 | The Dawn in Britain |  |
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.
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.
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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.
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;
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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!
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.
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.
And by their several fires, each people's bards
Harp and chant praises of their fallen warriors.
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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!
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.
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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!
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!
| The Dawn in Britain | |