 | The Dawn in Britain |  |
The morrow of that sun, gainst eve, wherein
Britons were vanquished, with much blood, have Romans,
(Buried who fell, and spoiled the island-dead,
Of bracelets, collars, arms and seemly weed,)
At moon-rise marched, which now hath filled her horns;
Towards Catuvelaunian royal Verulam.
Before them, fugitives to Cunobelin's town,
Came in; and entered, with them, Fear of Romans.
Britons were vanquished, with much blood, have Romans,
(Buried who fell, and spoiled the island-dead,
Of bracelets, collars, arms and seemly weed,)
At moon-rise marched, which now hath filled her horns;
Towards Catuvelaunian royal Verulam.
Before them, fugitives to Cunobelin's town,
Came in; and entered, with them, Fear of Romans.
Of dukes, which, that day, were, with Antethrigus:
The more be gathered, to sequestered grove;
Where holy well-bourn is, and sacred holm.
Come the most warlike Britons, to them, there,
Which scaped that overthrow. Behold not dead,
Cerix and Maglos, nurselings of the gods!
But they, sore-wounded, lie. Their servants made
Them have fresh shadows, of sweet hazel boughs:
And, lo, there booths, of other warlike lords.
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Where holy well-bourn is, and sacred holm.
Come the most warlike Britons, to them, there,
Which scaped that overthrow. Behold not dead,
Cerix and Maglos, nurselings of the gods!
But they, sore-wounded, lie. Their servants made
Them have fresh shadows, of sweet hazel boughs:
And, lo, there booths, of other warlike lords.
Hurt be the most; and sorry is the plight
Of all that, lost their wains, find meat uneath.
Halts swart Belerion king, lo, on his spear,
Decet. Him Golam saved, when, (both his steeds
Slain,) on his iron crest, he pight, from cart;
And his bruised trunk leapt, on the gory heath,
His shoulder broke. From midst thick strife, uptook
The swooning king, in his shrill justling chariot,
With hard assay, the lord of Moridunion:
And laid him, borne out of the battle-press,
And bound his wounds, under elm's freshing shade.
Wherefore have swart Belerions crowned his brows,
With holy misselden. Lo, great-statured duke,
Idhig of tawny herdsmen of the hills;
Gored in the side of spear's thrust, Demetan druid
Cures; and his wound foments, with sacred vervain.
Of all that, lost their wains, find meat uneath.
Halts swart Belerion king, lo, on his spear,
Decet. Him Golam saved, when, (both his steeds
Slain,) on his iron crest, he pight, from cart;
And his bruised trunk leapt, on the gory heath,
His shoulder broke. From midst thick strife, uptook
The swooning king, in his shrill justling chariot,
With hard assay, the lord of Moridunion:
And laid him, borne out of the battle-press,
And bound his wounds, under elm's freshing shade.
Wherefore have swart Belerions crowned his brows,
With holy misselden. Lo, great-statured duke,
Idhig of tawny herdsmen of the hills;
Gored in the side of spear's thrust, Demetan druid
Cures; and his wound foments, with sacred vervain.
Though wounded early, of shaft-shot, Marunus,
In his shield-arm, he ceased not fight, in chariot:
A leech, with certain salves, it mollifies;
Murmuring his idle spells, in the wind's ears.
This eve, Marunus will to Troynovant, ride;
To meet with Thorolf. Iddon, of great Verulam,
Old warlike lord, who late returned from Rome,
Lies wounded, in the hip, of javelin-cast;
When had he bet back, thrice, the Gaulish horse;
Leading strong band of old men warriors,
In his own cart; that would not cede to Romans.
But in the battle, was not noble Kowain.
He holds the seas, in king Duneda's ships.
Three oak-crowned warriors laid there, newly dead,
Behold: one, (omen strange!) on his helmed face,
Gin bury moldwarps, in the leafy earth.
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A leech, with certain salves, it mollifies;
Murmuring his idle spells, in the wind's ears.
This eve, Marunus will to Troynovant, ride;
To meet with Thorolf. Iddon, of great Verulam,
Old warlike lord, who late returned from Rome,
Lies wounded, in the hip, of javelin-cast;
When had he bet back, thrice, the Gaulish horse;
Leading strong band of old men warriors,
In his own cart; that would not cede to Romans.
But in the battle, was not noble Kowain.
He holds the seas, in king Duneda's ships.
Three oak-crowned warriors laid there, newly dead,
Behold: one, (omen strange!) on his helmed face,
Gin bury moldwarps, in the leafy earth.
