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

Thorolf and Antethrigus march together, to recover royal Verulam. Battle before the town; which is taken, and the Roman garrison therein slain. Higelac.

Camulodunum beleaguered; queen Embla sends forth all women and impotent folk. Roman navy enters the river's mouth. Caratacus languishing to death, is, by Embla, saved forth, in a covered cart. Guitelnus, the city's magistrate, bids all, which would have saved their lives, go forth. On the morrow, hurt and aged Britons, and few warriors, which remain with him, and druids, burn themselves, in the temple-court of Camulus!

Claudius, at afternoon, drawn of elephants, in the royal chariot of Cunobelin; enters the dune gates. Asiaticus, a noble Roman, bids to banquet, the emperor Claudius. They sup together. On the morrow, Cæsar lustrates his navy; and the legions. He makes donation, to his soldiers; and bestows military ornaments. Claudius decrees, that here were founded a Colony of Roman soldiers. He bestows the diadem, on the treacherous Cæsarian Briton kings, Bericos and Cogidubnos. Asiaticus sets forth stage-plays, before the army and Claudius. Captive Britons are sold, under the spear.

Claudius, hasting to his triumph, embarks for the Continent. He comes, in Gaul, to Lugdunum, city of his nativity. That town's folk decree public honours, to their fellow citizen, imperial Claudius. Herod Antipas is in exile, there. Come again to Rome, Claudius sets forth a great triumph-spectacle of his Britannic war.

In Britain, Troynovant submits. Vespasian subdues Vectis. Moridunion is taken. Vespasian's legion winters at the Baths-of-Sul. Story of the king Bladud. Aged Dumnoveros, fighting with the Romans, is slain. Durovernium taken, Kentish havens submit then, to the Roman arms. The saints and brethren succour the poor, in Avalon.

Now Bath.

Was in that fatal sun, when the blue tribes
Were smitten, under walls of Camulodunum;
That the ethling Thorolf, with stout bands of Almains,
And wains, marched forth, from merchant Troynovant.

His noble heart is set, reconquer Verulam,
That royal dune, whilom of sire Cunobelin:
Whereof might tiding spring, to Wittig's ears.
But lords which should, with him, Marunus, Golam,
Have marched, to win again Cunobelin's town;
Crowned with oakleaves, and leading blue caterfs;
Valorous contend, to-day, with Roman legions;
Before great Trinobantine dune, by Colne:
Where, déstiny is, they both, to-night, must lie,
Out, in cold mead, among the battle-slain.
Nathless, shall Cadern's generous son, Marunus,

(Though occupy his limbs a mortal frost,)
Not breathe forth, in that field, his warlike ghost.

Now, in place called the Three Wents; where Verulam path
Verges, by heath, beyond the Potter's Wood;
Behold, where long-haired bands already pass!
Are they blue Britons, East-men; and them leads
He, whom late Aulus vanquished, Antethrigus:
Unto whom appearing Andates, to-night,
Hath promised Victory, before Verulamion!
Whence, at new day, three thousand valiant warriors,
(And, most-part, those were clients of his house,
Which gathered, to their lord, erewhile, in forest;)
Exulting in this hope, with him, march forth.

Known, from afar, each other; then approach
Almains and Britons, with loud welcome shouts!
Soon Antethrigus, who stands, in shrill scythe-cart;
And Thorolf, ethling, sitting on white horse,
Knit warlike hands: so march they on, one host.

Ere noon, strange portent! in Caer Verulam walls,
Romans hear, from the trembling element,
Sound confuse trump, shout, din of divine arms.
Woden and Thunor, furious gods of Almains,
Inspiring in their breasts, make ethlings' harness

Seem light on their proud chests; their weapons reeds,
Which, of themselves, seem wag in their tough hands:
Force they, to Almains' limbs, impart of steeds.
Then riseth, in them, as a tide divine,
Diffused in all their veins. To victory, intend
Their hearts; or else to sup, this night, with Woden!
Contend Icenians, with them, in swift course;
In whom, the battle-rage, breathes Camulus.

Half-afternoon was, when, lo, Verulam walls!
Rome's watchmen, on that guard-hill of the dune;
And who on tower-gate stand of Cassiobellan,
Sun-glittering host descry, and hostile arms.

Straight Ulpius, tribune, bids his clarions sound.
Cohorts assemble, in the market-place.
He, Roman, and disdaining, pent in walls,
To suffer barbare siege, leads forth his cohorts;
And them erects, in threefold battle ordinance.

Britons, in thick caterfs, ascend and Almains!
Who, wading Ver, had seemed, now, dreadful wood,
Of wavering spears, to little-statured soldiers.
Their dukes, with shout, lead on: they fall on Romans,
With immane brunt, above the human wont.

