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

Aulus enquires concerning Verulam. Britons vex the legions' march. They take, again, Calleva, from the Romans; and slay all that are found therein. The Guledig, Segontorix. Romans, returned, find Calleva destroyed now, by the Britons.

Claudius Cæsar sets forth, from Rome, for the Britannic war. His trireme ship, overtaken by storm; he is saved, to Ligurian coast.

Caratacus now passeth Thames; and tarries, in a woodside, to make funeral games, for Togodumnos. Wise counsel of Manannan. The first day's sacred pomp. The Romans approach. Now, at morrow, when a ford is found, the legions pass over to battle. Geta, beset, is hardly saved. Gorran chaceth, before him, a drove of horn-beasts, that fall upon the Roman ranks. Morag is slain, by Titus. Evening of that day of battle. His burial. Grief of Caratacus.

Tidings come from Gaul, that Claudius embarked. Aulus, at day, proposes a truce, for funerals of the dead. Response of king warlord Caratacus. Council of Briton kings. Caratacus, the same night, marches, with a part of his army, to meet Cæsar, at Kent's shore. Upon Antethrigus, Icenian magistrate, is fallen the sacred lot; to be grand-captain of the host left, at Thames, in arms. The warlord's march to Cantion cliffs.

Romans have loost from Gesoriacum port. First to assail them, in the narrow seas, are Iscan ships. Afterward, that pirates' fleet have set upon Romans, which Bloodaxe, earl, commands. A pirate keel mishaps; and the raven-standard is taken. Yet, ere the fall of night; have, with now sea-faring Cæsar's Romans, met Thorolf's returning Almain ships.

Claudius' Romans, entered Thames' mouth, cast anchor in an hythe. At cockcrow, they disbark. Kruin the maimed. Word hereof is come to King Caratacus, on Cantion cliffs, at morning-break; who has received, already, grievous tidings of the destruction of his army; which he left, at Thames, with Antethrigus.

Rain on Corinium burned, incessantly
In the next days, the lowering island skies.
Aulus reads forth, in comments of the war,
Which Julius waged, (ere ninety years,) in Britain.
Then, called, to him, his guides requires the legate;
Where is that Verulam, The-heart-of-Britain,
Dune, eretime, of a king named Cassiobellan?

They answer; Towards sunrising, from this town,
Six marches. But, and taken were Verulamion,
Should fall the more tribes, from Cunobelin's son;
And all this warfare, shortly, then, were ended.
Much marvels Aulus, where blue Britons' army,
Became, in the last days! He, to Calleva,
Deems good return; and thence withdraw his cohorts,

He left for garrison; and with speed, passed Thames,
March to assail that royal Verulamion,
Whose king rules, o'er South tribes, of all blue Britons.

Wait but the clarion's sound, ready to march,
That levied have their tents, the joyful legions:
Which heard, with all their carriage, they pass forth;
And with rude songs of soldiers, cheer their path.
They journeying, all day, see no Briton chariots;
That for refreshing of their teams, were driven,
To valley of sweet pasture, in the rain.

A certain hird was sitting on green hill,
One rich, before the coming of the legions,
In field and fold, and goods and wicker cote;
Whose wont, in days of his ere happier state,
Was, tossing pebbles in his fist, or with
Crisp lip, loud shrilling, on his shepherd's pipe;
Or warbeling, soft, among his bleating flock,
Of love-longing, his careless stars to spill:
But all his weal the Roman-Gaulish horse
Have borne away, a prey; reaved, burned and wasted!
Whence is he now become the beacon's watch.

This, spied far-gleaming arms, of enemies' march;
Rathe kindled his, there heaped, much gathered wood:

So raised thick smouldering smoke, of stalks and grass.
Sith armed, with only sling and bat, run-forth,
On strong swift feet; he, passed much upland coast;
And tiding bare, to Fythiol, within night.

That duke then, of the scythe-carts, of East March,
Leads forth, (dim shines the moon, in falling rain,)
Ere twilight of new dawn, five hundred chariots.

They come down, nigh where Romans' camp, now halt:
Lest, even of their feltered wheels, the noise
Were heard, and their horn-footed steeds. To grass,
Leapt charioteers, anon; there left in hands,
Of few of theirs, to ward the smoking teams,
With silent foot, those steal forth, with their arms.

Now are they come, to the first slumbering cohorts;
Which, weary from long march, and no foes seen,
Were lain, unfenced, to-night, down in the plain;
Neath Summer stars, about their dying fires.
Even the helmed watch drowse, leaning on their arms.

Who sleep, dream hideous voice! By bitter stroke,
Of glaive, those wake; to sleep, in endless death.
Britons pierce and slay forth then stranger Romans;
Strong robbers those, slumbering in their wet fields,
Not guests! till their red hands ache. Soon, heard tumult!

With harnessed hasty tread, the Romans' watch
Approach. Like fierce wolves, then, in the night-murk,
Blue Britons, which have houghed the tethered steeds,
Of Gauls and Roman knights, scape forth to warcarts.

Buried the dead, at day, then soldiers march:
(Fierce is whose countenance, for that ire, which fills
More, daily, in this Britannic war, their breasts!)
Nor Britons cease the legions' trains to grieve.
Each hour, they kill, cut-off and carriage seize.
Romans, now weak in horse, more slowly pass.
Nor aught abates blue Britons' hardihood!
Calling, for vengeance, on their gods, they ride;
Careless of wounds, despising warlike death.

In that defection of Segontorix,
Withdrawn, awhile, with his main power, to woods,
Warlord Caratacus is, before the Romans.
Though meal brought Britons, in their four-wheel wains,
And, with the host, are driven flocks and horn-beasts;
And feed forth swine-herds for them, in the forest:
Yet all were less, than, many days, suffice,
So great an army of Britons' might to eat.
Wherefore, whilst many arrive, other turn home.

But being, by Kynan's coming, sith increased;
When they have digged, and laid their battle-dead,
In foster-mould; march swiftly long-haired Britons,
Whose meaning now is to surprise Calleva.

Through storm, through rain, leads Caradoc chosen men.
Come nigh that dune, rushed Britons, from thick groves.
First on the bulwark, Hammer-axe did seize:
On other part, stout Thorolf, with tall Almains.

There left, with Roman sick, were chapman wights,
Slave-merchants are the most, men wont, on mules,
To softly ride, amidst the legions' carriage;
With hope, to enrich them, of poor Britons' loss.
None such, nor suppliants, Britons leave alive:
Nor, (the dune taken,) even captive Briton wives;
Lest such, being outraged, they should bring forth Romans!

Laid Caer Calleva's dust, with Roman blood!
Britons heap, glittering, there, against the sun,
That cometh up, now, as flames, to rot their flesh;
Helms, harness, spoils and arms, to their war-gods.
Kindled their blood-stained furious hands then fires;
They leave, new-burning, that accurséd place.

Yet, heard not warsire king Caratacus,

Whither Segontorix, parted from him, went.
The Guledig, night-time, rode, by a murk forest;
Where being, of hím, in that his furious mood,
Afraid, his servants, one by one, spersed forth,
In green-wood paths; which seeing, at morrow-tide,
Segontorix; he, would, (deeming himself scorned),
Then, proudly, on Bladmar, his renowned broad glaive,
Have died; but, feigned some heavenly sign, his druid,
Of favourable birds, withheld, uneath!

Segontorix, with dark looks, then, towards South March,
Rode forth: where, come to Belges' Cogidubnos;
He, with that traitorous king, dwelled in his court,
And even in his war-booth, pitcht in wide field.

Sith Cogidubnos, moved by false Vigantios,
Lay a wait to slay him; lest so warlike lord,
Before their own unworth, should be preferred.
But he, had timely warning of their fraud,
Through woman-thrall, one faithful to his house,
Born at Calleva, escaped, that night, to wood:
Where, madding in his mind, for fell despite,
He cursed man's kin! till happed the Guledig meet,
Wandering, another day, in the wide wood,
Base swineherd; who drives, in that oaken shaw,
His grunting drove. This, in his boisterous speech,

Tells, Caer Calleva is taken! and were, therein,
All stranger bloody Roman soldiers slain!

