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

How dreadful is this shrouded night, abroad!
Wherein lies strewn dull bosom of earth's ground,
With her war-murdered sons, mingled with corses,
Of stranger enemies, in much spilth of blood.
The agony, ah, is, of all their myriad deaths,
Now silent; dread corruption only is,
Atrocious spectacle to those starry gods!

Sound frantic women's shrieks, from yond dune walls,
For this great day of death! None, seems, the world
Now hath, but wailing voice. Where, yester, was
A gracious Summer field; whence wont, to sound,
Ruckling of sheep-folds; and from meads of Colne,
The lowing of fat beves; and dulcet chant,
From flowery haythorn, by the river's brinks,
To silver sickle of the moon, all night,
Of the heavenly nightingale, that cannot sleep,

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For love: (so gurgling, in his trance, exults
He, on the spray, the tardy night so chides,
That all did ring of his melodious voice!)
Now only springs the shrilling crickets' din,
And noyous fenny paddocks' bark, far off:
And night-fowl light, that follow warlike death,
On whistling dreary pens, with creaking joints;
And clarions bray derne watches of strange legions.
Then sends out Aulus, servants of the legions,
Bearing some lanterns, other wine and bread;
With guard and wains, to take up wounded soldiers.
Those wandering lights, see widows, from the walls;
And faint their hearts, doubting were spoiled their dead!