The Dawn in Britain by Charles M. Doughty |
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 | The Dawn in Britain |  |
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.
And straitness of the time, delve, with their spears,
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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.
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.
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!
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.
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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.
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!
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.
Which holds the glory of great Cunobelin's house;
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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!
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!
| The Dawn in Britain | |