Brake-forth, like dew, on the king's wildered front,
A sweat, then, token of returning health.
Yet lurks he, in that wood-side, from all men's view,
(Whom he abhors!) save of few sullen druids,
Which in rough bramble-brakes, and hollow trunks,
And thicket boughs of oaks, have lairs and bowers.
Running with sharp war-darts, Segontorix hunts,
Dun roes, for his day's meat, now, in wild forest:
Yet having, in dim holts and the brown brakes,
None certain harbour, or abiding place.

Not little is delayed the legions' march,
By daily onsets of the Britons' war-carts,
Erupting from all woods: the chariot courses
Succeeding one another, without cease.
Weary they nigh, at length, to Caer Calleva.

When looked they, should now greet them merry note,
Of clarions, from yond paled new Roman walls;
And shine, above, bright helms of fellow-soldiers,
The rampire desert is! They hear no voice:
But seen are ravens, flying and alighting.
Avert, (all cry,) the omen, gods! discerning
A vapour rise, as smoke, now, from yond walls.

Behold, then, open gates! A fetor smites,
Their sense, ah! horrible. Halts now, with loud trumpet,
His legions Aulus; and he sends forth horse.

Those entering find all silent, blackened walls,
Thatch smouldering; squalid, with much gore, the dust;
And all the air ahum, with filthy flies!
Grave rotten stench of half-burned carcases;
Which beaks of crows have rent, and teeth of hounds.
They see, in all the ways, lie murdered Romans.
And who rode further, to the market place,
Saw trophy heaped, of Roman shields and arms;
Glaives, hauberks, shining helms; spears, cohort's ensigns.

Then found was wounded follower of the camps,
Half-quick, one only of all remained alive;
That barked hoarse, to them, from neath bank of corses.
To him, drawn forth, Scribonius gives now drink,
Hot wine, with herbs; whilst supple men his joints,
(As wont is in the bath;) and he revives.
Yet so sore mate he is, he might, uneath,
Sigh forth, to Romans; The third sun is this,
Sith Britons' slaughter! Such, the fainting wretch,
Said forth; he in Scribonius' arms, deceased.

Soldiers, their Roman dead draw to the dyke;
And rake down on them, overthrown the walls,
Much earth. This sepulture have their fellow-soldiers!
So, made them ready; they, with vengeful hearts,
And sounding trumps, march from that impious place.

Now, by foot-runners, tiding out of Kent,
Caratacus, from lord Dumnoveros, hath;
Lies, these days gathered, in all river-mouths,
Of Gaul's mainland, a new great Roman navy,
Ready to embark soldiers: and is Claudius
Cæsar now looked for, to arrive from Rome.

The port Trigemina, Claudius passed, with pomp
Of purpled magistrates, and great Rome's proud Senate:
And hopes return triumphing, clad in weed
Of gold, with glorious laurel in his hand!

Embarked at Ostia; he, with guard of soldiers,
That eve, sailed forth. The fourth night of their voyage,
Bellowed swart heavens; and fell a mighty tempest,
O'er wild waves waste. Cæsar's great trireme ship,
Rowed under land; and labouring, with bruised oars;
Wind-buffeted, twixt coast and roaring billows;
Was like be cast on a lee shore, and perish!

Rome's emperor hath, unprofitable Claudius,
Being hardly saved, under Ligurian coast;
Now entered in small haven, Antipolis:
Whence riding, many days, by mountain paths;
To rich Massilia, he is reached, at length.
Thence, by paved street, which through all Gaul, upleads,
He journeys forth, in wains, with guard of horse.
Yet partly Claudius, as in Summer heat,
Swift streaming Rhone, in gilded barge, ascends.

Now Antibes.

Lo, Thames' wide ford, where Caradoc now arrives,
Is streaming shoulder-high of his tall Britons,
As after rain. Swimming their chariot steeds,
The army hardly o'erpass. Caratacus
To certain slade, withdraws, then, his caterfs;
Twixt that ford's head, lies open and hill-woods:
Whereas, in doom-ring, of great unhewed stones,
Stand altars, hallowed of all neighbour tribes.

Wont Briton lords lead, with them, their chief druids:
And was, behight, now, druids; In this place,
Be holden, three days, solemn sacrifice;
To memory of kíng, warsire, dead Togodumnos.

When this have runners published, in nigh march;
From hundred wattle-hamlets, and from cotes,
Much people wend; even from Caer Verulam hearths.
By valley and hill, when time of night, they pass;
Or journeying, in day's light, hold forest paths;
For fear, (nor they armed folk,) to be cut-off:
So far in field, have Romans sent out horse.

An open ground in woodland; A. Sax. slæd, a valley.

Come bereaved women, mothers of slain men,
And wailful widows to Caratacus;
Which heard, should a great weeping there be made,
Of every kindred, for their fallen ones.
The first day, for slain warlord Togodumnos,
With chants of bards; the second for Bodvocos;
The third for who most, mongst South tribes, of name.
The fourth day, to the commons, should be given;
In many a field, they sleep! Caratacus,
Should poll his long gold locks. In such discourse,
Come mingled throngs, in many upland paths:
Nor yet, with voices shrill, they raise lament.

Captains and kings, the while, in council, sit.
Some read, Before the marching Romans, best
Were burn and waste. Some mean, Main power of Britons,

Should join, with Claudius, battle at Kent's coast.
Manannan gives good counsel, Send, in ships,
A power to strive, beyond the seas, with Romans,
In their own Province. Should not Gauls revolt,
And Romans be constrained withdraw their legions?
Duneda and Moelmabon praise this read,
As wisdom from the gods. In glittering harness,
Leapt bear-strong, on his feet, and elk-swift Thorolf.
Lifting to skies, that antique brand of Brennus;
Gods of our sires! he cries, and heroes' spirits!
To Summer-lands, lead on, before our armies:
So shall we Italy burn again and Rome!

How sigh, with mourning sound, these woods; and seems
Cover the heavens, so wide, black funeral weed;
And skies to weep, for Togodumnos' death!
Camog and Morfran, riding in one chariot,
Open the sacred pomp, at afternoon.

Stand children, with them, of dead lord Bodvocos.
And, after, with king Caradoc, comes on foot,
Illustrious band of kings! their long gilt locks
Have polled, for grief of Togodumnos' death;
And on the altar laid: and now are crowned
Their royal fronts, with the swart boughs of yew.
With solemn chant, then, barefoot druids pace.
Sith, thousand men of war, reversed their arms;
An hundred chosen out of every nation:
And tears distained have many a woad-grim face.

Lo, she, who wimpled women's train upleads,
Mothers of fallen men and handfast maids,
Undone, is wailful Loga, of Cunobelin,
Daughter; and sister to three battle-kings,
Widow of slain Bodvocos, dead of face.
And as she wends, on her bare feet, she weeps.
Tear-worn, these many nights and days, she droops;
That seemed she primrose pale, dank with night-dew;
Yet appears majesty, in her travailled looks.
Women which follow, weeping, her, have loosed
Their long gold, broidered, hairs. Casting oft shrieks;
These beat their virgin paps, those wrong their dugs;
And all they rend their blubbered cheeks, to blood,
(Cheeks that seemed lilies;) chanting, as they trace,
The funeral lamentation, for slain men;

That fallen, in battle, are, upon their faces.
Three times, those turn, the people all beholding,
Weeping their dead, round builded empty pyre.

Camog and Morfran, which before them ride,
Are drawn of the teamed steeds of Togodumnos,
In white emailled winged scythe-cart of Cunobelin.
Those foster-brethren set forth, in dumb show,
His sudden hurt; how, from the king's hands, fell
The reins, and fainted, under him, his knees:
How leaned, on his broad shield, the king a moment;
And when he sank down, swooning, in his chariot,
How beat his helm, alas, on the cart-brow!

Such seeing, do loudly weep thick-thronging Britons;
That hill and river-mead, with mighty sound,
Rebellow of armed nation, that lament.
Nor the, gold-girt, warlord, Caratacus,
Standing mongst his high peers and royal warriors,
Kings of the glast-stained nations, with bared heads,
Might more his mighty soul refrain from sobs:
So, for his germain, he afflicts himself,
He was not nigh, to shield, in battle-press,
Nor did receive his brother's dying breath.

