The Dawn in Britain :: :: University of Virginia Library

They sit, in moot-hall, soon, round the high walls.
Tall be, long yellow-haired, these Duffreynt lords;
And shine, on all their necks, wreaths of red gold.
Each lord bears, in his hand, a silver cup;
And sits, by every one, his land's high druid.

Was king of fair Duffreynt, before Duneda,
Stout Kamloc; who, (his father's son,) in fight,
Fell slain, what day Silures, enemies,
Harried, to Isca walls! Not bearded, yet,
Duneda, riding in the royal chariot,
Covered him, with his body, as with a targe.
Wounded, to death, fell Kamloc, from his war-cart
Duneda leapt down, on the bloody grass,

With furious spear and glaive, great slaughter made;
And heaped, with slain chief foes, his brother dead.

Duneda hath no son, his brother's sons,
Are the king's heirs. His daughter, he espoused,
To the elder, Morag, come to manly years.
But Mormael, younger, that was nobler born,
Unto their father's royal seat, aspired.

Perfumed, unprofitable, the young prince,
Like as a gilded bowstring unto war;
Mormael enflamed, one eve, among his peers,
With treacherous mead, cried Tanist, truculent!
He would be, in spite were even of the gods.
Word which doth sound, (in speech of these West Britons,)
A king's companion; that, under him, hath
Power of the sword, and word of the king's mouth:
And should succeed, hereafter, to his room.
Heard gods, offended; and decreed his death!
And was that night the eve of the New Year.

Lo, in to-morrow's pomp, he foremost rides;
Which conveys Aesgar, chief Dumnonian druid,
To that cave's mouth, where, yearly, like one dead,
He, lapped in a beast's hide, mote enter in,
Offering himself his nation's sacrifice,
To die, before their god: whilst all the folk

Cry out, Another it might please the god!
Then, suddenly, all years, was wont some one decease.

But Mormael's startling steed, at that great voice,
Was taken with fury; and were it heaven's wrath,
Which him oppressed, there durst no man approach;
Nor his high kin, to save the prince's life:
(For Morag was, that moon, in Verulamion,
Which, for his germain, would his life have given;)
Whose steed is on him fallen. All bruised to death,
Fool-hardy Mormael lies! Whilst stood still Britons,
Amazed; was Kamloc's son laid, of priests, druids,
Yet warm, in that year's grave, already made!

Duneda called then Morag, from Caer Verulam;
Where he, in court of king Cunobelin,
Learns noble thews and martial discipline.
King of the royal tribe of Catuvelaunians,
Now is Cunobelin named, the Lord of Britain;
As, whilom, was his grandsire Cassiobellan:
And, lately, when, to Cæsar, sent Cunobelin,
An embassage; went stout Morag, with his son,
Prince Togodumnos, unto sovereign Rome;
For friendship was twixt the young noble men.