 | The Dawn in Britain |  |
Dawing new morn, on plain of the day's god,
Measure new lists the heralds, oak-leaf crowned,
And that, by new-made grave of Gaulish Divicos.
Nine young men stand, lo, Britons of stout looks,
Gainst nine that rest of Roman harnessed soldiers.
Then silence made; warlord Cunobelin,
Through his interpreter, (an exile from Gaul,)
Those Romans bade, require what grace they will,
Towards their deaths. Promised the sire, moreover,
Who should 'scape with his life, might freely pass
O'er, to the Continent, in some Gaulish ship,
With safeguard and with gifts. Naught, of their enemies,
Ask Roman soldiers; but it were, to taste
Some little meat. Eating, each exhorts other;
Quit them like Romans! One, who best could speak,
Quoth, Fear we not this nation's barbare face;
Nor the dread shout of hostile multitude.
Bellona and mighty Mars, guardians of Rome,
And divine Julius; (if to any gods,
May come our prayer, from this far island coast,)
Favour our arms. In vertue and martial skill,
We our foes, and Roman fortitude, excell.
Fellows, though few, yet enranged, foot to foot,
And helm to helm, with shout, first rushing on,
Hurl we our darts: then, take we to our glaives.
Measure new lists the heralds, oak-leaf crowned,
And that, by new-made grave of Gaulish Divicos.
Nine young men stand, lo, Britons of stout looks,
Gainst nine that rest of Roman harnessed soldiers.
Then silence made; warlord Cunobelin,
Through his interpreter, (an exile from Gaul,)
Those Romans bade, require what grace they will,
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Who should 'scape with his life, might freely pass
O'er, to the Continent, in some Gaulish ship,
With safeguard and with gifts. Naught, of their enemies,
Ask Roman soldiers; but it were, to taste
Some little meat. Eating, each exhorts other;
Quit them like Romans! One, who best could speak,
Quoth, Fear we not this nation's barbare face;
Nor the dread shout of hostile multitude.
Bellona and mighty Mars, guardians of Rome,
And divine Julius; (if to any gods,
May come our prayer, from this far island coast,)
Favour our arms. In vertue and martial skill,
We our foes, and Roman fortitude, excell.
Fellows, though few, yet enranged, foot to foot,
And helm to helm, with shout, first rushing on,
Hurl we our darts: then, take we to our glaives.
Lo, long-haired, naked striplings, without harness!
That, woad-stained now shall fight, gainst plate-clad soldiers:
As poplars should contend, with stedfast oaks.
Britons, above, sit on the green grave-mounds,
In rows, around. Cunobelin gave, then, sign,
Smiting his hands, together! On both parts,
Who fight, with dreadful counter-yells, outrush!
That, woad-stained now shall fight, gainst plate-clad soldiers:
As poplars should contend, with stedfast oaks.
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In rows, around. Cunobelin gave, then, sign,
Smiting his hands, together! On both parts,
Who fight, with dreadful counter-yells, outrush!
Those, which in ordinance are of legionaries,
Erst thrill, with darts, the Britons' bulls'-hide shields,
Distempered of the rain. Ah, fallen four Britons!
There fall three, with them, slain, of plate-clad Romans!
And leans one on his targe, is hurt to death.
Lifted, lo, hand, to slay him, with broad glaive!
Erst thrill, with darts, the Britons' bulls'-hide shields,
Distempered of the rain. Ah, fallen four Britons!
There fall three, with them, slain, of plate-clad Romans!
And leans one on his targe, is hurt to death.
Lifted, lo, hand, to slay him, with broad glaive!
But, in that moment, (a vast thunder roars!)
Sky-rending Taran, then, a quivering lightning,
Athwart men's eyelids, darted to the ground.
At druids' new cry, his royal hand, uplifted
The white-locked sire. Their sceptre-rods cast heralds,
As yester, then, betwixt that strife of champions.
Quoth Belin's priest, That god, whose glaive the lightning,
Is angry in heaven; and wills this battle cease.
On him, who reels, of Romans, with death's wound,
(As sacred to the gods of underworld,)
A mad priest seizing, slays, with altar-knife.
Druids make divination, by his fall!
Sky-rending Taran, then, a quivering lightning,
Athwart men's eyelids, darted to the ground.
At druids' new cry, his royal hand, uplifted
The white-locked sire. Their sceptre-rods cast heralds,
As yester, then, betwixt that strife of champions.
Quoth Belin's priest, That god, whose glaive the lightning,
Is angry in heaven; and wills this battle cease.
On him, who reels, of Romans, with death's wound,
(As sacred to the gods of underworld,)
A mad priest seizing, slays, with altar-knife.
Druids make divination, by his fall!
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Priests bury, where they fell, the Romans slain,
Laid, on their breasts, great stones; lest they should rise,
To trouble Britain. Lay, in chambered mound,
A mourning people, without wailing cries,
(Old royal tomb,) their woad-stained glorious dead.
Laid, on their breasts, great stones; lest they should rise,
To trouble Britain. Lay, in chambered mound,
A mourning people, without wailing cries,
(Old royal tomb,) their woad-stained glorious dead.
Wreathed collars gives Cunobelin, of red gold,
To those five Briton champions, which survive:
Gives freedom, to that remnant of proud Romans;
Gold rings and money coined, wealth of Isle Britain.
And, for an angry nation them enclose;
(Till found were mean, to save them to mainland;)
The king, lest any slay them, gives them guard.
To those five Briton champions, which survive:
Gives freedom, to that remnant of proud Romans;
Gold rings and money coined, wealth of Isle Britain.
And, for an angry nation them enclose;
(Till found were mean, to save them to mainland;)
The king, lest any slay them, gives them guard.
| The Dawn in Britain | |