At afternoon, begins, then, funeral feast;
And by their several fires, each people's bards
Harp and chant praises of their fallen warriors.

Druids, at altars, hundred slay, swart bulls,
And without number sheep, for the caterfs;
Whereafter should be quenched all Briton hearths;
Nor, sith, food cooked, by fire, should any eat;
Till new flame, for that old contaminate,
Have raised the sacred hands of the kings' druids.

Now eve; and the whelked stars seem hide their heads:
When mourned this people have, their fill, and wept,
For Togodumnos' death. Yet wives, gone forth,
With Loga, wait at heads of all the paths.
There clapping hands, these shrill, aloud, the names;
Calling all spirits, of who are lately dead,
Return! But went forth are the dead, like voice,
Which turns no more. Weep, women! Loga cries,
Weep with me, and bewail, for Togodumnos,
His people's shield, who leading the caterfs,
Some great hart seemed, at border of dim grove,
Which tosseth, in his pride, his mighty horns;
And for Bodvocos, matchless, both, in arms:
In whose burned city, ah! his severed corse,
Lies without honour of a funeral weed!

But come, again, into the hallowed place,

Where kings and druids; and flame the altar-hearths;
Loga, (whose arms more white than crudded milk,)
With deadly cheer, embraced to her dear paps,
Her children small, fell down in a dead trance;
For swoons her heart! and rue on her all Britons.

Men slumber in dun brakes, under long shields,
Pillowed on leafy moss, in the wild wood;
Their bed the forest earth, high heavens their house.
They sleep, nor look for coming of strange Romans.
Them, who uneasy sleep, wakes often voice
Of women's wailing, and loud smitten hands!
When spread new cheerful light is, on the earth,
Shall funeral games be made, of men and steeds;
Warriors to battle armed, and swift-teamed chariots.
And warlord Caradoc, many a noble meed,
To each day's victors, shall divide, at eve;
When sacrifice should be holden and high feast.
And all the tribes, assembled, with their druids;
Shall lay a curse on Britons, which gainst Britons,
Partake with the invading stranger Romans:
But, ah! a nation's prayer reject the gods!

Yester, his Belges' spies, brought word, to Aulus;
Passed Thames, again, have Britons' most caterfs;
And minished, Romans marked, the daily assaults

Of scythe-carts. Aulus deems must shortly fail
That barbare host, for lack of needful victual;
Nathless, he seeks; (for his own need of corn,)
And that anon, join battle with blue Britons.

Behold the legions' trains, marching far-off,
That seem a creeping flame, in their approach.
To Thames' fair river-meads, they now arrive:
But these, for fallen much rain, be made wide fleets.
There seek Gauls' horse, to find some ford, till eve.
Now night, bring Belges' scouts, to Aulus' camp,
Word; they, in twilight, ridden forth, heard loud chant
And harping, as of druids; and seemed all full
Thames' creeky shore, of fires and shining arms!

The streaming river goes down, all this night;
And Aulus sends, towards day, certain men, wont,
(Allies of Rome,) on bladder floats, to pass,
Bearing up weed and arms, the flood of Rhine.
Whilst march his heavy-armed, on this side, forth;
Those overswim; and on Thames' further part,
Close creeping, (now nigh day,) by thickets; erst,
They light, on some dim camp of Briton chariots;
Whose weary riders laid late, down, to rest,
In the short Summer night. And stand their teams,
Bounden, beside the war-carts; from whose wheels,
The bloody hooks; and from whose beams, were doffed

Long scythes of bronze: and, after barley ears,
Now trampling, rife, the daisy sod; they crop,
Through the long night, their sickle-reaped heaped grass.

Gins spring small morning fowls' new mingled voice.
Nor tarry pierce Batavians, on the earth,
Drivers of war-carts; and they hough their steeds.
(Wake Britons' gods, and save your drowsing warriors!)
Hewing and slaying, went those enemies forth;
Nor stint, till strewed is all that silent mead,
With corses, of whose blood ben plashes made!

Light shining, in their eyes; gin cartmen rouse!
Dreaming mischance; and heavy start to foot.
Fell yell, then, bellows from their yawning throats!
Beholding slain their fellows on this grass,
Inglorious; and who smite them are of Romans.
Though few, they on those run, with furious force.

Heard their loud clamour is of Aulus' legions,
Beyond Thames; and where founden now was ford:
And they, half-swimming, the cold flood o'erpass.
Rise up, from their night-lairs, caterfs of Britons.
Loud sound to arms! their bronze deep-throated warhorns.

Leapt on his feet, who aye wont, in his harness,
By his yoked team, to sleep, Caratacus.
Rapt, knits the king's own hands his royal steeds,
To great Cunobelin's scythe-cart. Straight, he mounts;
And smites the warlord's helm, day's rising god.

How looketh him Caradoc, round about, as Camulus!
Hark, Gorran! the king calls; who cometh, anon,
Running: and hastily upleaps the sire beside;
Who already, in white-winged, bronze-axe-wheeled, shrill war-cart,
The supple reins shakes. Then the three-horse team,
Whinnying, at their lord's voice, stoopt their broad croups,
Rush forth, spurning the mould, that seems to smoke,
Under their glittering hooves; which swart earth-clods
Cast up so thickly, as those the flocking crows
Were, which wont gather to a slaughter-place.

Is their lord's foster-hand which guides them forth;
With wondrous skill, mongst stubs and fallen trees,
Bushes and mire of that encumbered soil.
He late lay down; and yet he had not slept.
Like as who bread, unto the hungry, casts,
Caradoc cries warlike words, to blue caterfs;
Putting each one in mind of fathers' deeds.

Erst Dobuni, then, brake forth, and Beichiad's war-carts;
With eager yells, to avenge their lord Bodvocos.

Lo, Geta marching, with the foremost legion;
And him, with headlong fury, they fall on.
With sudden brunt, they hurl back his first cohorts;
And straight was Geta's horse thrust through, of lance.
To hollow heavens, rebellow yells of Britons,
A Roman king is fallen, for Togodumnos!

But the stout eagle-bearer of that legion,
Outran, against them, leading shielded press;
Of veteran soldiers, which, beside all hope,
With strenuous fight, their tribune snatcht from death.
Mounts Geta, only bruised, on new war-horse;
And dusty sweat wipes from his hardy face.
For his own broken, glaive of fallen soldier,
Is reached to him. Then Geta, his targe embraced,
He himself impetuous onset leads. Yet Romans,
Uneath, might beat, then, backward, glast-stained Britons!
Thick javelins' sleet, hurled of Italic soldiers,
Put Dobuni to the worse; whom pursue Romans.

Sith hasted Geta, taking bands of horse;
A compass ride, about dark alder wood:
Whence now he falls, unwares, on Britons' backs!
So brake their host, in two unequal parts.

Blue Britons' powers are hemmed, twixt stream and hill,
In narrow room; where only a part oppose
Can king Caratacus, against thick legions.
Stedfast, the Romans fight, with vengeful hearts.
Nathless, by ensample and his mighty voice,
Which reacheth far afield, whilst Gorran holds
The reins, Master of war, (whose mighty hands
Hurling aye sharp-fledged darts,) the king sustains,
Gainst plate-clad cohorts, that unequal strife;
Which raged, sometime, about his royal chariot.

Gorran bethought him, then, on a good wile.
He Beichiad calls, stand for him, in the scythe-cart;
And bear large shield, before the warlord's breast,
Wherein, twinned dreadful dragons shine embossed,
With coral eyes and white emailléd breath.
It forged a famous shield-wright, in West March.
Gorran, ran to the ox-herd, gathered drove
Of horn-beasts; which for whole-burned sacrifices,
And the army's funeral feast, had been reserved.
With withies and with ropes, then hastily knit
Those beves' grim necks; he chaces furious forth.
Running, with wide embowed horns, sharp as darts;
And, thwartwise, falling, on Rome's battle-ranks;
Those trample and confound their ordinance.

