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

It fortuned, that same tide; from Cæsar's palace,
With torches' light, a litter is borne forth,
Of purpled servants of the imperial house:
And they returning, from the lady Octavia,
Which daughter is to Claudius, yet a child;
The daughter, Embla, of Briton Dumnoveros,
Should convey home. Their wont, is daily, thus,
To meet: for the young noble virgins, both,
Are entire friends. And, with the damsel, is
Her Briton nurse. Now, in a neighbour street,
Were risen, from supper, riotous young lords;
That full of wine and surfeit, with great cries,
And ribald song, their wilful way gan hold.

These meet, at a cross-street, with Cæsar's servants;

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With whom they, by their torches' reeking light,
Espy veiled women; one, of excellent beauty,
Borne in her litter. Look, then, ruckling, cries
One of the revellers; these Minerva bear;
Out of her temple, have they stolen her!
Or, Herc'les! fellows, gracious Venus is,
Goddess of women's laughter and love's mirth.
Unbuckle slaves! Set down, ye robber knaves,
Undo this curtained casket. Any Roman,
May temple-breakers slay, his fellow cries;
And he those bearers smote. What thing, is this?
Or here is living maid, or virgin goddess;
Yet virgin wot not I, wot only Jove.
I, therefore, I; since both are Wots, am Jove!
But what pernicious thing, thou old Leandugs,
With whimpled leer, art, that, like ambling jade,
Upon three legs, before thy goddess, goes?
Fellows, since all, (he cries,) we cannot have her,
Cast lots, now! Then he laid, who foremost was,
His ribald hand, upon the virgin's litter.

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They stagger, lo, together, and contend,
See her veiled beauty. Trembles Embla; is nigh
None to deliver, in her sore distress.
Gin beat those, which resist them, Cæsar's servants!
Small reck they of Claudius, in their drunken mood.
Shrill calls the nurse, then, on her Britain gods,
Red Taran, Belisama, and Camulus!

The Britain woman's cries happed Caradoc hear.
He snatched the staff of Kevin, old lame lord,
And ran, fleet-foot, among them, in a moment;
Where few and heartless slaves make weak defence;
Men which have half their souls and manhood lost.
The cause perceived, anon; prince Caradoc
Vowed to Mars Camulus, battle-god, an horse.
Hath stiff and mighty brawns the Verulam prince;
Who on those Romans, falls, with Britain oak.

They then descry him, in that flickering light,
(Who goodliest man, long-haired Caratacus,
Mongst the bracati, strangers, now in Rome,)
And call him Briton hound, whom will they beat;
Aye, and slay him, if he bite. And swear great oaths,
Those revellers, they would bear away the women,
For that withholden tribute. What, by Fidius!

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Hath not more wives, a man, than one, in Britain,
Or twain, or ten? or else lied godded Julius.

Why should this, with the wooden glaive, them envy;
An only Briton maid, among them all.
Nor this the rightful heir is, but Adminius,
Of him, who called is, lord, or king, of Britain;
Adminius, that come, drunken, in our Senate,
Was hailed, Friend and Confederate of the Romans!
Unto whom all lordship should revert of Britain,
To be established, by the Roman arms:
Who promised, seized of Britain's diadem,
To send his brethren, hostages, to great Rome.

Another cries, Is not this oak-staff youth
The same, of whom decreed was, in our Senate,
He void the City of Rome, in few days' space?
Jove Father! Romulus' seven hills, to-night,
Shall Oak-staff quit, leaving, Ædepol! his corse.
Have at him! fellows, play we now mad druids.

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Bind we this calf; and, sith, with rusty knife,
(Call we it golden sickle,) carve his throat:
It shall be a game, (me Hecate!) now, to see,
Like some night-crow, breeched Briton ghost flit forth!
Venus! or will this slay us all, to-night!

