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

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.