In this, the Icenian valour, deep caterfs,
Thick groves of spears, fall freshly on that legion
Vespasian leads, in triple stedfast ranks.
Vieing East and West March, in warlike worth;
Kynan's caterfs assail then, shaken cohorts!
Soldiers, that fly to Thames, pursue swift scythe-carts;
Whose hawk-like riders pierce the most to death.

Few win, to further bank; and dripping thank,
Trembling, in harness cold, their saviour gods.
Labours his legion; hark, bove battle-din,
Great duke Vespasian, shouting to his soldiers!
They, needs, must vanquish; else, most direful death
Them waits: their bodies rent at altar-hearths,
Of bloody gods, and should blue Britons' druids
Their panting bowels pluck, from their bleeding chests!
Vanquish, or die, then, as becometh soldiers.

Against Dumnonians, Cæsar's legate fights.
Those press on Romans, with returning force,
In river-mead. One wounded of his team,
To ground, leapt Morag, from his foundering chariot;

And drawn bright glaive, would smite atwo the trace.
Gainst him a knight of Rome, advanced his lance:
But valorous Morag smote atwain that wood;
And beat the sword this drew, then, from his hand;
And would have slain his foe: but in that point,
Fresh troop of Gaulish horse him overrode!

Who Morag thrilled with dart, was Flavian Titus.
Pierced through the navel, (where the hurt is death,)
Could Camluc's son not rise, to fight for life:
But to his foeman turned, with gnashing teeth,
His manly face, his eyeballs flame out ire.
And seest thou, ah, Togodumnos, mongst the gods!
Is Morag fallen, thy friend, thy loved companion.
Nor mighty men of Isca's royal house,
In so vast press of shields, might save his corse.

Stand still Dumnonian arms, at that crude sight!
And brake great mournful cry, from all their throats,
When abhorred Romans, o'er his body, pass!
Nor might the battle, then, Silurian Maglos,
Alone, sustain with his swart warriors;
For, backward, hurls them strong new head of soldiers
Nor might moon-shield Belerions; nor whom leads,
King Golam, Durotriges; nor main brunt
Of Trinobants; nor royal Catuvelaunians,
Being hemmed in little room, bear to them aid.

The battle staggers, partly joined in woods,
Part, in Thames' meadows, to his pebble brinks.
The day yet young, men's limbs run down with sweat,
And their sore-travailled breasts draw fiery breath.
Is purpled, with much gore, Thames' miry sod;
And quakes, as rotten fen, with warriors' tread,
And rushing steeds and battle-chariots.
But grows aye Britons' strength and hardihood.
Broad Thames runs down, among his sedges sweet,
Blood-stained, now full of fleeting carcases.

But when day verging to mid-afternoon,
Men say; amongst his silver waters, rose,
With hoary breast and sidelong dropping beard,
That, sedge-hemmed, antique Father-river's god:
Unto whom all streaming waters of the Isle
Be subject, on this part; as be all floods
His brother Severn's children, on West-half;
(Yet Severn's high fresh fords, his daughter, Deva,
Now rules.) And though, for Father Thames, this new
World's face; since o'er his channels Julius passed,
Bears strange mutation! (to his soul is geason. )
Yet pitying, in his mind, divine, blue Britons;
He Belin prayed, his radious gold-wheeled chariot
Drive down more vehement, in West bent of heaven.

Heard him the god. Like erne, stooped to sea-streams,
His team! that entering, towards their golden stalls,
(Cloud-curtained cloisters,) fades now the day's light.

Look, from that glooming firmament, then high gods,
On angry swarms of men, fighting in ranks.
Like to a fire the spears of Britons' front,
And legions' orders like wide-glittering waves!
And wipe desire of battle from all hearts.

Sith rising up, from Thames, cool evening breath,
Romans; and Britons, with Caratacus,
Who Morag mourns, with one consent, draw off.
Wends peaceably, so encumbers weariness,
The hearts of all, each army, then, to lodge.
Sith, mingled, go down men and beasts, to drink,
On pebble-strand of Thames' green oozy brinks.

Dark, without moon, and dreadful to both parts,
Night closes in; wherein Caratacus,
Warlord, for Morag, mourns. Uprising soon,
He himself, that, little moment, he did rest;
Who battled all day hath, to eat, reproves:
Whilst, yet, in field, unburied, Morag lies.

Him light forth, bearing brands of cloven pine,
Servants; with mighty men, o'er gore-stained grass.
Some shout! Is found already of Isca men;
(Where lie dead heaps of steeds, and warriors slain,)

Morag; how trampled, ah, of horses' hooves,
And bruised, alas, dead on his noble face!
That, uneath, without washing, his own warriors
Might read the hero's semblant! Lie confused,
(Where reaped Dumnonian glaives,) Romans with Britons.

Groaning, the hero, slain, on his burst targe;
They lift. The sire, with his own mantle, shrouds
His body. And treading, weary, on the dim mould,
His men, by turns, bear forth his nodding corse.
Goes up, great-paced, before them, Caradoc.
On that high hollow womb of Mother Night,
(Whose seed these flaming stars, which men call gods!)
Gazing, mused the warlord, in mourning mood:
How, to us wretched wights, no sign, those give,
That worship them, with daily sacrifices!
On ground. And bitter is his thought, had Thorolf,
Been here; and the four courses of his chariots,
Had this sun seen the Romans' overthrow!
Wherein, grief upon grief, is perished Morag;
Whom Togodumnos loved, as his own breath.

For need of provender; were the teams of chariots
Withdrawn. And the Almain ethling, yester, marched,
When had he sacrificed, for Togodumnos;
Heard tiding, that his keels, which sailed, with grain,

From Elbe's mouth, were, to Troynovant, come in.
Would not the hero, of his noble mind,
In so great war and straitness of the time,
Be chargeable, unto the soil of Brennus.

Passing, with grieved thought, forth, Caratacus,
The night-wind, to his ear, known weary voice
Bears; where lies gory most the battle-grass,
The warlord stands; whilst men bring torches' light.
And Morfran have they found, one of those twain
Forefighters, fosters of dead Togodumnos.

Ashamed, so long, they their dead lord survive,
They, all night, waked, in hoping soon for death.
But heard new cry of Romans; ready leapt,
Both, to yoked scythe-cart, longtime battled. Lies
Now Morfran wallowed, on this trod-down grass.
Fallen on his shield-arm is dead chariot-horse.
The sharp hooks wounded him, of their war-wheels,
And yerking hooves of his own dying steeds.
They sore have bruised and broken his pale face!
His other hand, yet straining spear, hewed is
Nigh off: ah, horrid war! And tarries, yet,
His warlike ghost to flit. On Camog, oft,
He calls, cast with him, from their foundered scythecart:
But this lies cold and stiff, already passed!

Brethren together fighting, in one chariot,
They a tribune pierced to death, for Togodumnos,
Frontinus Ælius, of the pia legion,
To them opposed. But flocking Gaulish horse,
Hurling thick javelins, wounded both their steeds,
That madding, in death pangs, o'erthrew the scythecart.

Here was fell Britons most, here thickest fight.
Hence lie blue dead, strewed to an alder wood,
All bushes sprent are with their jelly-blood!
The royal footstep Morfran knew and voice,
Of his warlord, germain of Togodumnos.
But his numbed other hand, being now released;
He, raught knife, fiercely his own gorge smote there-with!
Camog lies stark, under their battle-cart.

Bear forth the royal fosters, (made, their shields,
Their biers,) the warlord's men. Dumnonians march,
Before, that bear prince Morag's frozen corse.
Then, as the sire commanded, by red light
Of smoking torches, digged is one wide grave;
Before the altars of their sacrifices:
Wherein they lay them, in their bloody harness.

By the death-pit, upon his homicide spear,
Leans great Cunobelin's son; and in his spirit,

He curseth Romans, authors of this war.
Drop Caradoc's tears, on Morag's bruised dead face,
Companion of his youth, with Togodumnos.
First cast in, on them, mould, his royal hands.
Great loss have Britons, by prince Morag's death.

