 | The Dawn in Britain |  |
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.
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.
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.
93
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.
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.
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.
| The Dawn in Britain | |