As fierce ureox, that pusheth with his horns,
The Icenian hero fares. All, in his wrath,
He brings, to naught, that stands before his face!
And when brake Calad, in his hand, his glaive;
Resistless giant, he with outrageous lance,
Among them wades. At each stroke, he some Roman
Strews; piercing, (through hard shield or brazen plate,)
With fury, his body, or his open gorge.
So spurns, (that came this land, to reave, of Brennus,
In long row-ships,) their dying carcases!
The furrows run, with strange Italic blood:
For smitten was this battle, in eared field.

Thorolf, like mower, reaps Rome's sharded ranks.
Him follows main of warriors, from the Elbe,
Terrible of countenance, of unvanquished gods.
In the ethling's hand, is Brennus' divine blade;
Which sledged, (men say,) for Balder, the bright-faced,
Brown dwarves: it heired, of blessed gods, his house.
And Romans fall, like reeds, before his force.
That battle-king, above the mortal press,
Surges great shouldered stature, in bright harness.

Seems Thorolf's helm to lighten! Sacred boar,
(Gold-bristles,) is, of gold, the hero's crest.
(Token of Nertha, Elbe-land's mother-goddess.)
And, lo, amidst the fray, down-lighted raven,
On Thorolf's neck, sent from his father Woden!
Which, with his wings, doth fan the ethling's heat.
Whence yet more grows his pulse, that seems his brand
Thor's hammer, which thwart-smites dark rumbling clouds.
He went through Romans, as they were a mist.

Not otherwise than as some nesting thrush,
In sweet spring time, her gaping birds to feed,
Hacks silly snails, till she the mangled life
Out-snatch; his hard unconquerable force,
Shields bursts, shares sharded plate, on Romans' breasts;
And drives the groaning spirits from their pasht chests.
Than these, none mightier lords have fought in Britain!

The same as Thunor or Thunder.

Erewhile, save that wherein fights Antethrigus,
In field, was seen no scythe-cart. From thick grove,
War-wheels then issue, of an antique guise;
Whereon stand two old warriors, whose hoar locks

Fly backward, in the wind! Loud, on war-gods,
Those call; in that, with furious team, they set
On, slay, pursue, outlandish enemies.
For Scævola seen to fall, noblest in Verulam,
Of Roman knights, his soldiers turn their backs.

And were those certain brethren, Pen and Keth,
Champions, whilere, in king Cunobelin's court.
Stout Keth, (who foster-sire to Togodumnos,)
Hurler from chariot was of the king's spears:
But Pen was tamer of the royal steeds.

Bereaved of sons, those sally, anew, to wars.
Howbe, with eld, now stiffened are their joints;
And pith lack their old limbs. The sires' intent,
On whom, to-day, new battle-woodness falls;
Is smiting them, before whom fell their sons,
(Camog and Morfran,) end with the self death.

Last, when forsaken of all, Silvanus Ulpius
Had turned his face, and spurs set to his horse;
Him, lightly, hart-swift Thorolf overran,
Upon his feet: and from tall steed, that tribune,
Smote, with gore-dropping plat of Brennus' blade,
Bruising his helméd brain, adown alive.

Thorolf, left Ulpius swooning, on the grass;
Commands his thanes, him spoil of arms and bind!

His oath, to accomplish, he o'erseas had sworn;
To slay some Roman captain on hill-tomb,
By Thames, in Bret-land, of the hero Brennus!
(Glories great Thorolf, to be called his son.)

He, loud, invoking then, his sires' sire Woden;
After Rome's flying cohorts follows fast;
To strew them, with his spear, kill and cut-off.
But envying, whilst thus Romans fall, some god,
The glory of Thorolf; Ulpius, not yet bound,
Come to himself, and now despaired of health;
With his own secret steel, did smite himself,
Even as his mother's uncle, Uticensis!
And sighed, in that he breathed his spirit forth;
In him, should none unworthy bands, distain
The honour of his ancient noble house!
So dies, not vanquished, midst his enemies.

Britons, which lately thralls, shut in their dune,
Seen these things, from the walls, rise, and slay Romans.
They all within put to avenging sword,
Man, wife and child, that bear a name of Rome:
Then run they, all bloody; and cast up Verulam gates!
Where now, o'er Roman dead, in, boisterous, pass

Almains, Icenians. Thorolf enters first:
Great glory is his, win Britain's royal dune!

The minor Cato.

Were Pen and Keth remained, in cart, without;
With Antethrigus, who yet courseth Romans:
Nor, in Caer Verulam, enter will that duke;
For vow he made, he would not lodge in walls;
Nor wash his face, nor comb his ravelled locks;
Till driven, from Britain, were again Rome's legions;
And should they have the narrow seas, repassed.