A. Sax. gesine; barren, empty, lacking.

Hark women's mourning, in this river-camp!
Now night; and Briton maidens war-bereaved;
(Whom formed had, as the lily flowers, high gods:)
For Morag dead, is their loud wailing voice;
Then, for all battle-slain. Had those even caught,
To-day, themselves up stones, and hurled on Romans!
Bear some ones purple stains of battle-wounds.
Other, in fury, advancing them; by the hairs,
Were haled, and slain, of swart wolf-suckled Romans.

Spread Gorran a bull's hide, for his warlord;
Whereon, now laid him, Caradoc sleeps anon;
For weary is he, with battle; and strong men
Him ward around, with hundred glittering spears.
Unquiet sleeps he, in this moonlight, and dreams.

Him thought he saw, flow, in wide firmament,
Then bloody stream, from altars of his gods,
Of Britons' wounds! He saw, thereat, rife spirits,
From faery hills, (that open lie, to-night!
And therein, dwell, men say, the newly dead;)

And gods descend, drawn of immortal steeds.
Him thought he saw, pale, come from sunless gate,
Of shadows, drive with them, his sire Cunobelin.

Gods held, to Cantion's sea, their course, forthright;
Whom all Red Taran's stormy cart forerides.
War-faring seemed they, in whose divine hands,
Were spears and glaives. And they were like to gods,
Whose imagery of sheen ivory and burned gold,
And marble stone, in temples of great Rome,
And clay, in Gaul's mainland, had Caradoc seen.
Yet, as he gazed, was left the sire Cunobelin,
On a white reeling cliff, looks o'er salt main,
Smitten by hollow, endless, surges round,
Wild daughters of the deep, in triple ranks.

And, to Cunobelin, came a spirit, upheld
The sire, that languished; who sits battle-armed,
And gave a long bright glaive, into his hand;
And cried; The event is hid, O glory of Britain!

Then waked, with sore constraint, Caratacus.
He sweats and shook himself, from sleep, uneath.
So rose, with mind to visit round the watch:
For he beholds yet shine, in heaven's wide steep,
Those plough-beves bright, which draw the wain of Samoth;
Still watching o'er his Isle, with jealous eye.

And, lo, new omen, without thunder sound;
A lightning flame, shot thwart the Summer night!
And, in the same, swift runners out of Kent,
To the warlord, arrive, from Dumnoveros,
With message; Claudius, now, from Gaul's mainland,
Embarked and paved the deep is with his fleet.

All sleep the hostile hosts, in both the camps.
Slumber, for weariness, lo, the Roman guard,
Even as they stand, upleaning on their spears.
Only the legate wakes, that, with few dukes,
Takes counsel; how might they win Verulam:
Since, soon, must corn be measured, to the soldiers:
Nor yet, unto their ears, comes, that sails Claudius,
From Gaul, with new supplies of men and victual.

Day dawning, Aulus sends forth certain Gaul,
One Laismor, wide-named for his great voice,
Like brazen trump, to publish, to blue Britons;
He would, that were observed, on both their parts,
A day of truce, for pious funerals.

Thereto sent heralds, to the enemies' vallum,
His answer made the sire Caratacus,
On this wise: Britons so much of their earth

Concede to Romans, as suffice to hide,
From the sun's eye, might their slain carcases.
He Britons' lord and king; in his own house,
For aught that he should do, of none, asks license.
He Romans grants, for this day, pause of arms;
And to call guests, (name sacred, mongst all Britons,)
Abhorréd soldiers! Send, then, each camp, forth,
Thousand unarmed, to gather in their dead;
Till this sun sets. Witness his truth the gods.

Sit Britons' kings out, in long parliament,
This Summer's sun. They drink brown dulcet mead;
But bitter, as their hearts, the idle cup
Seems in their hands. And who is there not hath
Of his high kin, some one, or friendship, lost?
In furrows deep, the slain together cast,
Men heap long mounds, on them; whence called that field,
By silver-streaming Thames, Mounds-of-the-brave.

A murmur is of lords, with untuned voice,
For grief; that reason, touching the new cohorts,
Which brings, from Gaul, in with him, Cæsar Claudius;
Soon, these should also come to land, in Britain.

Then fell a new constraint, on all their hearts.
Captains and lords, last, gave to this, their voice;
To send caterfs, to meet, at strand, Rome's fleet.
Their meaning is; (what though divine Manannan
Mislikes,) with a main power, even this same night,
Britons' warlord, towards Cantion cliffs, should march.

Absent the sire, should conduct of the war,
Be in his hand; on whom, by sacred lot,
Shall manifest high gods, they lay this charge.

Are demons which deceive your noble hearts,
O Island-kings, to Britons' extreme loss;
Even whiles they drink reek of your sacrifices!
Nor longer tarrying; fallen the fatal lot
Is on the Icenian war-duke, Antethrigus!
Who kings shall fare, make ready their caterfs.

With fifteen thousand spears, the warlord parts;
Bearing those with them, only five days' victual;
And with their fellows, left their bratts and stuff,
(As druids them prescribed,) they lightfoot pass,
Following, by Thames' side, Caradoc, who drives forth,
Before them, with an hundred Kent-men's scythecarts.

Strong Antethrigus, to Thames' lower ford,
Rides, with him. Leapt down, at dim streaming brink,

(Whence he must wade or swim,) Caratacus
Drew, joined their hands, the East-men's duke apart:
And took all-Britons'-king, of him an oath,
By moon, and these high infinite starry gods,
Upon his sword! he delve and cast, this night,
A bank; and crown with pales, round, Britons' camp;
Wherein the people closed, (whose warlike powers,
By half-part now is minished,) with their beasts,
Ere sacred dawn; in safety, still, might wait;
Till he, to them, may turn again, from shore;
With victory, that is promised of the gods.
And if should march, from Thames, the legions forth;
And to them other Britons come, in arms,
Withdraw to wood, and still outwear the Romans;
But not join battle, in an open field!

Caradoc, (unwist to Romans,) midnight, passed.
Are blowing warhorns heard, on Kent side Thames,
At day, of the king's marching Catuvelaunians.
Gather uplandish folk, to him, with bows

And shafts; wherewith they wont the flying hart
To thrill, in the dun brakes of Andred forest.
They pause, at noon, awhile, to eat and rest.
Sith lies by beechen hursts, and oaken groves,
Their path, whose mighty crooked arms embraced,
(Which guirland, oft, hoar woodbind's honey locks,)
Seem lulled, to slumber, of a smooth South wind.

Under night-heaven, which seems world's starry tomb,
They halt; they lie, till dawn, down, on their arms.
Comes Dumnoveros, then, with battle-chariots,
To meet them. The third day was, after this;
When Britons' host arrived to Cantion cliffs,
Now lodge king Caradoc round, on the white grass.

Lo, weary warriors, shadowing with their palms,
Their eyeballs! look, then, under the sun's shine,
Wide o'er salt waterfloods, towards Gaul's mainland:
To wot, if yet come sails of enemies;
Over the fleeting borders, which high gods,
Eternal fence, to this fair isle, assigned.

On the spring-flood, ere yester, Romans loosed,
From Gesoriacum, in six-score longships,
With hulls of charge; wherein stand elephants;

(Through Mauretania and Spain and Gaul, had marched;
And sith, were, at quay-side, hoised with strong engines,
On their high boards, uneath.) In other hulls,
There lie gross beams, huge unknit frames, embarked,
Of wheeled machines; to hurl huge stones and darts.
Shall train them, Cæsar's Afric elephants.

A full moon shining, lightens their sea-voyage.
But, (foes, in secret heart,) Armoric pilots,
So steer the Romans' ships; that though, towards Britain,
Be turned their beaks, yet in the tideway, driven,
Rome's fleet was, all night, towards the seven stars.
At day, a vast; then, open sea appears!
Whence, doubting, Cæsar hastily sends for Vidius,
Chief pilot: whom, eftsoon, before him brought;
To crucify, he threatens, on this mast!
If any, in him, unfaithfulness were found.
But Vidius shows, then, Cæsar, the sea's drift;
How wind o'er waves, then waves o'er wind prevail.