Ware lord! (in Britons' tongue,) shrieked that old wife,
Their secret steel! She seen had treacherous gleam,
Flash from their bosoms. Turned Caratacus,
And a young Roman smote, smote on the pan.
(He whom Caradoc smites, shall not soon speak again!
Dead-slain, such lies, or else a broken man.)

Two, felled, lie without motion, on the stones.
Then he, assembling all his matchless force,
Against the remnant, goes. So cometh lord Iddon,
Old man of war. He caught a torch, lets drive,
At one who steals, (and heavy is his hand,
Stern witty hands, to handle nigh and sore!)
Behind his neck, to stab Caratacus.
In that, to Britons' gods, he breathed his prayer;
That might, to his shrunk limbs, one little hour,
Return their antique pith: as when his spear,
Made of a trusty tree, (in Gaul, that war

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Was; he to horse,) bore through stout Roman captain;
Whose harness he, in Hesus' grove, uphanged.
Heard that grim god; new strength, in him, infused,
Immortal! Iddon falls on murderous Romans,
With shout, that seemed, in Rome, of barbare armies.
They scatter, from him, fast. Prince Caradoc,
From lewd profaning Roman hands; in this,
That noble Briton virgin hath released.

Many, from solers dark, of neighbour houses,
Are crying to the watch! Now the night round
Approaches; hark, with heavy hasting tread!
And, from the nigh wine-taverns, come men forth.
Unto whom, cry mockers, from above; Is Brennus,
(Because were torches fallen, at their stairs,)
That kindles, with his Gauls, again, proud Rome.

Who fight, then cease. Would, sobered, those young lords,
Take up their fallen ones; and 'scape through the watch.
Departed, from them, is the heat of wine:
But the street's end, the round, with chains, have shut.
There are they taken. The watch, Caratacus,

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Find standing over some new-fallen young Roman;
Rolling, like a roused lion, his angry eyes.

He bleeds! They know him, in whose other hand,
A bloody staff, is prince Caratacus.
But who this one, seems dead, on the cold stones?
Are these slaves Cæsar's! those, young Senators!
And, in yond porch, were found the trembling women;
Saved from this litter, here, lies overthrown!
Is Iddon, with fierce looks, which them defends.

The rest they hale then, slaves, with torches spent,
From shadows, forth. Who captain of the watch,
Discerns them all, with lanterns: their device
And livery is Cæsar's; and this litter Cæsar's!
And he, among, enquires, with an hoarse voice;
And bending-to their lights, men of his guard;
What be these fallen, and why this one lies dead?
And lies that other, wounded, without speech;
Both plainly, and by their weed, of noble house.

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Some other revellers sought, where, in foul place,
To hide them; but, on them, is laid arrest.
Sustain, commands the captain, who have wounds:
Some bear the dead; the rest bring on, to ward.

But, for all this, is none injurious hand,
Laid on Caratacus, Britannic legate;
Whose person sacred is, by Roman laws.
Only that officer bids him, to beware
Of kindred of the slain. Some, his armed men,
This sends, with lanterns, ward the damsel home.

Caradoc and Briton lords, with Embla, who sighs,
What, for past fear, and to have seen men's deaths;
Follow to house of Cantion Dumnoveros.
There giveth now, softly, thanks the royal maid;
Her voice like flute, for sweetness, when she bids,
Come to her doors, the prince Caratacus,
Goodnight! And would have parted the prince thus;
Because was foe her father, Dumnoveros,
To king Cunobelin, called the Sire of Britain.

But that old lord, misgiving him his heart;
For so long tarries Embla, issued forth,
Was; and in shadow, waits her, of his porch:
Unto every sound, he bends his listful ears;
For this is Rome, and all, in Rome, he fears!

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Unto whom, then, hieing, on her aged feet;
Begins, from point to point, with panting breath,
The nurse, as yet dismayed, thing happed to-night,
Rehearse. That old, this young lord, saved her lady.
Britons both, by their speech; and seem some lords,
In far-off Rome. But Embla spake, anon;
Father, is this the prince Caratacus,
Unto whom we owe, for our saved lives, all thanks!

