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

O if my temples were distain'd with wine,
And girt in girlonds of wilde yvie twine,
How could I reare the Muse on stately stage,
And teach her tread aloft in buskin fine,
With queint Bellona in her equipage!
Edmund Spenser. The Shepheards Calendar; October.

ARGUMENT

Britons' first battle with the Romans. Bodva, war-fury, incites Trugon, an archer, to shoot at Togodumnos. The warlord is wounded; Britons withdraw them to deep woods. The king's last behest and burial. The Britons' host remove, at sunrising. Caratacus, now arrived, is saluted Lord-of-war! Strife, among his captains. Britons send back, to bury their dead. Fugitives bring word, that Calleva was taken by the Romans!

Britons march. Caratacus communes, in the way, with his chief captains. Segontorix, that night, harries the Romans' castra. Aulus, at dawn, sends forth his legions. Vespasian is hardly saved, by his son, Titus. Aulus blows repair. Belerions now arrive, and the Silures and Demetans. The warlord, again, leads forth the Britons' army. Till noon, they expect battle. Then comes Thorolf, with his Almain bands! Story of the overthrow of Varus' legions.

Thorolf now proffers himself, to fight, singly, with chief captains of the Romans. Then Moelmabon's four sons fence the Almain ethling, with their strong warriors. Certain Roman Gauls, having Aulus' license, go forth, to chastise those insolent Almains. They are four hundred men; which array them, in four bands. They choose one Bassus their captain. Bassus is slain; and Merion and Ferriog, sons of Moelmabon, fall. Aulus now recalls those Roman Gauls. Waterers of Roman camp, are surprised and slain. Atrebats course again, by night, the legions' castra. At new day, legionaries clamour

to battle. Britons, enranged in arms, chant war-songs of bard Carvilios. The battle joined. Bodvocos is taken. Caratacus sends chariots, to fall on the hindward of the Romans. Aulus, again, sounds recall. Segontorix, a third time, (now with Camog and Morfran,) courses the legions' night-camps.

Nemeton stirs new strife, among the Britons' dukes. Segontorix, with his Atrebats, withdraw from king Caratacus. An ancient druid arrives, bearing grave word of Mona's oracle. Melyn, warrior-bard, sings of heroes dead. Britons, by night-time, pass over Thames. King Caradoc, now, divides his war-chariots into four courses. Ordovices, with their war-renowned king, Kynan, the Hammeraxe, arrive.

Aulus marches to the conquest of Corinium. Beichiad's chariots assail the marching legions. The Briton dune. Bodvocos, by command of Aulus, is set forth, in the sight of his citizens, which look from the wall. Caer Corinium is taken. In night-tempest, certain of Beichiad's charioteers entered, secretly, in the conquered town, fire the first houseeaves. Those assay, then, to save Bodvocos: but are met with, by the watch, and slain. King Bodvocos' head is impaled, in sight of all the Britons!

The three kings riding, in one royal chariot,
(For few eyes might discern king Togodumnos! )
Hurling, widewhere, swift javelins; bloody heaps,
Of breathless carcases, make to Camulus,
(Swart battle-god,) of Romans' foot and horse.
Covers, white powderous cloud, the slaughter-field;
Whence gleam of arms, like tongues of flame, is seen.
There fell a sudden rain then, from the gods:
Which glisters, in the sun, like golden hairs;
And earth upgave sweet savour of her sod,
Mingled with iron stink of sweat and blood.

But when, anew, the battle-plain appears,
Like to a star, shines, in the warlord's scythe-cart,
The brazen eagle of a Roman legion!
From chariot, which, like royal osprey, stooped,
Mongst Roman glaives, the warlord's hand had cleft
Arm that it bare, from shoulder; statured soldier,

Whom clothed a wolf's hide, over his bronze harness.
Wherefore that legion, every man, rush on,
With trump and cry of soldiers and centurions!
Like as would each one save, from death, his son;
Wherein, in vain, confused, long, shielded ranks,
(Still hoping to cut off that royal war-cart,)
They hurl. The king comes lightly, from them, forth,
His brethren him beside: is every dart,
Which issues from his hand, a Roman's death!

Was then, or envying new accord and league,
Mongst Britons wont, by factions, to be rent;
Or that, among the gods of strife, she was
Not called, to feast of their war-sacrifices;
Bodva, war-fury, like to hoodie crow,
Flagging her swart-sheen wings, accoasting low,
Flies, shooting out her neck, with serpent's eyes,
(Which make men mad, to pierce their adversaries,)
O'er bloody slaughter-field: and joying crakes
The fiend, to look on mortal miseries!

And she, now, breathed an hollow memory,
In vilain breast of wight of Troynovant;
Light archer, running with the Kentish chariots,
Concerning harm, false-deemed to have been done,
In days forepast of royal Tasciovant,

To the man's sire. That ancient, with last breath,
Bequeathed undying quarrel, to his son;
Whose son this Trugon. Trugon, to-day, loost,
In field, who valiant bowman, all his shafts;
Save one remaineth, in his arrows' case.
This curséd forkhead Bodva now drew forth:
And set it, dazing, Trugon, on his string.

Yet made the felon prayer to his war-god;
That only ít might glance, before the face
Of the three kings, then should his soul have rest.
But the hag her hands, unseen, put on his hands,
Which pluck the spended string up to his breast.
And yet his arm so quakes, for dread of gods
And men; that he the shaft but loosely shot!

Tumbles aloft, as tosst of windy gusts,
The arrow. It snatcht the feathered fiend, in flight,
And guides the bitter forkhead; which, ah! pierced
Hath, from the backward, nape of Togodumnos!
Then she her heinous burnished wings displayed;
And sought, from view of gods, herself to hide.

The fiend sith flits, like shadow, o'er much forest;
Till she arrives to dune, in far North March;
And outrage breathes, in froward woman's breast,
Bright Cartismandua, fell Brigantine queen;

Who, royal witch, with hell's presumptuous spirits,
Consorts, and scorns her warlike lord Venutios.

But seen that scathe! sigh, with ten thousand throats;
Blue Britons, like to barren Winter blast,
Which shakes snow, from her wings, in reeling pines'
Dark forest: or as shipmen when, in storm,
They see, go by the board, their lofty mast.
Rose, contrarywise, exulting cries of Romans!
Viewed the enemies' duke to fall; and, from his hands,
Issue the reins. Beat, on cart's crated brim,
His sacred head, alas. Amidst thick strife,
Stood still the Britons' hearts! Blue hands of warriors,
As nightmare them oppressed, forget to smite.

Leapt, from their thrones, beneath the foster-earth,
Heard great strange voice sound! in their dread abodes;
(Whose vaults are shaken of vast battle-tread,)
The gods of darkness. At prayer of all gods,
Drave Belin down his flaming wheels; and Taran
Covered the heavens, with clouds, like mourning weed.
Night falls, which parts the two contending armies.

Known was the stature of king Togodumnos,
To Trinobantine Trugon, which him smote;
Now cowering in thick bush, in wind and wet,
In the dim field. He dreadeth every sound!
His craven heart hears death, in every voice,
Of men far-off! He would, mongst thick-heaped corses,
He might be hid, from heaven's accusing light.

Last, by incitement, of his angry gods,
Unto whom he durst not look, who gapes, for dread,
Pluckt, from his archer's belt, bronze crooked knife,
He, (his grandsire's was,) his own judge, rove there-with,
His gorge! and Trugon fell back, gurgling blood;
Whence, in the steep air, flitted his vile ghost.
It seized sky-riding furies; and they bound,
On height, to wild wings of aye-rushing tempest.

Dion Cassius' Rom. Hist.

Father of king Cunobelin.

