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

Withdrawn, now, on both parts, were the two armies.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!