Till the mid-afternoon, they row and sail:
When bear down on them; that seem fleeting towers!
Tall barbare hulls. Were those Dumnonian keels,
Which sends Duneda. And as few Briton chariots

Invade a cohort; rush on, confident,
Not otherwise their prows, winged of the wind.

Glast-stained, on the brown stems, like men in scythe-carts,
Stand long-haired noble Iscan charioteers;
In whose hands javelins, long sea-pikes, slings, spears;
Grapnels and tallow and tar, in flaming pots.
The freshing wind, Britons' gross-timbered navy,
Drives, mainly, Roman longships now aboard.

Like flock of daws, cry, drenching, Cæsar's soldiers;
Which, loosed from port, had deemed, under the yoke,
Of Rome imperial, flowed the very deep!
They founder in cold billows, drenching, choke,
In bitter brine; whereon, can take none hold,
Their fearful hands. Iscans, which them o'errun,
Cry out, So perish Britons' enemies!

Chatter the toothless chaps of drivelling Claudius,
Known by his purple sail and gilded poop.
He dreads, midst mighty fleet, and marvels fast,
How full this sea-fare is of barbare arms!
Sowed dragon teeth, then, Æson's hardy son,
In these wild billows, under high plough stars?
Whereof spring ships. He would, to all his gods,
That, from Italia, had he never sailed!

Kowain, who captains the Dumnonian navy,

Is borne through Romans' South wing, (that they break,
Firing some ships;) then, fetcht about, returns,
With swelling sails, made borde, on the North wind.
And as great beves, on droves of lesser beasts,
Trample, so their gross barbare hulls Rome's navy,
O'errun! nor can contend Rome's stoutest soldiers,
Gainst Britons fighting from an higher board.

Those thrust through, nigh to the imperial galley;
Which seeing cried mainly out Cæsar Claudius!
Are ship's-wreck, cold waves' death, fire-streaming pitch,
Come nigh him; whilst the barbare voice affrays
His very soul, of yond tall blue-stained wights;
Rings o'er the unstable Ocean, in his ears!

Now falls the wind, men ween, at prayer of Claudius,
Lifting his pontif's hands, to Rome's great gods.
Made the fleet-soldiers, then, new force of oars;
And with no little loss, uneath, draw forth.
All rowing, they the wind-bound Briton hoys,
At length outgo; and, sithen, lose from view.

Till night, when covered are the stars, they row.
Then weary they lie-to, not daring show
Light, in their lanterns. Mariners shout, from ship,

To ship, all night; and clarions softly blow.
Nor see men aught, when day begins to break;
Nor, neath their swart-brown bilges, weltering deep,
For the night mist. With rising wind, this lifted,
They sail forth; and hope, come, then, to some land.

But soon, behold, longships of single banks;
Which rowed against them, with impetuous force!
Yell, in their forestems, shaped like swans and dragons,
Tall wights, of other barbare tongue than Gauls,
That handle other arms. Their crated, bulls'
Hide bulwarks, all along, and weather boards,
Ben hanged with painted shields. From the thwart banks,
Rise helm-clad wights; and on them lift bright arms.
In woven mails, shine who the rest command.
Swords, bright bills, bent bows, are in their tough hands!

Is that a pirate navy, from North-way,
And the East-sea; and from the Amber Isles:
Long blue-straked and wing-breasted keels, that walk
Paths of the wild salt waves, with hundred feet.
Though bark now swart-bleak billows, and wars rouned
The wind; with sway of oars, a battle-wedge,

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Of prows, with raven ensigns, they fall on;
Spurning, that spumes again, the surging brine.

Stands every earl, to steer, in his back-stem;
His champions, midst the throbbing banks of oars.
In the forestems, stand armed their mightiest ones;
And their hoarse throats chant, Thunder, Tiu and Woden!
The pirates' fleet, as four-score long row-keels,
This night, from warding under Britain's cliffs,
Put out: the same which whilom called Cunobelin.
And they, that, as their own, the sea-waves ride,
More than all men, which neath the stars have being,
Are valorous; and great Bloodaxe them commands.

The king of Jutes outwent then other pirates,
By fleetness of his keels. Stooping, at oars,
Those thrust now in, betwixt the soldiers' fleet,
And heavy sailing carracks: they hold scorn,
As ballast-sacks, of unseaworthy soldiers.
And aye the worse have Roman legionaries,
Men wont to battle only on firm land.
Then yells of Roman drenching multitude,
Resound: those grey waves foam out Latin blood.

But Bloodaxe steers, the legionaries' ships

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To pass, where lies less booty to his hands:
He Roman carracks mainly falls aboard.
Then grapnels hurled-out; some inleap, with swords,
Some lightly o'errunning, on their banks of oars.

And slay the pirates all which, in them, sail,
With weapon; or drive, o'er their boards, faint Romans,
With untuned laughter of loud barbare throats!
Men of high looks and hard unvanquished force,
Wolves of the stormy forest of sea deep.
But when the earl hath, of a pirate keel,
Some carrack cut or twain, from Roman navy;
Being that as much as he might handle home,
In haggart seas, such, with their preys, fall off.
They take the large, and steer forsaking Romans.

Boulogne.

Father Sky, and antique war-god of German tribes; of whom, the third day of the Teutonic week is named. The word is the same as Greek Zeus, Lat. Jovis, etc.

Yet sped not all of those bold Esterlings.
A pirate keel mishapped, of fifty rowers:
In whose long dragon-stem, o'ergraven with runes,
Hight Sigefugl, a Roman beak pight fast.
Running, with three-square sail, other longship,
Like courser, that takes bit betwixt his teeth,
Reaved of the wind, fell on that pirate-board;
And brake, even to the staves, her bank of oars
Seemed then, with opened seams, that keel should sink;

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Nor holp runes, graven on their rudder-blades,
Of victory, which should save the ship from loss.

Hurled Sigemund, the ship's earl, his renowned spear,
Knit on a thong, that never swerved before,
Hight Sigegar. It smote on the helmed front,
Of Ælianus, a captain of fleet-soldiers,
Fellow of Massa; who, in Rome, whilere,
Was master of a school of gladiators.

Fell Ælian down, astonished, as one slain;
Whence kindled Massa, who his fellow sworn,
Banning the pirates' barbare gods and Fortune
Invoking of great Rome; he, in their keel,
Leapt, without targe; and furious onset made;
Wielding two swords, with mastery of fence,
And skill of stroke. And Massa eftsoon pierced
(Though many, round him, their tough shields had cast,)
With that in his right hand, the Scandian lord,
Pirate of immense stature and huge force;
Who in scale-armour closed, that shines like ice!
With whom, he wrestling; flung then, with foot-cast,
Him backlong; and his targe, (smirched with his blood,
Which he, gainst him, upheld,) he cleft, with glaive;
And carved his gorge. He, Sigemund, shield-swain, sith;
And Segrim, steersman, slew: and were they of those
Which had them borne, o'er-proudly, at Camulodunum.

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Rent Romans down their war-keel's gilded ensigns:
And Massa, (slain tall thanes which it defended,)
Took, then, those pirates' raven-standard, Tufa!
And yet the Almains' champions and boats' carles,
In the steer-stem, fight, for their lives, gainst Romans;
Though darts rain, on them, of two Roman ships.

But seen their lord and Segrim, slain, and Tufa
Is taken; and how are fallen their strongest champions,
In the forestem; the pirates their life-days,
Like unto cable-roll outloost, that hangs,
All-ready, on a ship's pin; perceive now ended.
They may not choose, but sup, to-night, with Ran,
Under the billows blue. The creeky shores,
Of their own coast, their eyes, the forelands fair,
No more; nor Britain's rime-white cliffs, may view.

Disdaining sue that barbare folk, for life,
Wherein they, which were freeborn, should live thralls:
Intoned loud chant, to the Alfather Woden;
They, all sudden, from broad belts, pluckt blades, at once,
In furious sort, with these, themselves did pierce!
They, then, thus dying, heapmeal glide and start,
Like bloody take of herrings, in the water;
Leaving opinion of their barbare worth,
To soldiers that admire, still, with pale faces!