Withdrawn, now, on both parts, were the two armies.
Caterfs of Britons, weary, full of wounds,
As they that mourn, lodge, drooping, on wet earth;
Nor yet men kindle fires. Under oak-boughs,
In groves, they sit, about their lords and ensigns.

Behold the fainting sire borne, by them, forth!

Kneeling, upstayed, twixt Camog and Morfran;
Not fully quick he is, but yet in life.
Their loved lord, him, those erst impetuous steeds,
With battle-blood, as mavis' breast, their breasts
And haughty necks, fleckt; looking ofttime back,
Now, draw forth, in the dim grove, a soft pace.
The white-emailled, shrill, bronze-axed, warlord's scythe-cart,
Gore-blackened rolls: and hanged, lo, round the bilge,
Be off-hewed knolling bloody jowls of Romans!

Kings, captains, hastily gather of blue Britons,
To place, where halted now is the lord's chariot!
Under swart pine, shelter from mizzling rain;
His foster-brethren, gently, lo, depose,
Ah, dying, Togodumnos, from their arms!
Search the king's hurt, then, leeches of the druids.

Hark, speaks, with thin small voice, the passing sire,
Commanding his lords, lead, (and all give ear!)
At rising moon, the army, to main forest,
Where lodged, they should await king Caradoc;
Who cometh on, with main power, of all East March:
Till when, he chargeth, that were hid his death.
Bury him, where he shall decease, to-night.

He prays Cunobelin's gods; gone forth, his spirit
Might enter body of loved Caratacus!
Moreo'er the king forbids, were made inquest,
What Briton's shaft is cause now of his death;
(For, from the hindward, had been loost that shot.)
Then looking on them all, and known each one,
The martial king, with constant and mild face,
Pluckt forth the arrow; and his high hand, it brake!
All mourn, and seemed the divine night more dark;
When vomiting swart blood, the sire fell forth.
A cry, went up, The lord in Morag's arms,
Is now deceased! and hastily are brought brands.

When the lord's fosters saw, their lord is dead;
Those valorous cast them down; they wallow and howl!
On the wet mould, and all distain their harness.
Sith, doffed their helms, and drawn out long bright glaives,
They would have slain themselves: but withhold druids
Their hands, crying; Lives, in Caradoc, Togodumnos!

Kings, captains, lords, in twilight and the rain,
And straitness of the time, delve, with their spears,

Opening earth's womb, like midnight murderers!
They measure, by the dead lord, a wild grave.

His breastplate lords undight, and laid apart;
That golden belt their hands sith loosed, wherewith
He girded, warlord, was: and gazing on
Him, in death-sleep, they say; When shall be seen
Thy like, again, ah, martial Togodumnos!
With bowed head; like as father, for his son,
Gone down, ere-time, before him, to the tomb,
Mourns sire Manannan, for Cunobelin's son.
Then, stooping low, his marble front he kissed:
This do they all; and touch his mighty hand,
Now cold. Last, reverent, lifted the lord's corse,
In royal weed, all harnessed as he was,
Nor washed his sacred blood, kings lay in grave.

On the lord's breast, they laid, then, in dim grove,
That glorious conquered eagle of a legion!
(The ninth Hispaniensis;) and thereon,
The lord's dead mighty hands did Morag fold.

Sighed sire Manannan, who, in countenance, mongst
Those kings, one seems of the long-living gods.
Nor was there noble Briton, young or old;
But from his eyelids, all unwont to weep,
Stilled boiling drops, on Togodumnos' corse.

Spake druids; Like as the sun, this glory of Britain
Died; but doth rise, again, in Caradoc!

That shaft, (so bade the lord, before he passed,)
Manannan casts in, with averted face,
That none inquest were made, who loost the shot,
After his death. Nigh to the digged grave pit,
With the king's fosters, stand those royal steeds;
And drooping are their battle-stained white crests;
As they did weep, with men, his timeless death;
Whose plenteous hand them, of the purged white grain,
Wont daily feed; whose noble pastime was,
Combed their long manes, to stain them with warwoad,
And broider in oft tress; whose great loved voice,
Them, in the course, enflamed to utmost flight,
To draw, neath yoke-tree, silver-dight, his cart,
Before the most renowned swift-teamed war-chariots.

But seen the beacon-flames, of Caradoc's march,
Shine yet far-off; kings, at Manannan's voice,
With trembling hands, cast mould: and now they close
The warlord martial Togodumnos' grave!

O'ersmoothed that little mounded pit of earth,
Which holds the glory of great Cunobelin's house;

Princes blaze privy marks, on the nigh trees;
And number steps, to know again this place!
That might, when victory shall have given them gods,
In Roman war, here, his high funerals,
Set forth; be honoured, with great solemn feast.
Nathless dark dread encumbers those lords' breasts;
That, from this day, should fortune of the war,
Go backward. Brake then groan, from generous
Vast chest, shut up, within his iron harness,
Of stern Segontorix, and he cursed Vigantios!
Who, erst of Britons, fled before strange Romans.

Dukes, at moonrise, remove; and their caterfs,
That were unknown, trampled of many feet,
The mould, where he is laid, to forest lead;
(So bade the dead,) over the warlord's grave!

As for the Romans, in their four-square vallum,
Glimmer a thousand watchfires, in the rain;
And full their castrum is of wounded men.
In the dim night-watch, Aulus sends out scouts:
Which heard much voice, and noise of creaking wains;
Return with word, the Britons' host remove.

Breaks day, when Britons enter the main forest;
Where, kindling fires, they dry their rain-steeped weed:

So weary lodge, and cure their battle-wounds;
And men, long fasting, somewhat broil and eat.

High noon was, when arrived, with the East-men,
Whom Antethrigus leads, and Trinobants,
Caratacus, Cunobelin's other son:
Ah, heavy he is, to death; who now, by swift
Sent messengers, heard, in march, his brother's death.
Men marvel, which behold his godlike countenance,
Shining, through damps of sorrow; as the sun
Ascends, from clouds! The chief estates touch Caradoc's
Glaive: and sith reverent, taking, by the hand,
Him all salute, in room, of Togodumnos,
Warlord! Kings gird him, with the golden belt.

Caradoc beheld, full-fledged of shafts and darts,
The targe, leaned in chief place, of Togodumnos!
And, in an oak, hanged hauberk of Manannan,
Was on the warlord slain: nor, yet, is washed,
From his death-blood! as in that forest place.
And hastily turned the lord away his face,
For his exceeding smart; so gate him forth,
Alone, to wood to weep. Nor came, again,
Till eve, (when kings have supped,) Caratacus.

He entered, to their watch-light, where they sit;

His lords sees, fell-eyed! twixt whom, stirred debate
Have hellish hags, with firebrands, in their hands;
Catha and Macha, carrion-hopping fiends;
Which troubled have blue Britons' camps, to-night.
Manannan seeks, with wisdom and mild voice;
And king Duneda, (who arrived, to-night,)
With old war-tales, appease their stormy mood.

Of that king-slaying arrow, was their strife:
Fledged with what fowl's wing, nocked was, in what sort,
Ashen, or birch, the stele, or river reed;
Of bronze or bone, or subtle flint, the head.
Some mean, that shaft's wing-feathers were of swan,
Whereout his tribe were known, who loost the shot;
Dweller by Thames. They cease, seen Caradoc,
In reverence of the warlord's mourning looks!

Spies, with the legions, have renounced to Aulus,
(Unto whom, by covert night, traitorous Vigantios
Is passed!) that Britons lodged, in yonder forest.
Sith, was, by counsel of the same Vigantios,
That Romans marched forth, to assail Calleva.