His right hand, to Cunobelin's son, advanced,
(Alwere he a little loath,) then, Dumnoveros.
Right courteously, it take those lords, again,
Of noble Verulamion. Dumnoveros
So brings them, through his porch, into his hall.

There sit they on Roman stately thrones; and sees
Prince Caradoc, son unto the Lord of Britain,
Embla, unveiled, like daughter of the sun:
When she, yet trembling, for the fear forepast,
Cast about her sire's neck, her virgin arms.
Seemed then, to rain down, from the maiden's neck,
Like to sun's summer beams, her golden hairs;
Part glistering yet, what, for the late distress,
With teary droppéd dews of her clear eyes;
That, weeping, shine, as the blue gulf of heaven.
For dread, is, somedeal, cruddled, in her cheeks,

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The maiden rud, like roses, ivory white;
Whilst, hark, the message of her virgin spirit,
She óf those twinnéd coral lips, sends forth!
(Which hedged round, as with clear pearls of Isle Britain,)
Like silver descant upon harp of bards!

And Embla sees; and wist not, that she loves,
Her godlike saviour, of an hostile house.
Yet feels she jeopardy, would her gentle life;
And might she save thee prince Caratacus!
Now and she, alone, perceives, such eyes hath love;
How hidden hurt, under his cloak, he hath.

Cries Embla, hastily, anon; Bring hither nurse,
The pots of salve, in store, with linen fine,
And sponge and ewer! Albe the roses flush,
Of maiden modesty, up, in her cheeks;
Frank and courageous, she, approached the prince,
Him made to sit down, in her father's stall.
And on his flesh feels Caradoc her pure breath,
She kneeling him beside, from maiden breast;
Sweet as, in spring mead, is the mower's swathe.
And whilst the virgin's hands him wash and bind,
The Briton prince wox joyous of his wound!

Bade, with new solemn thanks, good Dumnoveros,
Those lords come oft, and prince Caratacus.

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Of former variance, will they naught record;
But only of sweetness of their foster-soil.
Be not all Britons, kindred, in great Rome?
But taking, soon, his leave; Caratacus,
Joyous, in his heart's sadness, thence outwends;
To wot, if yet awakens sick Adminius.

Approaching; comes, then, to their careful ears
Sound of lament, shrill outcries, in the house;
Plaint of the woman-thrall, which was his wife:
And, in that point, some great man's retinue,
Arriving, stands, with torches, at the porch.
It is, they hear, the Senator Hostilius,
Whose sire was hospes of old Tasciovant.
To him, gives answer, one of the house-servants,
The Lord of Britain's son, now passed from life!
Who, dying, called them, in his last access;
As he, of weight, had somewhat to impart.

They hear, in his sick frenzy, yelled Adminius,
Of snake-haired furies, in hell-wain, pursuing
His soul, with scourges, down to murk abysm.
He mad, then, ere there any might withhold him
Raught knife, which lay hid, under his bed's head,
(As all his life was base and treacherous!)
And did, with eyes aflame, riving his breast,

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Fordo himself; and so, uttering thick curse,
Died presently. Low, lies Adminius' corse,
Dreadful to look on, bloody, on the face;
Fallen from the bed, where his last throes him cast.

To the death-chamber, mounts Caratacus.
He looks with heavy cheer, on dead Adminius;
And those lords with him! And they, sith, cut off;
As he, the dead, had promised, his long locks.

There, left the Roman Senator Hostilius,
Caradoc turns, sad, to hall of Dumnoveros.
Then take they counsel, far into the night,
With that good sire. In fine, concluded was;
When have they quenched Adminius' funeral flame,
And gathered were his ashes, in an urn;
That all, in some disguise, should part from Rome.
They hear then, hath Hostilius lodged request,
That were just funerals made for dead Adminius,
Tomorrow-even, at the public cost;
For cause he was Confederate named of Romans.

God of Thunder.

Goddess, with attributes of Minerva.

God, with attributes of Mars.