 | The Dawn in Britain |  |
At tiding of the death of king Cunobelin,
The sire Manannan was repaired to Britain,
Man half-divine; and whom, had lent the gods,
Unto the world. Dim Mona, of sire Manannan,
Is foster-soil; but now his wont is dwell,
In winter season, at Caer Verulam,
With king Cunobelin, called the Sire of Britain.
There stands, at ford of Ver, by the wayside,
Timbered of lime and stone, his goodly house,
Great-built, as a king's court; for the receipt
Of poor and strangers: and therein he hath,
Uphanged, his golden hauberk, far-renowned;
That tooth of bronze, nor bit of steel, may pierce.
The sire Manannan was repaired to Britain,
Man half-divine; and whom, had lent the gods,
Unto the world. Dim Mona, of sire Manannan,
Is foster-soil; but now his wont is dwell,
In winter season, at Caer Verulam,
With king Cunobelin, called the Sire of Britain.
There stands, at ford of Ver, by the wayside,
Timbered of lime and stone, his goodly house,
Great-built, as a king's court; for the receipt
Of poor and strangers: and therein he hath,
Uphanged, his golden hauberk, far-renowned;
That tooth of bronze, nor bit of steel, may pierce.
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Master of traffic, was his honoured place,
In the king's hall, next to Cunobelin's seat.
And asked the king, in every cause of weight,
His sentence, first, were it of war or peace,
Before the princes of his royal house:
And reverence him all Britons, as a god.
Grey are his eyes, like the steep winter waves,
And like the snow, on Eryr's top, his hairs.
And whilst, the island kings his read observe,
O'er Britons, may prevail none enemies.
In the king's hall, next to Cunobelin's seat.
And asked the king, in every cause of weight,
His sentence, first, were it of war or peace,
Before the princes of his royal house:
And reverence him all Britons, as a god.
Grey are his eyes, like the steep winter waves,
And like the snow, on Eryr's top, his hairs.
And whilst, the island kings his read observe,
O'er Britons, may prevail none enemies.
His thought, like Belin's wheel, runs through the world.
Far marts he knows and paths, of merchandise,
In many realms; and nations' tongues and laws;
And reason of men's hearts, hope, truth and malice;
And his sea-way, to steer, by the lode-stars.
And in the heavens' vicissitudes, if the sire,
Fell in some peril, or of thieves or robbers,
His wisdom him delivered, with small loss.
Far marts he knows and paths, of merchandise,
In many realms; and nations' tongues and laws;
And reason of men's hearts, hope, truth and malice;
And his sea-way, to steer, by the lode-stars.
And in the heavens' vicissitudes, if the sire,
Fell in some peril, or of thieves or robbers,
His wisdom him delivered, with small loss.
To nations, was Manannan wont to trade,
Far off, whose name comes seldom to men's ears;
To inhuman seats of Scythia, the cold,
Wain-dwellers, and milk-nourished of their mares;
Where twilight all by day: and to a Land
Of women-warriors, drawing crooked bows.
And reached, by sea, he was, to strange Phœnice,
(Cities, mongst palms, which stand, on furthest shore,
Full of their ships, of that blue Midland Deep;)
For merchandise of purple cloth and glass.
So had Manannan gotten substance, more
Than the most kings; which now, with both his hands,
He enlarges, to this people, as his heirs;
For hath the sire, and he is old, no sons.
His long-keel, wide-renowned, is the Red-Mare,
Swift as grey running wave, in the North wind;
Whose flight might match a chariot's course, in shore.
This then, with his bond-servants, he outsends;
To gather tidings, by the windy seas.
Far off, whose name comes seldom to men's ears;
To inhuman seats of Scythia, the cold,
Wain-dwellers, and milk-nourished of their mares;
Where twilight all by day: and to a Land
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And reached, by sea, he was, to strange Phœnice,
(Cities, mongst palms, which stand, on furthest shore,
Full of their ships, of that blue Midland Deep;)
For merchandise of purple cloth and glass.
So had Manannan gotten substance, more
Than the most kings; which now, with both his hands,
He enlarges, to this people, as his heirs;
For hath the sire, and he is old, no sons.
His long-keel, wide-renowned, is the Red-Mare,
Swift as grey running wave, in the North wind;
Whose flight might match a chariot's course, in shore.
This then, with his bond-servants, he outsends;
To gather tidings, by the windy seas.
| The Dawn in Britain | |