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

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.