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Whilst those thus perish, with inrushing wave;
Surging, (like funeral mound!) lo, long grey billow,
The pirate snake-keel reels, under those Romans!
That hasten, to their longship, turn aboard.
Founders Sigefugl; and Massa, in the abysm,
And most who with him, in war-shining arms,
Sink! He brays horribly; and spuming his fierce mouth,
Buffets, with force, the sliding brine, a moment,
But for all Romans might, with quonts and hooks,
And strife of oars, they could not Massa save!

Almains draw off. And when the ships of charge,
Whereof the most were scattered, and some lost,
Assembled be again, to Cæsar's fleet,
Claudius, vext with continual flux of heart;
Seen now the dreadful rover sails, at length,
Sink under wave-brow of vast horizont,
Though little, yet, sun's burning wheel dismounts;
From middle-height, gan, for his wine-cup, call;
Drinks mulse, and gives commandment, Set on meat.

Has Claudius Cæsar supped, on golden plate;
And full of surfeit, drunken, on his bed,
Of purple; whereon, like draff-sack, him heaved,

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His servants, routs. And as one newly dead,
No more recks he of death, nor of late dread
Of foes, nor drenching fathoms of salt deep.

Yet late, in this moonlight, have met with Romans,
Other long barbare prows: are Thorolf's ships,
Sailed from Thames-haven, and steering for Elbe's mouth;
Thence to return, with a new charge of victual.
On Rome's long galleys, full of drowsing soldiers,
That heavy row, those rush, with furious oars.
And as few dolphins scatter school of fish,
They Romans sperse, in the dim night and chace.

Dreams, drunken, Claudius; and their dreadful yells,
Io triumphe! shouts, him-seems, of Romans;
Passing his triumph gates of sovereign Rome!
Loaden with spoils of the Britannic war.
But envying some wind-god, the glory of Thorolf;
Night-mist now breathes, twixt them and Cæsar's ships,
And veiled the heavenly signs. Have those the moon,
But these not light to sail. Before their stems,
Seemed Almain shipswains loom, then, as white cliffs:
Wherefore their steersmen, fearing fall on land;
They lie upon their oars; but Romans pass.

By Cantion's Foreland, have the Romans' navy
Now safely sailed, and entered Thames' large mouth;

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(Shines, estuary, neath vast chamber of the stars.)
Like immense swany brood, lo, hundred ships!
Long rows, that Medway, Toliapis, pass;
Borne on a streaming tide. In night's mid-watch,
Sith Cæsar's pilots bring up in an hythe.
At clarion's sound, being anchors there outcast;
Lie silent the longships, wherein there sleeps
The power of Rome! At cockcrow, waking, Claudius,
Commands, by trumpet, That disbark his soldiers.

Who first, to land, descend, trench on that shore,
Then naval camp, foursquare. The immense elephants,
Uneasy was, upon that oozy strand,
Expose; and hardly achieved sea-weary Romans
Had all this busy travail, till late eve.
With wheels and pulleys, soldiers of the fleet;
Sith, on Thames' tiding shelves, under their camps,
In double rows, draw up, the fleet's longships.

Then Cæsar offers, solemn sacrifice;
A sow to Hercules: and to divine Julius,
He pours wine out, great father of his house.
And yet admire Rome's war-wont legionaries,
To see, in hostile land, none enemies!
Sith Claudius, leaving guard of his fleet-soldiers,

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One banner and six cohorts, legionaries,
To keep this naval camp; with blowing trumps,
From Thames' salt meadows, marched, at morning red.

Sheppey.

Came swift-borne tidings, to Caratacus,
At day, of Romans, that, in Thames, take land.

Riding on-high, in heaven, the white moon-goddess,
(Like mother of this silent starry night,)
Wide overshines that sullen water-face.
Toiled some poor fisher, nigh, in bascad boat,
That creeky place, to get his children meat,
Kruin, the maimed; and having now outlayed
His wicker sales, he cast, with prayer to Nuth,
His net; paid-out, and gan it now spread-forth;
When infinite navy arrives, strange keels, strange sails!

Then Kruin, softly, rowed, in his frail bark;
And, in thick sedges, hid him, lurked for dread!
He watched an hour; sith Thames'-sound, fearful, passed.
But toucht his little skiff, to Kentish shore;
He wakes there hamlet, with his shrill hulloa!
Men roused; confused, run from their cabans forth,
To the salt-tiding river's oozy brinks;
Deeming that wolves, or some boars' hunt, it was:

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For chill, like reeds, that waver in the wind,
They stand! When those have Kruin's saw heard out,
They holp him in to land. Those straightway, choose
Then, two of theirs, strong runners on their feet,
This tiding, to bear forth, to warlord Caradoc.
As scudding bush, before some lenten blast,
(Yet night,) those leap forth, o'er fair field of Kent:
Sith, boldly swimming, they o'er Medway pass.

To a great village, soon, then, those arrive:
Whose old men, from their mouths, heard that war-word,
Send swiftest runners; which towards Durovernium,
Speed, on their feet. Others they send, warflames
Kindle, on beacon-hill, calling to arms!
And heard from mouth, loud shouted through the fields,
To mouth, is the Land's-cry, as the day springs:
Which cometh, shortly, to the warlord's ears.

On Kent's white cliff, sits king Caratacus,
Mongst long-haired, glast-stained, captains. Leanness is,
In all their looks, and cast down Caradoc's face.
A dread long night, them seems, to live; were sweet
Short death! for other, earlier, tiding brought:
The army is cast away, with Antethrigus!

He duke, when Thames Caratacus overpassed,
Continued, with his power, nigh that ford head,

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Two days: but Aulus, levied from that place;
Had marched and pitched again, towards Verulamion.
Now when had Aulus tidings, through his scouts;
That minished is, by much, the island host,
He certain Gauls sent out, men of his trust;
Which should make semblant, come to Britons' camp,
Of treacherous mind, to Rome-wards and the legate;
Feigning Rome's yoke, (this ignominy, and servitude!)
All Gauls, alike, would shake from off their necks.

Lo, led those Gauls, before duke Antethrigus;
Who sits, like a grim boar, with woad-stained face:
Unto whom few lords, at new light of the gods,
Be come to council: and the hero gives
Ear, to those Gauls' lewd tale; as that, the morrow
Ill-starred day is for Romans, day wherein,
Defeated twice of Gauls, her consuls slain,
Perished great Roman armies; day, when fame
Is, (those affirm,) lie drunken Rome's great gods!

Wherefore, when Romans shall much dread to fight,
Britons provoke them forth. Gauls then, would pass
To them, from the two wings. Of Antethrigus,
Persuade those the high heart, to Britain's loss!
He, then, the Roman-Gauls dismissed, with gifts.

His spies returned, the same day, those, to Aulus,
Relate; how Thames Caratacus had o'erpassed,

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With part of Britons' host. They few caterfs,
This side found; and them leads another duke.

And was, with hasting feet, to Britons' camp,
New power of East-men, for whom Caradoc sent;
And not few glast-stained bands, from the South March;
Arrived at Thames, by night, to Antethrigus;
Whose confidence was, thereby, much more, increased.

At day, sent Aulus, to his legions' trains,
Word, that they seem, disordinately, to march;
As who remove in fear, with haste and noise.

Whereof, when tiding brought to Antethrigus;
He deemed this the occasion he had sought,
And loud commands, blow up Icenian warhorns;
That march his army and pass before them chariots;
But left, unread, the omens of his gods!
Icenians foremost sally, a wood of spears:
Then swart Silures, strange Belerions;
And those stout hill-folk, whom king Kynan leads,
(Proud warriors those of mountuous Venedot. )
Then Golam, with sea-dwelling Durotriges.
Now all these hastily marching, from broad leas,
Of Thames, as who pursue, approach the Romans.

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Aulus feigned flight, unto green hills nigh hand,
Whereas, who are first come, gin vallum cast.
But Antethrigus, sent, before him, chariots,
It caused, by noblest Britons, be proclaimed,
In the enemy-army's hearing, to allies
Of Rome; Who yield their arms, and pass to Britons,
Should have both saved their lives: and who, in Britain,
Would dwell, should ploughland, sheep and house receive.
Behold then, many treacherous Gauls outrun!
Feigning who bows fling from them, and who spears.
Stretch suppliant hands those, as they swiftly run!

