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

With easy and slow pace, the brethren wend,
For follow, feeble-kneed, the holy women.
With the king's spears, prince Kowain softly rides,
Before them. Comes then to the Syrians' ears,
In the night air, grave din of gentile rites:
Druids keep, nightlong, bloody sacrifices!
They cover their pale faces, as they fare.
With bending knees, is sorrow in their souls;
That any should be lost, for whom died Christ!

Day dawning, at poor stead, now, they arrive,
Of husbandmen, whose these round, wattled, bowers;
Strange in the Syrians' eyes! a royal grange:
Where barn of beams and reeds and cattle-byres.
Are thrall-folk those, saith Kowain, of Duneda.
Fierce Briton hounds are meek, when they approach.
That barn they enter, by an upper floor;
Whereto, upon a bank, ben wains updriven.
There come Duneda's thralls, to salute Kowain.

The Syrians sit down, weary, amongst heaped halm.
Poor bondwives bring, new-baken, to them soon,
Loaves, of their barley-grist; smooth morrow's milk,
Butter, and honey-combs, of the king's hives;

That seen are, many rows, in this poor place,
Which for purveyance of the royal mead.
Till afternoon, they rest: sith, that poor folk
Bring in their sick ones; for those understood,
Now, of the men-at-arms, the strangers have
A power to save. On them all, Joseph lays,
His healing hands! Plough-oxen stand without,
Yoked unto two light wains. Lo, this one, dight
Is, for the women: that shall bear their stuff;
And corn, in sacks, behold Duneda's gift!
Which may suffice them, till some mean might find
The king, to send those shipwrecked to mainland.

And being now ready, part the men of prayer,
Thence, forth, with blessing of those Britons poor;
To whose gross ears, not come was Aesgar's curse.
They journey, in a fair coast, as Libanus;
By clear brooks, coombs, fresh cowslip lawns, blue woods;
Where bowering, under brier, pale primrose blows.

Late now is eventide, in Utmost Britain.
How shrills the lark aloft, in lightsome heaven!
What hour were longwhile fallen, in winter season,
Night-murk, on these sheen fields: yet amorous chant,
Of merle, sounds, from yond twilight underwoods!
Fades, the day, dies: seems then to mourn the ground,

In dusky weed. Weary, wayfaring, thus,
Chanting their temple-songs, the Syrian brethren;
To place inhabited, come, another grange;
Stedding of poor herdfolk, Duneda's servants.
They in hall of wattled boughs and crooked studs,
Enter; where bondwives roll the rumbling millstones.
These pause, then, rise up, to serve the king's guests:
Sith, set before them pulse and milk-meat. Sup
The saints, remembering Christ; and so they rest:
But wolves howl, nightlong, dreary, round that place.

With the new sun, uprisen, they drink smooth bowls,
Of morrow's milk; so, on their journey, pass.
They were not gone forth, on the dewy bent,
A mile, when word comes shouted back, to Kowain!
Man's poll, (by the hair, ah, horrid sight, he it holds!)
Hath one now founden of his men-at-arms:
Who it casts, then, loathing, to the young lord's feet!
And all men know, that gory grinning face,
That it was Llys! Come running, from nigh knoll,
Men herding flocks, to see this sight, and tell
Thing they had seen: even now, rent his lewd corse,
In pieces, on the field, when they led forth;
Nor gnawed had wolves, at all, his carrion flesh.
Yester, they saw this wight, alive, that passed.
He came and drank of their ewes' milk and quoth;

He sought to kill some enemies of the gods.
The madman bare a great skean, in his belt!
Night fallen, some wretch ran, yelling, by their lodge;
Whom howling scour of wolves, coursed in full chace.
Then, outran all the hinds, with bats and hounds;
Yet might they not that wild hunt overtake,
Nor fray the bloody wolves, with yelling voice.

Llys, when he heard those shipwrecked went safe forth,
On whom was that crude ban of Aesgar loost;
Waxed mad, outfared with great snatcht shambles' knife.
From stead, he stalked, to stead, from grange, to cote;
Asking, eachwhere, had men seen, in their path,
Such outlaws? whom might any, finding, kill!
Marked well their wheels' tract, Llys, to slay them, cast,
At unawares; and the innocent oppress!
His mind was, steal upon them, this last night;
When slumbering the king's guard. But the Eye sleeps not
In heaven, which is above the starry night!