Under oak-bough, upon wild mighty stone,
Of some old hero's tomb, sits Antethrigus;
Like to great drooping erne. For little slept
The hero hath, and tasted little meat;
And hang his beard uncombed and yellow locks,
Sith day of battle rout. By Britons' duke,
White-headed Dulas, this grove's sacred druid,
Stands; ready, lay swift hand, on the lord's mouth;
Should he, in woodness of his mind's amaze,
As they unrighteous were, blaspheme high gods.
Of some old hero's tomb, sits Antethrigus;
Like to great drooping erne. For little slept
The hero hath, and tasted little meat;
And hang his beard uncombed and yellow locks,
Sith day of battle rout. By Britons' duke,
White-headed Dulas, this grove's sacred druid,
Stands; ready, lay swift hand, on the lord's mouth;
Should he, in woodness of his mind's amaze,
As they unrighteous were, blaspheme high gods.
135
Nor Moelmabon, nor divine Manannan,
Were in that field. Both ridden to Durovernium,
Were, from Thames' ford, consult with Dumnoveros.
And many hold, through lacking their wise read,
That journey lost. And who, a young lord dead,
Yonder, lies, under shield, in Almain weed,
Was Friedemund; dead on his comely face!
Cheruscan earl, of the great house of Brennus,
Kinsman of Thorolf; for whose love he sailed,
With his own prows, five keels, to island Britain;
Seeking war-praise, abroad, in his first arms.
Were in that field. Both ridden to Durovernium,
Were, from Thames' ford, consult with Dumnoveros.
And many hold, through lacking their wise read,
That journey lost. And who, a young lord dead,
Yonder, lies, under shield, in Almain weed,
Was Friedemund; dead on his comely face!
Cheruscan earl, of the great house of Brennus,
Kinsman of Thorolf; for whose love he sailed,
With his own prows, five keels, to island Britain;
Seeking war-praise, abroad, in his first arms.
Mild-hearted warrior; and for such, held dear
Earl Friedemund was, of all duke Thorolf's Almains.
Parting, him, sick, had left that prince, mongst Britons;
With twelve-score spears of his, by Thames' green brinks;
And him commended, to the island kings.
Earl Friedemund was, of all duke Thorolf's Almains.
Parting, him, sick, had left that prince, mongst Britons;
With twelve-score spears of his, by Thames' green brinks;
And him commended, to the island kings.
Rose Friedemund up, from bed of languishment,
In fatal day, when led forth Antethrigus.
Nor the ethling valiant stroke, for Land of Brennus,
Might smite: nor, walling their stiff shields him round;
His champions and house carles might long defend,
Though stout, their lord, gainst weight of rushing soldiers.
A Gaulish shaft pierced Friedemund, in the bowels.
He yet drew breath; when Almains saved him forth,
Borne on his targe. Last, in well-pit, they cast,
(When might they not thence scape,) Friedemund's warm corse!
Which sith uptook his servants; and have brought,
Hither; in their land's wise, when this sun sets,
To bury. O'er him make Almains, now, lament;
Who sacred, (weapon-slain,) to Woden god.
In fatal day, when led forth Antethrigus.
Nor the ethling valiant stroke, for Land of Brennus,
Might smite: nor, walling their stiff shields him round;
His champions and house carles might long defend,
Though stout, their lord, gainst weight of rushing soldiers.
A Gaulish shaft pierced Friedemund, in the bowels.
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Borne on his targe. Last, in well-pit, they cast,
(When might they not thence scape,) Friedemund's warm corse!
Which sith uptook his servants; and have brought,
Hither; in their land's wise, when this sun sets,
To bury. O'er him make Almains, now, lament;
Who sacred, (weapon-slain,) to Woden god.
Much confused voice, is, in that sacred grove;
Where men, of many tribes, of unlike speech,
And painted shields and warlike ensigns, lodge.
Now washed with water of that holy well,
The most, with gathered herbs, cure their green wounds;
(Comfrey and orpine, healing setewell,
Valerian, golden rods and galingale.)
Men sleep, in shadow laid of antique boughs,
Numbed with cold juice of darnel, kex and dwale;
Wound-worts, best gifts of the immortal gods!
Where men, of many tribes, of unlike speech,
And painted shields and warlike ensigns, lodge.
Now washed with water of that holy well,
The most, with gathered herbs, cure their green wounds;
(Comfrey and orpine, healing setewell,
Valerian, golden rods and galingale.)
Men sleep, in shadow laid of antique boughs,
Numbed with cold juice of darnel, kex and dwale;
Wound-worts, best gifts of the immortal gods!
| The Dawn in Britain | |