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

Loud wailing; and the city-gates are shut!
Weeping of wives, which stand round on the walls.
The gods of Britons seem to mourn aloft,
Which veil that welling passing radiance,
Of the unweariable sun, with skies,
As rusty gore: in whose now waning beams,
See druids, from lukewarm blood of fallen warriors,
In battle-plain, to rise disbodied spirits.

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And still, toward house of heaven, they upward mount;
Like evening dance of silver-wingéd flies,
O'er crystal water-brooks, in harvest month.

O'er fallen men and wide-strewed arms and steeds,
Pursue, still killing, Romans. Nor yet cohorts,
Turn, their victorious face, till may, no more,
They see field's blotted gore. Call them then clarions!
They come, in the late twilight, to their vallum.
But not till shine, in vast night-camp of heaven,
O'er earth's dark face, high watchlights of the gods;
Weary with slaying, turn the knights of Rome;
Besmirched their steeds, their harness and their hands,
With the cerulean Britons' barbare blood.

Soldiers that rest, in conquered soil, and sup,
At thousand watchfires; with hope, recreate,
Of morrow's prey, their wolvish Roman hearts:
Whiles, fallen to-day, their wounded fellows lie,
(Not few,) yet, in wide slaughter-field, without:
Nor, till moon-rise, should there wend companies forth,
To seek them, mongst the dead, from castrum gates.

This sun gone down, to light the underworld,

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Of heroes and passed souls and ancient gods;
Sits Claudius now, to banquet, with his dukes.
He drinketh deep; and of the battle carps.
But soon they part forth, from fond Cæsar, weary:
Who sith all drunken, in his vomit, lies,
Alone; and routs in his pavilion wide,
Of purple silk, midst Rome's victorious legions.