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

Of certain druid, which ran by, fugitive,
They hear, (ah! might forfend it holy gods!)
Is fallen the generous son of Moelmabon.
Fell godlike Maglos, in one battle-cart,
With Cerix, who, beside his germain, drave;
When broken, that was never broken erst,
Silures' battle, was by new and last
Assault of shielded men, of Geta's legion.
And Maglos peer was of Caratacus;
Next him, in beauty, esteemed and warlike worth.

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Gainst whom, he saw, (cried that distraught wardruid,)
Advance, like to tall ash, strange battle-god,
Whose lance some ship-mast seemed of Troynovant.
Thus hastily spake that druid, and passed forth.

When fell upon the Romans, Beichiad's scythecarts;
They slew men runners, mingled with Gauls' horse
They set then on who foremost expedite cohorts,
Which Britons, on that horn, had turned to flight.
With their hook-wheels; like field of shining corn,
They reaped them down, alive: and, in their midst,
Men that bare ensigns, killed they and centurions.

Now dying, o'er the field, the sun divine,
Chariots run hither, as new rushing flood;
Whom Fythiol leads: and these have stayed the flight;
(He valorous seed of the Icenian gods:)
So have they troubled the pursuing Romans.
Smoke, with foam-dripping bits, now, his tired steeds;
They bloody-stained, do, men and teaméd chariots,
Lo, halt, before the great duke Antethrigus!
But woad-stained dead lie, strewed forth, many a league,
Pasture of fowl and beasts of hill and wood.
Great was that victory of the Roman legate!

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These things, with sorrow-huskéd voice, had told,
Of comfort, empty, man with war-stained weed;
With travail, lean, and all deformed with grief;
In whom, uneath, rests kindly life and breath:
(But like to one on whom look angry gods,
Is Redoc, named in praise of his swift feet.)
Ere-yester, Redoc ran, from field of fight.

He, the king's smith, at Verulam, and shield-wright,
Was teller, oft, in king Cunobelin's hall,
Of old war-tales, which wont the royal ear,
To please. Whilst hearkened all, to Redoc's voice;
Wax cold the princes' hearts: for that is sooth,
They wot well, which this wearily doth rehearse.
But thou, O Britain's Muse, recite the rest!