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

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.