the babe will have,
if nothing else, a tuneful ear
and a handsome voice. I hope his woman
will give him much; her greatest gifts
among her many I mark as these:
her tenderness, her gentle touch,
her pretty eyes, her precious smile,
the bravery in her beating heart,
her curly hair, her keenest mind,
the hardiness of hill-women;
though hate and hurting harm her sore,
and wounds from her past to her present do wend,
she is sturdy built and bears them well.
The best of mothers will Blodau make.
If nothing else, this truth I know.