Buried their slain, in the next sun, have Romans:
But Britons' dead lie out yet, in day's heat,
(And over them another dew is passed,)

A ravens' feast of swollen carcases.
Erst when are Roman legions journeyed forth,
Send mourning Britons back to slaughter-field;
Where, ah, on swollen bodies, hopping rife,
In fen of rotten blood of men and steeds,
Flock the corpse-fowl, that beat, mongst broken carts,
Their filthy wings, on dead brows of blue warriors,
Despoiled of ornaments and of seemly weed!
They labouring, till murk night, opened long dykes,
Bury, with pious hands, the woad-stained dead.
Sith washed, at a brook-side, from funerals,
Tending pure hands, to heaven, Britons curse Romans!

Caratacus continues in that forest,
Yet other days. Forbade divining druids,
Which signs read, in the bowels of sacrifices;
He issue, with caterfs, against the legions.

Lo, weary, at morrow, fugitives be come in,
To Britons' camps! Are men with ghastful looks;
As who have seen some gods! whose tunics rent,
Stained, (wounded they,) with war-blood. Erst found booth,
In green-wood camp, of king Segontorix,
Those cry out; Taken was, lord, by sudden assault,

Calleva; they only escaped, when slaughter, made,
There, legion-soldiers. Cometh then Guledig forth!
With immense dool, his mighty heart oppressed:
As when some king returned, from foreign wars,
Beholds his hall burned! and his fair fields wasted,
Are reft his cattle; and led away, for thralls,
Hears, sons and daughters, wives and little ones.

In cart the warlord mounts; whose trumpet note,
Doth signify, Take arms, and, from the forest,
March forth! Journey, come down into the plain,
Caterfs, where he them leads. By Caradoc, drives
Bodvocos, silent; seen how burned have Romans,
His marches! wherein whilom multitude was,
Of sheep-flocks, beves and steeds and happy wights.
Drives on, before him, swart Segontorix;
Who mourns Calleva: and he bears loosely in hand,
His whip and reins; nor cheers his stumbling steeds.

And, with his captains, which their long-maned teams
Guide, nigh to his, communing, Caradoc quoth;
Our fathers' fathers overthrew old Romans;
And their eldfathers' sires had burned proud Rome!

So we, helped of strong gods, shall drive from Britain,
As Cassiobellan, Rome's invading legions.

Is hardly a man, in our days, in great Rome,
Of stature seen: but full of wicked life,
Be all their marble city's stinking streets:
Wherein go thronging flatterers, ill-faced routs,
Like to that sallow flood, which parts Rome town,
And few of honest mind. And who great lords,
In strange lascivious banquetings, wont to pass,
Flower-crowned, on beds, with women's softness, laid,
Mongst curious meats and wine, in precious cups,
And vomitings, which should renew their lust,
And pipes and dance, the watches of the night.

That shallow glebe, which lies beyond walled Rome,

Of thralls, is tilled; for wars have nigh consumed,
Through all Italia, their ingenuous youth.
And their most soil, (which shelves, of hoarded earth,
On builded walls,) with only vines they plant.
Whose hot earth-blood, the cruel Romans drink,
And thirst then gore. And this doth make them mad,
To wars, wherein they hope spoil all the world.

When, to earth's brow, the Westing sun dismounts,
Who foremost ride, see legions' hill-set camp;
Whence hastily issued, lo, tall Gaulish horse,
With them, contend. But scythe-carts of Bodvocos,
Some killed, pursue the rest, to their paled vallum.
Over against them, lodged then Caradoc,
In a strong place; and sheep, to the caterfs,
Divides; sith visits them, from hearth to hearth.

Night fallen, sits swart Segontorix, on dull earth.
Is his dark thought, within his warlike breast,
How venge him, for Calleva burned and wasted,
With some new bloody overthrow of Romans.

He, of Atrebats, assembles two caterfs,
Midst the dim watch; and bound, with hasty oath,
Not turn their backs. Then, barefoot, they pass forth.

Yet undescried, like night-wolves, they o'erleapt
The Romans' dyke, pluck down the sharp pale-work;
In what part, (heard mules' voice,) they deemed the captives
Lie of Calleva, amidst the legions' carriage.
In a strange street, they light, of leathern tents;
Mongst smouldering fires of drowsy Roman soldiers.
Then coursed those Atrebats, to further bank;
Whence they, not having turned their backs, break forth;
Leaving much dread, (few slain,) to wakening Romans!

Was day now rising, over Britain's woods,
When Aulus glittering cohorts, from all ports,
Sends forth, at once; and, in long triple ranks,
Erects: and to the soldiers, where he rides,
Are only, in their first onset, dread, he cries,
Britons, like Gauls; whose vain inconstant minds,
Loose-tempered bodies, languish soon in wars.
Fear not their uncouth voice, nor rattling chariots.
Moreo'er, he hears, the Britons' king, fell, slain.

Thus he: but, on the part of glast-stained Britons,

Leapt, like a god, warlord Caratacus,
To scythe-cart. Captains, with great noise of warhorns,
Lead forth, already, their glast-stained caterfs.
Calling Cunobelin's son, each warlike nation,
By name; the lord records their fathers' deeds:
And spake, How, each day, should the Britons' army
Augment; but by your glaives must daily Romans
Decay. Stands Caradoc, in that winged white warcart,
Of Togodumnos: which now Romans viewing,
Marvel see Britons' king, returned from death!
Save, in the shoulders, seems this more, though less
Of stature. And leap three great alan hounds,
On, baying, before his sheen rushing chariot.

Twixt caterf and caterf, king Caradoc war-carts,
Stations; and light-armed runners, that hurl javelins.
Glitters the Romans' front, with arms and harness,
Like burning wood: long-heavy-shielded Britons
Stand, naked ranks, against them, blue caterfs.

Eftsoon, with Camog and Morfran, break forth
That leaf-crowned household, armed, of Togodumnos;
Which vow them, to fight on, to glorious death;
Or else, till they have slain, for Togodumnos,

Some Romans' duke. Men, in the vaward, run,
To-day, lo, with them, of Segontorix!
That lord shows, driving in his well-teamed scythecart,
To Britons, with his spear, where smokes Calleva!

Sternly, with sharp-set looks, each dying man
His weapon strains: bears bright skean many an one,
Twixt grinning teeth, to cope with plate-clad Romans,
To death. Hurled back with spears, erst, legions' ranks;
Their fierce hands rent, despising wounds and death,
The soldiers' shields aside; and stab their throats.

Segontorix, who now Romans' battles pierced,
On their reliefs, falls. Those, to-day, were cohorts
Of Flavius' legion. There, amidst the carriage,
And droves and captives, was great duke Vespasian
Compassed in, by that nephew of old Commius,
Horrid with barbare arms and shout and force!

But nothing he dismayed, his buckler cast,
Drawn his sharp glaive, before his martial breast;
And from his saddle, him smiteth round about:
Howbeit gan pluck him, Belges, from his horse.
And there, of Britons, had been slain great Flavius;
Were not that gods and Fortune of great Rome,
Sent his son Titus; who turned, in that point,

From fight, on the left wing, midst Sabine's horse.
He mainly rides, with Gaulish centuries,
And levelled spears, on those blue Britons' backs.
Soldiers, on foot, with their sharp stabbing glaives
And stiff shield-spikes, contend to save the duke.
Belges, albe they trampled of Gauls' horse,
That on them run; still, with victorious glaives,
And darts, yield, crying Calleva! Togodumnos!
No ground: but fight on, till their worthy deaths.

Last, hardly Flavius, cumbered on the grass,
Fallen from his spear-gored horse, with strong effort,
Of Titus and of Roman knights and soldiers,
Was saved. Segontorix, whom there none could pierce;
And those with him, from that great hazard, pass:
Their sharp spears stilling blood, of Roman deaths.