Get them to hindward, of his host, commands,
Loud, Antethrigus; that helm-clad, in harness,
Leads up long glittering wave of shielded breasts.

Then legions turn, in triple ranks, their face:
And battle joined, the first impetuous brunt,
They easily all do sustain of blue caterfs;
On whom fall, from an higher ground, their darts.

From Britons' hindward, sounds then confuse shout!
Those Gauls, which fugitives seemed, assail that part;
Uncertain, yet, to most, what thing men shout!
Whence dread the more; and wrying back their necks,

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Ingenuous Britons, with poised spears, forget
To smite, or, with shields, fence their naked breasts.
Gauls drawn out glaives, conveyed beneath their cloaks,
Have treacherously fallen, on the people's backs!

And yet strong battle wavered, on hill's breast;
When bleak-faced Fear; one of the bounden spirits,
Whom heavenly gods embayed, in wall of frost;
But broken had, to-night, that caitif forth,
Transfiguring his vast shape, to winter cloud,
From heaven-dwelling gods, himself to hide;
Gan shoot, like icicles, down his unseen shafts,
On the blue naked tribes; whose bodies pierced
Are suddenly of a strange unkindly cold!
Britons recoil, then, sore amazed their hearts;
So that they fall on their own battle-chariots;
Which part o'erthrown, with madding teams, their own
Woad-stained bands do o'errun! These, that had been,
For Britons' safety, now become their bane.

Rector of scythe-carts, most expert of Britons,
To manage warlike steeds and painted chariots,
Fell Rutupiæn young lord, Heroidel, slain;
In that he arrived, in strength of some war-god,
Swift-teamed, before the main of warlike carts.
The hero, for he would not urge his steeds,

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In Britons' press, nor more might wend his warcart,
Would have leapt down to battle on his feet.

Was then, an arrow attained him, in the nape;
Sped from a Gaulish bow-string. Passed, from part
To part, the shot; and like as royal erne,
Whom thrilled, under the wing, hath hunter's shaft,
Plumbs from the loft; so fell, from chariot-beam,
The hero down: and trodden on bruised grass,
Mongst the mean people, was, of flying feet.
And overdrave his own hooked wheels, alas,
The dying prince; and spurned his steeds' bronze hooves:
On whom, (now tangled in the reins,) anon,
They overthrew his windy rushing scythe-cart.

And taken had prince Heroidel a young wife;
Little ere that coming-in of fatal legions,
At the fond nod of drivelling Cæsar Claudius;
Bright Erdilla, flower of noble maidens all,
And daughter to rich lord of Kent. Her left
He enwombed, with fruit of happy marriage.

And is, alas! Heroidel's this brayed face,
This the duke's front? ah, whose ringed golden locks,
Thus rolled in bloody dust! was this the prince
Of Rutupiæ, who leapt to battle-cart,

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At call of the warlord and Dumnoveros;
In stature, like a god, in sounding harness?
Whom, o'er a fourth part of the Britons' chariots,
Had set Caratacus, sire, to fight with Aulus.

Is this that helm and front, as Camulus;
Which Erdilla's gentle hands, with plumes of erne,
Dight, and whereon she girt the golden band,
Of noble charioteers? the bearded lips
Are these, where last farewell of her spouse-lips,
She smiling-weeping kissed; when, from his hall,
She brought forth his cart-quivers, filled with darts?
And to her lord's forearm, his nimble shield;
And the ivory-helved whip took to his right hand!

He leapt to scythe-cart, and the supple reins
Shook, not then looking back, on his young wife;
And though sore longed his heart. At their lord's voice,
Wherein seemed, in hoarse sorrow, her name sound,
His generous steeds rushed from the sounding porch,
Panting to battle; and cried the prince, Farewell!
And would she have cried again; Heroidel speed
Thee, and save, in warlike field, the holy gods!
But voice remained shut-up, in her dear chest,
In anguish; presage, ah, of coming ill!

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Yet running, like to wailful plover, cried
She after him, a space; last, losing sense,
When seen, like little powderous cloud, the prince;
Who foremost rides, mongst Cantion's pomp of chariots,
She, of her maidens, was borne in, dismayed.

Now Erdilla, sitting in her maidens' bower;
(For enters she, as morning ray, no more,
Heroidel's hall,) sighs, in herself, and weeps;
For spouse, and that which lives, unborn, in her:
And daily vows makes, to her saviour goddess;
That might she a man-child, like his hero sire,
Bear. Soft her women, which her sit before;
To spin, to weave, the raiment of his house,
Of line and wool; whisper and weep, for ruth;
In that they look on their loved lady's grief!
But she marks naught; so is her thought distract!
Whilst, from her long-lashed eyes, fall burning drops.

She a sampler broiders, all with silver wire;
Hoar sea-cliff's image, on fair Cantion shore.
There was repulsed, Cingetorix, (her grandsire,
One of four kings of Kent,) great Julius' ships.
Was there, her lord, her love, did meet with her,
In the truce-month. Her needle she applies,
Gainst that glad day, wherein she hopes the prince,
Her spouse, come home, with famous victory,

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Should, mongst his lords, arrayed in this bright weed,
Sit feasting, in high hall of Rutupæia:
But, ah, he untimely dead, may turn no more.
In tunic stiff, with dusty sweat and gore,
Of mastery of brave steeds and battle-chariots,
He all unmindful lies. Foul ravens' beaks,
Shall fight, for spoil, o'er him, of his blue eyes!
Craking, and beating their stiff sheeny wings.

And, in one chariot, with Heroidel, slain,
Young Tulamor fell, fell pierced by Roman javelin;
Brother of Erdilla. Tempting him to save,
Golug, renowned, called the Black-hand-of-war,
Was himself slain; and generous Serpiol,
Leapt forth from his caterf, Belerion captain.
Hemmed-in the hero, of immense enemies' press,
Prevailed not his great force. When might, no more,
He his bloody lance, which slain hath many Gauls,
Advance; him flocking horsemen thrilled with spears.

Derwain, to succour; or, which he had vowed,
(His entire friend,) to give, for him, his life;
With scythe-carts' brunt, brake through Gauls' power of horse:
But in the jaws, a Gaulish lance him pierced,
Over his hide-dight targe. Tumbled from cart,
He astonished gaped; and dying vomits blood.

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Silurian champion passed by, in men's view,
(Is this one of great name, in his West March;)
Driving foes, like a flock, before his glaive!
This morn, had Uthol sworn, in battle-rage,
Which breathed in him war-fury, (wherefore bound
His helm, of shining broad oak-leaves, is seen;)
That would he slay, mongst thickest enemies,
Forth, without pause; till he himself fell slain.

Like some tall hoy, that strides before East-wind;
Deep battle-ranks he wades. Morgallion! calls,
Hark, his great voice. (He wist not that proud warrior,
Whom he, his father's son, himself, in place,
Of a dear son, had nourished on his knees;
And skill of arms, in his first manhood, taught,
Is fallen, already; even where rushed forth, of soldiers,
Great shielded press!) Thick fledged, lo, with Gauls' shafts,
Is now, of bull's hard hide, the hero's targe,
That seems a grove. As robust foster hews
His billets in a wood, this champion fares.
He shields and plate rives, on the brazen chests
Of little-statured, swart-strange Roman soldiers.

At many's cry, that call on him, to save
Heroidel's corse, he, turned him to that part;

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Then seemed some craig, that loosed of strong night-tempest,
Down-leaping from hill's crest, to plain beneath,
Through thicket breaks, and sith a shelter is;
So scattered he, before him, Gauls and Romans.

But, in that point, being come his hour, from earth,
Forewrit in the eternal stars, to pass;
Unwilling, him forsook strong Camulus.
Smote slinger of the Gauls, then, his helmed front.
Reeling his sense, astonished at the stroke,
He fell to knee; and stayed him on his hand.
And in that posture, running Rome's allies,
Him pierced Batavian swordsman of huge force;
And battle raged, round Uthol's bloody corse!

North Wales.