And yet they fare, three days, in upland Britain,
With Amathon's son, and the king's guard of spears;
Shunning, for that ban's curse, all village-steads.

Are cragged these green bents; where their wains, oft,
Might hardly pass. Seem the wide-shining heavens,
Vast golden womb; whose infinite breast low earth;
Where Spring-time's medléd nation is brought forth.
How shining be these lawns, with blissful flowers,
Gladdening their hearts. They view, gainst afternoon,
Mendip; whereunder misty wilderness.

Deep way and foul, before them, lies, henceforth;
Where golden king-cups blow, and marish lilies.
How, to the Syrians' eyes, yond sallows, dim,
Seem olive yards! Shows them, then, Amathon's son,
Broad-gleaming far-off mere, and holms of Avalon!
Towards eve, they come to bourn-stones in the fen;
Whereat, with Kowain, all depose their arms.
They leave the wains there, also, under guard:
Strange smell their nostrils smites, of peaty reek!
When they ascend, unto the outlaws' hill.

Of halm-thatched wattle cabans, lo, poor street;
Echoes to the saints' tread! Few wildered wights,
With rusty glibs, men careless of their good;
As who their hope have, in this deadly place,
Lost, look forth at low doors; and fugitives,
Under blood-ban, are many from their tribes.

There some, in mire and slough, come, barefoot, forth;

That view, with wondering looks, the strangers pass,
Whom sends Duneda, lord of their poor lives.
So all they wend, to the poor outlaws' hall,
Of clay-cast wattle work, and daubed with lime,
On ground-wall of green sods: where-midst, burns hearth,
Of fenny reeking turves; which squalid wights,
With hollow looks, on peaten stools, sit round.
These all, uprisen, about him, greet prince Kowain,
And some, straw down fresh rushes, for the guests.
Behold, with Kowain, sit, mongst outlaws poor,
Those men of prayer. The Syrian brethren muse,
To see so many of them, with trembling joints!
Whom racks a daily fever of the fen.

With murmur, as of famisht hounds, those watch
The barley-cakes, which gin prince Kowain's men,
Out of their wallets, hungry, take and eat!
Sith, being those given some of their bread and flesh;
Did gnaw even on the bones. Then sends back Kowain,
Unto the wains, bring in the strangers' stuff.

He in Duneda's name, the shipwrecked strangers,
To this poor folk commending, the king's word,
Leaves said, for Hyn, (who, Avalon's magistrate,
To-day was ferried, in the rushy lake,

Unto another holm;) to entertain
These, as becomes his guests; and measure land,
For them, in the king's field; and seemly bowers,
There, build them. Kowain risen, then, takes his leave.

To the caterfs, he must, before him marched,
Towards Severn, ride with speed. His part it is,
Standing in king Duneda's battle-chariot,
To bear his targe, before the royal breast.
To Alban brow, the saints now bring him forth:
Where, parting, Amathon's son, of wonder-working
Joseph's healing God, a blessing asks;
Of Whom they much had communed, in their path.

Uncheerful fenny damps, sink on their sense;
When they ascend, again, to Alban's hill;
And wend back, lonely, to the outlaws' hall:
Yet not alone, for, in their midst, is Christ!
Where come again; they, with the holy women,
The lady Keina, (veiled in long white stole,)
Find; priestess she of Brigida, light-faced goddess;
That daughter of all-seeing sun, is named.
And as wide-shines the sun, on all the earth;
Strangers, at Brigida's ever-burning hearth,
Are guests; which, three days, there, may eat and rest.
And reverence Keina this poor Alban folk.

Sith, brought-in Keina, waterhens' wild eggs,
And flummery and fish, the best of their poor diet;
Them sets before the saints. The holy women,
Moreo'er, bids Keina, to continue, with her,
Till day when builded were their bowers and house.

To those poor outlaws, which, before them, sit;
Through Pistos' mouth, speak words of life and peace,
The brethren: and how from a far-off coast,
To Duffreynt, they arrived, in broken ship.
Upspake then one, whose polled head fugitive
Him shows, saying, These were they which healed our wounds;
And when we 'scaped, opened our prison doors,
In wonder-wise, man like the stranger Joseph!