Other caterfs run, of cerulean Britons,
Fast down from hills, new nations that arrive!
At whose view, prudent Aulus commands, blow
Repair: withdraws, then, fenced by Sabine's horse;
Nor yet is midday, his unshaken legions.

Who come, strange island people, to the war;
Men bearded, bearing moon-bent shields, unlike,
Of a dark speech, to other Britons, are

Belerions, workers in the tinny mines
Of Penrhyn Gnawd, which Bloody Foreland named.
Decet, their king, upleads them, now, in arms.

Caradoc his chariots sends, then, trouble Romans.
Sith, at his word, caterfs, dig and cast bank,
In circuit large; and fence, with pales around,
In Roman wise, their camps. But scorn Belerions,
To lodge, in field, within a wall of sods;
Saying, that such were fit, on some hill-bent,
To pinfold sheep; Belerions fear no wolf.
Let fence them Romans, in a land not theirs.

Twixt eve, and fall then of short Summer night,
Silures, from past Hafren flood, arrive.
War-renowned sire, Moelmabon, leads their powers;
And his stout sons. With them march Demetans,
Their neighbours, herdsmen of West-hills. Of broc,
Or wild buck's hammered hide, is their war-weed,
Which stripe of shaft nor dart may lightly pierce.
Great-statured Idhig, is their valorous duke.

When erst shines dawn, on night-steeped earth's dull face;
The prætor, looking from his wall, discerns
The Britons' bank; and how now seems increased
Their barbare host. He deemed then good his soldiers
Contain, this morrow, in their four-square vallum.

Nor yet day's white-horsed, swift-wheeled, chariot
Was run forth, from the secret of the gods;
When swart Belerions, on blue Britons' part,
Known, by their horned moon-shields, in four caterfs,
Go up, with shout, sheen thickets of tall spears.
Silures and tall Demetans, from their camps,
Come forth, on whom falls fury of the war-god,
Caterfs in arms; and, with swift foot, they pass.

Approaching, those disdain the Roman vallum;
That should, digged earthen bank, their foes enclose:
And, o'er that wall, they hurl their scornful spears.
Caratacus, yonder, leads out his blue army:
And with the lord-of-war, come flocking scythecarts.

They dwell then, till the sun looks from high heaven;
Waiting, that issue Romans from their gates.
Some taste meat, other drowse upon their arms,
Lain down, to slumber, in their enemies' sight,
On the fresh grass. Now, after this, approach,
From East field, lo, new host, men guised as Almains:
And, helm-clad! other bands, beside those, march.
And who them leads, tall, riding on white horse,
A war-god seems. It is the ethling Thorolf!
(Known, by his white-horse targe, and raven crest,)

Illustrious seed of Brennus. Lately he passed
With long war-keels, East seas, from Albis' mouth:
Britons' caterfs him hail, with long loud shout!

Warned, by the rowers of the Redmare ship,
Proclaimed, this second year, through Estian march,
King Wittig hath, (wherein a people of Brennus,
Wonne,) all who follow would, o'er seas, his son,
In arms to Bret-land, there to fight with Romans,
Assemble to Elbe-haven. Were they, this moon,
Thence, twice, outsailed, in thirty long row-keels.
Who foremost march come, marvel to relate!
Almains to Britain, bearing Roman arms.

Is harness drawn from forest's sacred boughs;
Spoils, which their glorious sires, of vanquished legions,
Uphanged, yore, to their strong Cheruscan gods.

Noble companion, Wittig, of Erminius,
Was; who his land's youth, leading against Romans,
In the last age, o'erthrew their consul Varus;
What day, of thirty-thousand Roman soldiers,
Out-marched from castra, thirty-score, uneath;
Which, gladly, gave their hands to bonds, 'scaped death.

That wood was a vast dying place of Romans!
Whose off-hewed heads, in all tall pines, nailed Almains:
Till none more found were trees, in Teutberg forest,

Whereon to hang the hated Roman face.
Wolves, those days, (which the wild roes wont to hunt,)
Did surfeit flesh, and vomit gore of soldiers.
Jowls of Rome's dukes, with pitch-daubed visages,
And gilded teeth, were, longtime, hanging seen,
With shields of captains, in rune-graven porch,
Of fierce Tanfana, goddess of that march:
Whose forest earth with men's bones, so wide round,
Was strewed, that seemed there heavens had rained chalk stones!

Too strait those spoils, for the great-statured Almains,
They were of them despised, and of their sons;
Till lately Thorolf warned was of Veleda,
With their own weapons to contend with Romans!
Then sent king Wittig, and were taken down
Morions and breastplates, for a thousand men;
Which Weyland's sons enlarged, with inset tongues,
Of hammered bronze, to Almains' just assize.

Halt, yonder, Almains, leaning on long spears.
Then, towards blue Britons' host, comes, barefoot, Thorolf,
(Token of mourning heart, for Togodumnos;)
And lords, with him, to hail Caratacus.

Thorolf, with Caradoc, mounts then battle-cart;

And joys, before thick blue caterfs, to ride;
And ordinance view of Britain's warlike tribes,
And Romans' vallum, in this land of Brennus.
Sith powdered, as he was arrived from march,
With angry and great heart, for Togodumnos;
The ethling Thorolf, twixt the hostile armies,
Proceeds to the mid-space. Hark, with great voice,
The Saxon hero proffers him to fight,
To-day, with Romans, many as this right hand
Hath fingers, which, before him, he upholds!
So come they on, by two, by three, at once;
And were those dukes, as he a prince of Almains.

Thorolf's warfolk gin, with hoarse insolent throat,
Chant of Rome burning, and great Heremod!
How show their heads then, bove the soldiers' work,
Men of a kindred speech, Batavians!
And, likewise, they, (though blow forth Roman clarions!)
Kindling their hearts, chant lays of Heremod!

Anon, the generous sons of Moelmabon,
A shield-wall made, before the ethling's breast.
Are those tall Cerix, Ferriog, Maglos, Merion;
That stand, to fence him, with their stoutest champions.
Hark! mongst tall Britons, Thorolf's Elbe-land Almains,

With boisterous words, revile those wall-pent Romans!
(Foemen, which overlook an high-paled vallum;)
Calling them, women! for their shaveling faces.

Then certain Roman Gauls have asked of Aulus,
He suffer, they might, from the castrum port,
Go forth, chastise those insolent barbare throats.
And Aulus easily grants. Should such, to soldiers,
Which look on, be a jocund spectacle;
Without effusion of the blood of Rome.

Mongst the allies, which proffered them to fight;
Praising their forwardness, choose his tribunes out,
Four hundred of the more robust: those pass
Then dextra-port, harnessed and armed as Romans!
Uneath three hundred Britons them await;
With hardly four-score Almains. Issued Gauls
Without; they ranged them, in four bands. For ensigns,
Those horsemen's spears advance; whereon they bound
Have wisps of halm. Each holds, in his shield hand,
Two javelins. Certain tall centurion horseman,
Is chosen captain of their centuries; one
Bassus, adorned with many martial ornaments!

Bassus, in Latin tongue, oration made;
Wherein he magnifies his faith to Rome.
He warns, use all advantage of the ground;

And skill they learned, in exercise of arms:
Are valiant those with whom they shall contend.

Of Britons' part, kings look on, from their war-carts:
Sit blue caterfs down, armed, in the long grass,
To watch the fight. Already, their strong champions,
Moelmabon's sons have ordered, in three bands.

Thorolf stands, before his great-statured Almains;
(Of whom is none, that durst not thrust, alone,
Mongst hostile ranks; nor blench his hardy face!)
His helm, inlaid with gold, of hammered bronze:
A boar's head is, with long gilt tusks, the crest;
Whose bristles gold. And he embraces targe,
Shines like the moon, that of Erminius was:
That hero, (in change of hospitable gifts,)
It gave to Wittig; whose light willow-wood
The hand, with wondrous skill, had overlaid,
Of Weyland, Saxon smith, with plate of gold,
And circuits of hard tin. Hangs Marvor, glaive,
In Thorolf's baldric, dight with coral studs,
The chain is gold, the haft of a whale's tooth:
(It Arthemail bare, men say, Rome's-bane, to Almaigne.)
This now he draws, conscious of thousand deaths!

