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

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.