Was he of the war-captives, which thus speaks,
Keth, yet, with fading woad, his warlike face,
Stained. Keth tells, briefly; from the falling stream,
They, gone to shore, them hid, all that day's sun,
In a sea-cave. They, sith, raught Moridunion;
Where Durotriges' king, stout Golam, dwells;
Friend to Duneda: of whom, they being afraid,
Before the dayspring, entered in the house,
Of certain chapman, that, for hides and wool,
And beasts, wont traffic to Silures' coasts:

And, this foreyear, had one of theirs him saved;
Tempting, in storm, a freshet stream to pass.
Wherefore the man them hid, under neats' hides,
And fleeces, there, two days. He night-time, sith,
By twos and threes, had, privily, sent them forth.

Then they, like wild boars, wallowed in a fen;
Whence, ochre-dyed, them knew not any man.
By hill-side, moor and forest, went they on,
Till light of day. Sith parted, in three bands,
By only night, they passed, through places waste.
Last, all they reached, with hard and evil hap,
Through Durotriges' wilds, to craggéd cave,
Which in high Mendip; whereas, other days,
Like wolves, they lived, by nightly stealth of flocks.

One morn, night to sea-coast, they descried ship;
Them seemed, much like some pirate-keel of Erinn.
They saw men row, to land: and drawn, sith, up,
Their vessel, an armed folk ascend from strand.
Then hoping, we, quoth Keth, to save us home,
By sea, fell on their ship's guard, from nigh wood;
With stones and staves, and slew them: but in fight,
With those, there fell two, by their arrows, slain,

Of ours: and I, third, thrilled of hurled iron spear,
Was left, for dead, fallen, bleeding, on that shore.
The rest, (which, hastily had launched, and climbed aboard;
And hoised-up leathern sail,) bare forth the wind.
Which seen, came again running, to that strand,
The pirate sea-folk: one of whom me smote,
With cudgyl, out of sense. Waked, in night cold,
From swoon, I, in bleak moonshine, saw no man.
Training, in hostile land, these limbs, the third
Day, I, little lack of dead, raught Sacred Alban!
Keth, touched then Joseph's healing hands, besought,
He would assuage this his much rankling smart.

Loud named the name of Jesus, Joseph said,
In looking up to heaven, Be whole! and was
Healed the man's sore. Then cried out some poor Briton;
The gods be come, in our days, unto Alban!

Dawing new morn, this people's magistrate,
From making circuit in the rushy lake,
Comes, in a bascad boat; which, on his back,
To door, Hyn dripping bears, of their moot-hall.
He, erst, cast, towards the brethren, troubled looks;
Strangers and shipwrecked, from far unkenned coast!
But heard the words of Kowain, he salutes
Them, come from king Duneda: and Hyn assigns
Them, daily rate of fish, out of the lake.

Come morrow's day; Hyn, through the holm of Avalon,
Gathers young men; which bowers should frame, and hall,
For those strange guests. Made even, then, a fair plot,
In the king's orchard; they, in circuit, pight
Lopped alder studs; whereon, with osier-wands,
They weave round bowers; and tress, as Britons use,
A seemly hall: conducted to man's height,
They raise, and underprop, the hollow thatch;
And, with thick sedges, bind; and sith clay-cast
The house. Now, towards his setting, the sixth sun,
Before the Sabbath rest; the Syrian brethren
Enter unto their own, and God give thanks:
And that loud temple-chant, in stranger tongue,
The outlaws throng to hear, which they intone.

Conversing thus the saints, in fenny Alban,
They give themselves, to learn the Britons' tongue.
The holy women labour, weaving wool,
Prepare them winter cloth. To priestess Keina,
At her much bidding, Syrian country skill,
They teach; gainst winter, (which, here, rude and waste,
Wherein this people faint,) press curded milk,
To cheese; and cure their marish fish, with salt.

Is there a water-hamlet, in the lake,
Like to an holm; but laid, (the guise of Erinn,)
On thick pile-work. Their fathers, in old days,
Came hither, from o'er seas, in wattle-barks;
Led by their bards; guests of the Alban gods.
But when, no soil, to them, for seat, was given;
Those, (taught, is fame, of beavers in the fen,)
Hewed sallows; and, with mauls, their sharp pilebeams,
Beat, in a shoaling ooze, by the mere's side:
Whereon, they timbered, of the shining reeds,
(And did clay-cast within,) round fisher-bowers.

In their hands, is a dyers' art of Erinn,
In line and wool. They mingle the swart hews,
Of alder rind, the yellow, of sambuc berries;
The ruddy, of crottle-moss. Howbeit, most set,

In music's sacred skill, is their delight;
To weave the trembling chords of Erinn's crowth.

Probably now Seaton, in Devon.