Of the ethling's champions, few ben armed as Romans.
The most, for war-shirts, hammered hides gird-on,

Of elk, or bull: flint-stiff, with old war-gore,
Are many; of Wittig's, Elbe-land's, enemies.
An angry Gaul first hurled, against prince Maglos,
His dart: but he, protending his broad targe,
It bet back, on his foeman rushed with glaive,
Eager, in all men's sight, his life to reave.
Him deadly he smote, upon the brazen pan,
And cleft to chin; and fell the Roman cold.
And like as, in some bush, child, having found
Fowl's nest, it casts; and broken lie the eggs:
So brain and morion poured were on the grass,
Of this first slain, crude sight to Roman soldiers!
That look down from their wall: but, contrarywise,
Exult the glast-stained Britons. Hark, new shout!
For Maglos brake his glaive: yet, naught amazed,
The prince, stooped, wild crag-stone from field, uplifted;
It hurled gainst that chief captain of Gaul-Romans;
Who runneth in, with bright horseman's embowed glaive,
To slay him. On the sharp brim, of his targe,
The brute-mass pight: which, by that vehement stroke,
Back-buffeted on his neck and his large breast,
The weasand, bruised, and, (wonder to be told!)

That sharp edge severed. Spouting his life's blood,
Fell forth the dying Roman, on his face.
Exulting, Maglos spoiled, (fenced by strong warriors,)
Bassus, of harness, arms and ornaments:
His head off-hewed; then backward hurled, to Britons!
That, risen, make game, to spurn it, with swift feet;
Whereat laughed loud swart lord Segontorix;
That was not seen, sith Romans burned Calleva,
To smile. Had Thorolf leapt, with fearful shout,
Gainst Romish Gauls. His left hand took an ensign;
His right arm slew, thereat, a stout centurion.
Can none withstand the ethling's immense force!
Whose giant members fenced with scaly bronze.
As pirate prow, he wades war's bloody waves;
Pursues, like Woden; bloody harvest reaps,
His arm, resistless; men, as saplings were,
Hews down to death, and rolls them in their gore.

Cerix and Maglos, Ferriog and stout Merion,
Have, with their warriors, well-nigh overthrown
All who opposed them. Cerix' heel, mishapped,
In gore, then, slide; and he, of his own glaive,
Was wounded in his fall. Turned, at his cry,
Ferriog and Merion; and they run, to break
Much press of foes, which him now round invade:

But in that, each, in his unshielded flank,
Was pierced, of dart, which thick on them were shot.

Is this thrilled through the bladder and the loins;
Where quickly mortal is the bitter stroke:
Through shoulder he, to nipple of his breast.
Groaning, they fell; before their foremost warriors:
Which seen of Thorolf, he, with immane force,
And brunt of Almain shields, hurls back the fight,
And saved Moelmabon's sons; that were their corses
Not spoiled. Take up who noblest of his warriors,
Each prince, fainting to death, on his long targe.

Gainst plate-clad, valorous, Roman-Gaulish soldiers;
Thus naked Britons, and light-harnessed Almains
Fight: nor prince Maglos yet his germains' deaths,
Heard. He contending, boldly, far in front,
Gauls slays and chaces, to their Roman work.

Hark, lamentable cry, that thrills all ears!
Of an old wight, hath seen his children dead.
Is Moelmabon's royal fatherhood.
Though purblind, he his sons sees, borne back, slain.
He wallows on the ground; and his two hands,
With swart-snatcht dust, defile his reverend hairs.
His cry made cold, that hear, even Roman hearts.

Are Gauls put to the worse; for may none stand,

Before the brand of Thorolf; or the swift
God-given, to-day, great force of Briton Maglos!
Then other leapt down, from the pale-set vallum;
Romans, that hastily armed them, run in harness,
Gainst long-haired Britons, and their fellow Almains;
And likely had, eftsoon, sallied the two armies,
To battle, in the field; but Aulus' clarions,
(Heard, beyond hills, rebellowing sound of trumpets,
And confuse shouting,) Gauls recall to castrum.
Those, cast their hollow shields, behind their backs,
On every side, now, fly, towards Roman vallum.
Britons, with dreadful yells, pursue and smite
The hindmost. That day's cohorts of the watch,
Receive the fugitives, at their castrum port.

Sith, climbed some, in tall poplar-trees, of Britons,
Behold from river-lea, where men like Romans,
Flee scattered, before chariots. Sent out Aulus,
When Britons slumbering, (time of midday heat,)
His mules and waterers, from the hinder port.
But there had laid Heroidel, of Kent's scythe-carts,
An ambush: rushing now, from fenny brakes,
Those slay unwarlike wights and turn to flight.

Fierce Atrebats have sworn, again, to course
The legions' camps, to-night: but, with the dukes,
The Guledig is; who, for the princes slain,

Moelmabon's sons, make funeral sacrifices:
Yet, ere he parted, gave them one, Segontorix,
For captain, (who fights, with him, in his chariot,)
Young Madron. Poised, then, upright, on the grass,
His lance, quoth Madron; Should their battle-path,
To-night, be, where might, falling, this spear's point,
Show them! Which proved, with silent foot, they part.

They o'erleap the vallum; but there, from beneath
The paled work, rise up ready-harnessed soldiers!
And, as who taken is tardy, in wild billows;
When sudden eager surges on the shore:
Callevans, hemmed of thronging enemies,
Longwhile, might, not the unequal strife endure.
And for they, Belges, would not turn their backs,
Those warriors brake forth, hardly, with much loss.

Soon as the misty morrow gins to clear,
Clamour, with angry heart, to battle, soldiers.
Their forwardness praises, from a bank of sods,
Aulus; he shows them then the need of corn;
How they must march, to conquer some new dune.
Though Britons, now, in field, be a great army;
Mongst them, as wont with Gauls, soon, likely is,

Shall spring dissensions, and to factions grow.
So furious in beginning, shall these, then,
Lose heat; and that ere the cerulean hew,
Wherewith those stained have their pale bodies, fade.
As they wend forth, from council, Briton trumps
Salute the sun, with grave and dreadful note!

Chided this Summer night, Caratacus,
Impatient for the sons of Moelmabon;
Till he, on Romans, wreak their timeless deaths.
And Almain ethling Thorolf takes no rest,
So woodness kindles his great heart, gainst Romans.
Maglos sleeps, battle-weary; but all night,
He, in slumber, groaning, called the names, and wept,
Of his dear germains, went beneath the earth.
And Cerix, wounded, though he may not wake,
For drowsy herbs, which leech steeped in his drink;
Much wallows still, and winds, in troubled sleep;
Like red-hot iron, in tongs of cunning smith:
And when him new day wakes, he wakes to weep.

The sun uprisen, in wide field, now, are seen,
Wide-ranged, the naked Britons' blue caterfs.

The long-haired island king, in his white war-cart,
Rides visit the tribes' battles. Loud, great Caradoc
Cries; No man dear, to-day, account his life!
As bird, loost from the hand, shall each soul mount,
From his cast flesh, to star-hall of the gods.
And promised, with main voice, Caratacus;
Who fall in fight, their children should not want.
Avenge they now, in field, king Togodumnos!
All shout and smite, again, the glast-stained Britons;
Bright arms, to bulls'-hide-dight long wicker shields.

