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

The third eve, to that river's bank, arriving;
They, nightlong, in thick battles, overwade.
Is hardly the sun risen, when warlord Caradoc
Offers swart bull, an whole burned sacrifice,
At old grave-mound, of Corwen and great Brennus:
Omen of ill! uneath, might kindle priests,
Their cloven, hastily laid up, dewy, wood!

In that were seen, disordinately, to approach,
Three horsemen, like as who flee forth for life!
Each, on his steed's mane droops, for weariness.
Men help them, soon, from trembling steeds, to light,
Before the kings. The men are Catuvelaunians;
Which cry, with little left in them, of voice;
Is taken great Verulam! and there failed their breath.

King Caradoc, pluckt the garland from his head,
And the wreathed gold, from off his royal neck;
And bracelets strewed forth, on the meadow's grass!

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Nathless, by reason of their former jars,
(Heard that cold tiding,) covert pleasance creeps,
In some lords' breasts! But leapt, eftsoons, Marunus,
To chariot, generous, in his sounding harness;
And, like a god, upstanding, the hurt prince,
(So comely he is,) above much Britons' press;
His word spake to king Caradoc, with great voice;
And were, with spears of only Troynovant,
He would redeem Caer Verulam, from strange Romans!
Likewise sware Golam, and the prince of Almains.

Hark! as not blown of mortals, sound iron throats,
Of warhorns. At that portent, warriors' hearts
Leap in their breasts. Lords run to the caterfs.
And, lo, those which came, weary, from long march,
Stand ready, impatient, in tall battailous ranks!

To royal chariot, leaps Caratacus;
Strong of a spirit which inspire the gods.
That seen, his captains mount. To Camulodunum,
Fenced with banks and towered gates, the warlord leads;
(City inexpugnable, in old Britons' wars.)
Wide, follow their kings forth, the blue caterfs.

In four-wheel wains, are borne those wayworn wights,
Scaped out of Verulam. Come again their spirits,
Yet trembling, bleak of hew, to warlord Caradoc,

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Their king, who, with them, questions, in the way;
They answer make, how cast victorious legions,
Their vallum, by slow-streaming Ver, and trenched
It deep and wide. Soldiers, then, having crates
Wrought and bound faggots; under knitted shields,
Approached, Cunobelin's dyke, by night-time, filled:
And, hewed down alders, in the river's mead,
They timbered mighty towers. At third day's end,
Those over-looked already the dune walls.
Were most-part striplings left therein, in arms,
With old spent wights: all men of likely age,
As known unto the king, in the king's wars,
Being then in field. Those rammed-up Verulam gates,
Nathless, did man, wide-round, the city walls;
And many sieging Romans slew, beneath.

But come fifth dawn, in twilight and thick mist,
Blown from the river meads, with ladders, soldiers
Made sudden assault; and taken was, in a moment,
The wall. Descended Romans, in the town,
There cruel slaughter made, of age and youth;
Killing all whom they met: sith Verulam's streets,
They put to sack, till eve. Young men and maids,
All which they saved, were bound then to be sold.
(Permitted, and had longtime promised Aulus,
Spoil of the royal dune, unto his cohorts.)

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When the long baleful light, of that day's sun,
Was ended; drunken of the Britons' mead,
Soldiers reeled, with lewd songs, in Verulam streets.
They yelled, like wolves! Shrieks then of wives and maids,
Outraged, by their own burning thresholds' light!
And wretched Britons, dying, cursed their gods;
So rich in heaven, that offerings of poor wights,
Despise; nor heed men's immense miseries!

Sounded the last repair, gainst midnight, Romans:
But not ere few remained, yet hidden, Britons,
In their foul luxury and drunkenness, had oppressed
Many abhorréd Roman legionaries.
In the night's dread, those die an enemy's death!
Was, in the market place, and murk cross streets,
Then set strong watch; and standing at the gates,
Did tall Batavians keep Cunobelin's court;
For Aulus so commanded, as wherein
Were all their chiefest captives stived that night,
Under the tower of the king's treasure-house.

At day, and when now portsale should begin,
Of comely young men, virgins, noble wives;
Cast up the bronze-dight, great nailed, oaken doors,
Whereas, since yester, were those captives pent;

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Behold, all lacking needful nourishment,
Languished: mongst whom were lying many dead!
For not few striplings, not few noble maids,
Beating their golden heads, on the flint stones,
Slew themselves, that night; and so scaped from Romans.