Thorolf cries, in their speech, to battailed Almains,
Riding on white war-steed; Are those the Romans,
Whom oft, both sides the Rhine, our fathers slew!
But could not Maglos speak: he silent looks,
To gods in skies, (else his stout heart must break;)
Unto whom he vows a nation's sacrifice.
Was heard Segontorix shouting to his men!

Who, duke, leads up Icenian thick caterfs;

And seems his four-square targe a tower of brass,
Is Antethrigus. Next enranged to his,
Are the thick spears of merchant Troynovant.
Marunus, Cadern's son, is their bold captain.

Who midst moon-shielded swart Belerions rides,
Is Decet; stand then battailed Demetans.
But Catuvelaunians, Britain's royal tribe,
Thick spears, blue-shielded ranks, the middle hold:
Beyond whom, Dobuni, that Bodvocos leads;
And Trinobants, which neighbour Troynovant.
On the two horns, are Maglos' stern Silures,
And light-armed power of Kent, and squadroned scythe-carts.

Blue Britons, seen, that come not yet the legions,
Sit down on the green herb; and battle-songs
Loud chant, from tribe to tribe, which made Carvilios.
And now hot noon, sit Britons, negligent;
But Thorolf risen, impatient, after meat,
Lo, shining bands, his warmen of the Elbe,
Upleads. Now passed mid-space, a wall of shields,
The castra they approach. Then sound out clarions!
And issue, harnessed, from all ports, at once,
The shining legions. Caradoc leaps, anon,
And every Briton captain, to his scythe-cart.

As cornfields, hurtled of new-breathing wind,
Rise up the woad-stained tribes, in their caterfs.

Like glittering immense flood, of storm, borne forth,
Rolling great billows, poise of Roman legions
Hath first invaded thick-speared bands of Almains.
But they, well covered of their hide-dight shields;
Break, like fast rocks, and cast those waves, aside,
In bloody spume. To succour Almains, scythe-carts
Outrush; join battle blue caterfs with cohorts.
The heavens rebellow infinite battle-noise!

Strenuous, fulfilled of ire, the soldiers fight;
That hope win cattle, and prey of slaves and corn.
Is first the woad-stained host, tumultuous,
Of Britons broken; then, they repulse Romans.

Valorous Bodvocos, leading thick caterfs,
Was parted from them, in much battle-press;
And closed, with few, in pale of Roman glaives.
Nathless, made fence of bucklers, the king's warriors,
Shouting their gods! fight, ring-wise, round their lord.
Men fall, each moment, of them on their arms;
Till few be left. Then gored, by a shot javelin;
Fighting, to save his men, the prince waxed faint:
Nor able more his homicide iron to wield,

He, first of Britons' kings, was taken alive.
Yet hardly and bellowing fierce disdain, like bull,
Which, bound with cords, is haled of many churls.
Nor able valorous Golam was, on whom,
He loudly called; nor Cadern's son, to save
Their friend; though both thrust forth, with eager spears.

Maglos on the left horn, makes head: Silures,
Lifting their woad-stained hands, to the bright heaven,
Have sworn avenge, this day, the royal tomb!
On glittering scythe-wheels, hurls Caratacus,
And seems the flaming god! To dukes records
He, and blue tribes, their old renown in arms.
He, found Heroidel, bade speed, with Kent's war-carts;
And from the rearward, where less firm he sees
Their ranks, set suddenly upon the hindmost soldiers.

Wend, without whip or rein, at Caradoc's voice,
His three wing-footed steeds. Do souse, in full
Career, the winds, about the warlord's ears;
And backward fly the king's long gold-bright hairs.
He sends more scythe-carts out: and his great voice
Heartens, whereso he comes, blue warriors,
To glorious deeds, in all the army's sight;
Smiting, like threshers of the Autumn corn,
The soldiers' face. He casts far-flying javelins,

His steeds tread Romans, with their brazen hoofs;
And with sharp scythe-beam rend, and burning hooks,
And dauntless pikéd breasts, the enemies' flesh.

Yond cometh on Thorolf; and doth Romans break,
With spear and glaive of his tall Rome-clad Almains!
Are they, when battle-fury on them falls,
Strong leapers in the bloody dance of Woden!
Many have wide wounds; is seen much swart warblood,
Both on their arms, plate-harness and broad shields.
And marvel Romans, seeing barbare Romans!
And in the sun-god's ray, those boil and sweat.

Heard confuse clamour sound, behind the castrum;
Where now great cloud arrived of Cantion chariots.
Again, bids blow repair, the prætor Aulus;
Deeming new nation of unvanquished Britons,
As in the former days, assailed his legions.
Turning to Britons, evermore, their faces;
Foot behind foot, and joined over their heads,
Their targets, Romans draw them to their castrum;
Leaving the trampled slaughter-plain, to Britons;
Wherein lie five glast-stained dead, for one Roman.

With Camog and Morfran, Segontorix,
In twilight of the stars, o'er Roman vallum,
Again breaks, silent: and now, rightly, falls

The Guledig's glaive. Calleva's captives found;
(With loss of few, and blood of fearful Romans,)
Segontorix hath them saved, beyond the walls!

Yet quoth the Foster-Muse, I looked and saw,
Fly shapes of demons, under covert skies.
In form of raven, lighted Nemeton,
On rocking elder spray; she, craking dire,
There vomited battle-corse and rotten gore!
Nigh where have kings now supped, under oak-bough;
And, in their hands, yet hold the silver cups,
Of royal mead, whereof they drinking, (called
Their names,) made mention of who battle-dead,
And erst of Togodumnos! and had poured
Drink-offering, to dark gods of underworld.

Those then, anew, one upon other, stare!
Surmising, still, of Togodumnos' death.
Men murmur, as with baleful dreams oppressed.
Nor is Duneda with them, nor Manannan;
In whose wise breast springs counsel of a god.
But were those now went forth, and Caradoc;
With Maglos, that, to-day, was, fighting, stained,
With honour of a Roman captain's blood,
To comfort Moelmabon, sire; who sits,
Mourning, half-blind, alone, in the wide forest.

And none rests, who knows heart-appeasing words;
Which can men's kindled breasts, (ere they, like coals,
Flame forth, to civil strife,) in one, accord;
As iron annealed with iron, welds cunning smith.

To rancours of old faction, warped their hearts;
Some captains blame the conduct of the war.
Then Guledig spake, renowned Segontorix;
(Incensed by braids, untimely; like mis-shot,
And venimed, shaft, of friend's hand, that attains
Friend and him wounds; from lips of Antethrigus;)
Irreverent word of great Cunobelin's house!
What recks he more, he hath redeemed his oath.
Risen in fierce heat, he, mongst them, then, goes forth.

Marunus, Golam, Morag, silent sit.
The generous hearts, in their young warlike breasts;
Ache, gazing on Bodvocos' empty place!
(Nor helps it, these, mongst elder kings, to speak.)
Decet now slumbers, in the outer camps;
And Idhig came not, who is slow of speech.
Thorolf went early out, with Almain lords,
Unto whom is tongue of Britons yet uncouth:
And pight his white-horse ensigns, twixt the camps;
There he, till morrow's light, will wake, in arms.

Last called, to loud strife of unseemly words;

Which bandy dukes, in hearing of the gods,
The Britons' supreme lord, behold, approach!
With Caradoc, comes Moelmabon, mournful sire,
With frozen eyes; distained whose reverend locks,
With ashes of the hearth; for his sons' deaths.
Walks, father of good read, divine Manannan,
At the warlord's right hand. Comes, like a god,
Who rides, above the storm, Caratacus.
All who wait on his lofty countenance,
Will his high word obey, when he commands.
Comes, then, Duneda, looking on the ground.
Lifted her raven wings, when they sate down,
Flew forth the fiend; for soon should rise the sun;
When (druids ween,) should be night-hag turned to stone!

And seemed tall Maglos, Belin; Camulus,
Caratacus; and high father of the gods,
Moelmabon, as they sit! Befell, arrived
Then druid; whom, by the hand, Moelmabon's druids
Lead in, before the watchfires of the kings.
This, messenger of the oracle of some god,
Seems; who, in his hoar-yellow locks, long plume
Hath bound, of erne! Is he, a month of days,
Faring, with two companions, come from Mona.
(Are they of Samoth's druids.) With wildered looks,

Spake Airol; Groans, in the god's temple-cave,
Resounded; and his priests heard divine voice,
Say, how the former weal and free estate
Of Britons, save all kings, of Samoth's house,
Of one accord now, were, in Roman war,
Must utterly perish! At Duneda's voice,
Uprisen; then kings, touch all the warlord's glaive,
And knit right hands, among them. Caradoc, then,
Bade quickly mix the sweet-breathed metheglin;
Wherein steeped herbs, which able to remove
All heart's mislike, guile, rankling weariness.
He sends, anon, call in some noble bard.

And founden, soon, is Melyn, mongst broad shields,
Of Verulam: and, bard, leads now a caterf!
To battle armed, he, from the royal cup,
Drinks dulcet mead; and sith, deposed his targe,
And glaive, on bough, uphanged; his martial hand
Strook the shrill instrument; and seem his chords,
To thunder, and to languish and to weep!

He mourns now Britons' dead; he threats proud Romans;
And quickened are, with ire, all Britons' hearts.
He chants, to comfort of king Moelmabon,
Of heroes, which now, mongst high stars, have being.

Who fallen, on wicker shield, is, on his face;
Against the dawn, flits his immortal breath,
Waked, as from dream of sleep, from the cold corse.

He chants, how Ogma, spokesman of the gods,
This morrow's day; when great far-journeyed dead
Arrived, from sunless paths of underworld;
Had called their names aloud, extolled their deeds;
And, gracious, nodded on them blesséd gods;
And antique heroes took them, by the hand.

When now Moelmabon heard, that mournful sire;
How came unto star-hall, his fallen ones,
And entered music, in his frozen ears;
Betwixt his hands, he, bowed his hoary head,
Slumbers, that had not slept, since his sons' deaths!
Prince Maglos, doffed his hair-locks' circling band,
Of gold, them tyres, what time in battle-cart,
He rides; and to that maker of sweet lays,
(Who joying it received,) it gave in hand.

Then Melyn, touching new stern chord, prepares,
To sing an onset; and sow in men's ears,
Words, that should seem the voice, in his war-rage,
Of battle-god. He sounds loud piercing note!
Whilst young men armed, in silver cups, bear round
Ambrosial mead. But ere lords might it taste,
Heard blowing warhorns, in the Briton camps!

Upleapt all lords, and snatcht, with troubled hearts,
Their arms; they, hasten forth, to their caterfs.
Yet was but parting of the Atrebats:
Segontorix, that forsakes Caratacus!
The warlord's runners speed then, through the camps,
To bring him word, of all that falls, to-night.
They find unwearied Thorolf keeps good watch;
With his tall Almains' guard, twixt the two armies.

Or Nemetona; the same as Nemon.

By that defection of Segontorix,
Is weakened the resistance of blue Britons.
Wherefore, when druids, which read the starry hours,
Proclaim, is mid of night, with long loud chant;
Britons remove, and leave their burning fires.

March the caterfs, and come down to Thames' ford,
The chariots, as Caratacus imposed,
Station in the main stream, to break, above,
The water's force. They, by the full moon passed,
Britons, from thence, ascend to lofty woods.

Where lodged; come eftsoon kings, to the warlord,
To council: heard, then, read of Moelmabon,
And of Duneda and divine Manannan,
And Dumnoveros; king Caratacus,
Who, in his mind, it studied, beforehand,
(They say, the like intended Togodumnos!)

Concluded, to divide his battle-carts,
(Are they three thousand, with him, scythed warchariots,)
Into four courses. Two should vex the Romans,
Each other day; whilst pasture twain their steeds.

To Beichiad, (who base son to king Cunobelin,
Born in his age,) he gives the first to rule.
Stout Rutupiæn Heroidel, most expert
Rector of war-carts, o'er the next, he set.
The king commits, to Brentyn, his third course:
(Was this young lord, a kinsman of the queen.)
To Fythiol he, by read of Antethrigus,
Assigned, (of all East-men, that fight in chariots,)
The fourth course. Much them charged king Caradoc,
(According to that word of dead Cunobelin;)
From every vantage ground, kill and cut-off;
Harry the marching trains, and hem their horse,
From corn and daily pasture of the grass:
Nor Romans suffer, night-time, to take rest;
But still outwear, with new and new alarms.

Foreriders now arrive, of Ordovices,
Known by a blazoned hammer in their shields.
Their host, horse, archery and thick spears, approach;
And Kynan, war-renowned, their king, them leads.

With kings and captains, mounts Caratacus,
In battle-carts, to meet him, in the path.

Now, when was known, Bodvocos, wounded prince,
Is, mongst the captives, in the legions' castra;
The legate sends Scribonius, cure his wounds,
(Which his own surgeon is.) Ended the war,
This island-king, means Aulus, should adorn
His triumph. But come, to himself, Bodvocos,
Mongst soldiers! for he would not live, unworth;
His healing bands did rend, with furious teeth.

The new-born day, wide-shining, from the East,
Behold, from their paled walls, the cohorts' watch,
Void the wide champaign, of cerulean Britons!
Then Aulus horsemen sent, explorers, out.
Towards noon, returned; those bring him word, they found
Wains' tract and chariot-wheels, footprints of flocks:
They followed forth, then, Britons' multitude,
To a large stream; which the enemies have o'erpassed.

When from his guides, (Belges of Cogidubnos,
And false Vigantios;) Aulus, not far-off,
Hears, Caer Corinium; dune, whose king, is this
Wounded Bodvocos; where laid also up

Much victual, whereof present need have soldiers;
He sounds, that issue from their camps, the legions!

Cirencester.

They few leagues marched, see cornfields yellowripe,
Nigh to their path. The legate, with new clarion,
His armed trains halts: then, sends, from every legion,
A cohort, to reap down, with their short glaives,
Bread-corn. Being come, together, to that place,
Deposed their shields and hauberks, Roman soldiers,
Gin crop the jocund ears. Then, with iron noise,
Fall; suddenly outrushing on them, from nigh wood,
Swift-wheeling chariot-squadrons of blue Britons!
Horrid with scythed beams and wheels' whirling-hooks,
And dreadful yells of noble barbare warriors.
Who stand, to fight, on them, the island youth;
Outrun, on their scythe-beams, and cast thick javelins!
Nor tussocks let them, stiches, stubs, nor stones,
But their shrill-leaping axetrees all o'er-ride.
Some leapt-down; even join battle, in the plain.

Under their wheels, rumbles the clodded glebe.
Being taken unready, helmless Roman soldiers
Blue Britons' onset might sustain, uneath:
Yet globed them round, who their most strenuous ones,

Romans, with glaives, (few of them have snatcht shields,)
Resist, with the Italic fortitude.

The dreadful justling war-carts now passed forth;
Return, anew, on them, with whirling hooks!
Their teams all of a foam, and crackling whips;
And glorious cries of Britain's charioteers!
Britons' shrill raging wheels now hold, in chace,
(Which Aulus sent in aid,) the Gaulish horse.
Fast flying, through the plain, those frighted steeds,
Maugré their heads, their cumbered riders cast.

Then borne away, alive, were knights and soldiers;
Tending their suppliant hands, to men and gods!
Captives, to druids' dreadful sacrifices.
Seen this new case, which happened in a moment,
Aulus, himself, a legion's eagle snatched.
Him cohorts follow fast, in sounding harness;
Not otherwise than who his fellow seeing,
Fallen in some mischief, runs on his winged feet;
Nor recks put, in adventure, his own life;
Might only he save that other, from dark death!
Their knees leap to their breasts, on the green grass.

Over-against those, issue from hill-grove,
New cloud of war-carts. O'er stone, over bush
Jump their sheen war-wheels. Captain of East-men,

Icenian Fythiol guides; whilst the first squadron,
O'er whom young Brentyn rules, withholds apart,
To blow their sweating steeds. Sith, all the Britons,
Hurl, freshly yelling, on the approaching legions!

Then grievous were the maims of trampled soldiers;
Rushing, with generous brunt, of their piked breasts,
The island steeds. Is any thrilled of dart;
To grass leapt, sever, with sharp belt-knives, drivers,
His leathern bands; and, mostwhiles, saved their cart,
They issue, harmless, with an horse's loss.
Last, Britons draw to wood, with panting steeds!

More heedful, henceforth, is the cohorts' march.
And when their trains, to an hill's bent, gainst eve,
Gin first, where some fresh fleeting brook, arrive;
And there green meadows, pasture for the horse,
The clarion sounds! three times, to measure camp;
Whence was not, till the fifth day, that now legions
Approach, to Caer Corinium of Mid-Britons.

Then, when rekindled was the sacred ray,
Behind them, in the East: whilst Romans march;
Their scouts, (light horse,) entangled all the paths,
Report, beyond, widewhere, with woven wood!
Custom of Britons, in their island wars.

In that, assailed them Beichiad's rushing chariots.

Fall many, in the long glittering trains: sound trumpets,
To halt! Then, hastily, the more valiant soldiers,
Them ordering, pierce, with darts, the Britons' steeds;
That issued from all rule, and mad with smart,
Yerking, with brazen hooves, bring all to naught.

Repulsed those Britons, Romans now, in forest,
Enter, beyond which, say their Belges' guides,
Lies Caer Corinium. They see great felled trees;
All wattled whose green boughs, like nightmare dream;
Where weary way, under their knitted shields,
Must open, with their glaives, Italic soldiers.
Lurk ambushed wights, in every thicket grove.
Them labouring, thus, the sun, at afternoon,
Already, in forest darkness, seems go down.

The Roman cumbered cohorts, next day, pass
The Churne. And, lo, nigh-hand, that Britons' dune,
Fenced with pale-work, upon a bank of earth.
Halts Aulus, and commands, that all take meat:
They rest an hour. Romans upholding, sith,
Round knitted shields, over their bronze-helmed heads,
Assail the Britons' bulwark. Drag down soldiers,
Impatient, with long grapples, stones and earth:
Though hail out on them be, of sling-stones, shot;

And flights of bitter shafts, and sharp-ground darts;
And ruin, óf down-húrled beams, doth oppress,
Whole ranks, at once. Viewed this destruction, Aulus,
With clarion's voice, recalls his legionaries.

He, sith, commands, that captive king, bring forth;
And set within the danger of their shot,
Which look down from the wall. Dobuni cry out!
That see their lord bound and entreated thus.
They stretcht their palms to him, lament and weep.

Aulus, through an interpreter, proclaims;
And they, to Cæsar, yield them, and pay ransom,
They should have their lives saved; and will the Romans
Their king restore them, to be under tribute:
Else soldiers, in their view, for Romans slain,
This king will kill! Forbids, by sign, Bodvocos,
And royal shout; to all, to yield his dune!

Is clamour heard, on further part, anon.
Hath, son of Flavius, young deed-daring Titus,
There, (scaled the bulwark,) broken in, with his cohort;
Where waited none defenders for the Romans.
Those leapt-down, in the dune, soon overrun
Few herding folk and old palled wights; for all

The hardy strength of Dobuni is in field,
Caterfs and ensigns, with Caratacus.

Titus, made slaughter, in their market place;
Shouts, mainly, to nigh bronze-clad legionaries!
They throng in to him. Thus Corinium taken
Is, in a moment! Wherein prey find Romans,
And victual, more than ere was in Calleva.
All old and impotent folk, slay, angry soldiers;
Pill, at their list, and bind for thralls, till eve;
Nor heed then voice of clarions! to repair.
They blood-stained lodge and eat, in Britons' bowers.

But entered in the dune; set guard, the legate,
Of knights of Rome, for he, this night-time, fears
Might aught mishappen his seditious soldiers.
When, in Bodvocos' hall, to sup, sits Aulus,
Loud-rattling thunder shakes the dimnéd world:
Soldiers, that drunken lie of metheglin,
Do think they voices hear, of Britons' gods.

In this night-wrath of heaven, and the thick rain,
And lightnings serpentine, of prince Beichiad's men,
Certain, climbed covertly, have entered in the dune;
With fierce hearts burning, in their bodies cold.
Mounting, afoot, those vowed gifts, to war-gods,
And might they achieve some hardy deed on Romans!
Some having, neath their cloaks, hid fire in pots,

Kindle house-eaves; whereas they now grope forth.
Whence, soon, vast flames are raised, of the wind-god!
Like spotted wasps, that men burn, in their nests,
Under the clod, with sulphur fume, by night;
Then perished many lives of legionaries.
Even Britons, captives, with their fettered feet,
And weight, in their gyved hands, of brazen chains,
Slay, in night-tumult, many Roman soldiers.

Bodvocos, wakened, in his fever-dream;
Being all, at cry of fire! his guards fled forth;
Upleaping, in his own hall, caught a staff;
And by a Tuscan lamp's dim shimmering light,
Groping, where he bethought him lay the duke,
In litter, it to-dasht, with furious force!
But, in night's tempest, ere, went Aulus forth.
Nor yet the legate rests, for busy thought;
On whom lies weight, of all this war, for Cæsar.

Returned, his servants, raging, find Bodvocos,
Whom left they bounden, as one half forgot;
Nor lightly, again, might all together take;
So, frenzied, he lets drive, to every part!

Barefoot, tread Beichiad's venging charioteers,
Without-forth, silent! They, now, the king's porch;
(Hoping to find and slay, therein, chief Romans,)
Enter: from threshold, hurl now with sharp glaives,

Of glittering bronze! Then short and dreadful strife:
They smite, to death, as hunters beasts, those servants!

Bleeding, on floor, dead-seeming, they Bodvocos
Find, for had one, whom he hurt ere of Romans,
Betwixt the shoulders, pierced him. The prince lifting,
They say; He is not dead, hath pulse his heart!
As precious thing, they bear the hurt king forth,
On their wet shoulders, twixt them, softly laid.
Not wont to fear, now fearful men they are:
Through storm, through flames, how might, without mishap,
And danger of armed thousands of strange Romans,
They steal, to-night, him forth. But those, when nigh
Now to dune walls, were met with, by the watch
Of soldiers, which relieve the guard, with Aulus;
Where few, gainst many, fighting, fell those all;
And, smitten, died king Bodvocos a new death!

Full is of bitter smoke, Corinium dune;
Of blowing flame and lurking foes, unseen:
By whose shot shafts, out of the covert night,
Die many Romans, pierced. And when now, erst,
New day begins, through misty reek, to break,
The last of Beichiad's charioteers scape forth.

The prætor gave commandment, then; Off-smite
Bodvocos' head, and crucify the corse:

But nail his long-haired poll, high, on tall mast,
To take away the glast-stained Britons' hearts.
Which fell out contrary; for more hardy grown,
Britons, in open day, durst, ofttime, rush;
And desperately contend scale Romans' work!
Tempting, still, save their king Bodvocos' corse.
Romans who vanquished, hardly adventure forth!