Then brother spake to brother; and the spears,
(Which, in their stout old hands, have fugitive Romans,
Till evening, slain,) both cast, from cart, to ground:
Why linger we? See'st not, my father's son;
How goeth low, to her setting, this late sun?
When, windows closed in heaven, should overflit,
Under steep skies, our souls, this field, all night;
Nor find, with happy spirits, a resting place.
Their team they stayed: then lighted both to ground;
And each fell, groaning, on his weapon's point!

And sink their corses, at the powdered wheels,
Of their scythe-cart, and hooves of their war-steeds.

Which seen, come running Britons, from the dune.
They lift those old proud warriors dead, in wain:
So lead towards Verulam gates, or were they cold.
And whilst give gods yet twilight on the ground;
Thereunder they them hastily grave; as druids
Read and appoint. And many, in dream, to-night
Met Pen and Keth: whose praises bards shall chant!

Britons, to Andates, heap, in Verulam streets,
All spoils of Romans. Washed, from battle-blood,
His hands and war-weed, wends, to sup, now Thorolr,
In king Cunobelin's court, with earls of Almains.

But so it grieved his high heart, to behold,
What scathe, in royal dune, was wrought, of Romans;
He would not enter, in king's wasted hall;
Where, with his Briton kinsmen, Togodumnos
And Caradoc, warlords both, he lately supped
The dulcet mead, in antique cups of gold.
Nor, after meat, yet sitting at high board,
Would the ethling drink, though Roman wine be brought,
Sap of a tree which drink, men say, their gods!
He it disdains; nor Bragi's bowl he tastes:

Nor Thorolf hearkens to victorious lays;
Though Higelac be come in, his father's reeve;
Who newly arrived, with three swift keels, from Elbe;
And song-smith, passing-well, in Almains' tongue,
Can make and chant, of heroes and high gods;
But weary of fight and darkened is his mood!

Of Higelac fabled is, in forest Almaigne;
How light-elves, of the stream, (whose shining weed
Of glass,) him, elf-born, out of faery, brought;
And cradled left, by moonlight, in the house,
For his own child, of Leofstan, the king's steward;
Where was he fostered then, of woman's breast!

But grown the babe, (and being now of man's right;)
One morn, before the sun, twixt sleep and wake,
In Easter-month, when gin sweet birds to sing;
Lying, by shield and arms, in his king's hall;
Midst Wittig's slumbering warriors; Oin, elf-king,
Horn, (heirloom old, hight Gold-beak, mongst home-sprites,)
Him brought, of Woden's dearworth stolen mead;
Whereof his young lips tasting, he received
Shape-craft, as fiery billows in his breast!

Was he; sith steersman bold, and royal steward,
Who that lay made, wide-known yet in North parts,
Hight Wisdom of the gods. Him in Elbe's forest,
Men say, had, (his first Summer's sea-fare past,)
Taught antique spirits, of the white water-floods;
That stream from hills of heaven. Wont rise, at even,
Those singing clear, to harps of golden sound,
Under the hollow wave of waterfalls!

The Teutonic April; named from (A. Sax.) Eostra, goddess.

A. Sax. scopcræft; (poesis,) the Poets' art.

Cold fleeting Ver, mingled with blood, ran down,
All night; and corses of slain steeds and men,
Cumber his sedgy brinks. From Camulodunum,
Vast field of swollen Britons' carcases;
Foul ravens flit, to sup at Verulam,
Of fallen Romans. Few, 'scaped forth, have round
Them, in that twilight, mounded bank of mould;
Weak fence, in an hill-place. Wounded the most,
In the dank herb, they lie, and daze their hearts!

When risen new cheerful light is, on wide earth,
Those Roman soldiers, creeping faintly forth,
Did leaves, for hunger, gnaw, of trees and grass.

Then footsteps finding, of some fore-past cohorts;
They journey on, fearful; staying, who are hurt,
On wild staves of lopt boughs. Dread fills their hearts;
(Had many, in flight, their shields and harness cast;)
Whiles they pass forth, in hostile wilderness,
By unknown paths! where hips and bramble-berries,
And worts, those, in the way, must seek for meat.

For naught those, (minding overthrow of Varus,
In stories old,) now cure; might they but save
Their weary lives! When of those fugitives,
The first, to Colne brinks, now sixth eve, arrive,
Already, is their discomfiture known to Aulus.

Lighted one Tertius, servant to the quæstor,
(His tabellarius, mongst the Gaulish horse;)
One, whom had raging spear of Antethrigus
Hurt. Weary after battle; he, with few,
Which, scaped to horse, had all that night ridden forth,
Towards rising stars. He lights, by the brook Maran;
To rest, and wash his angry wound and bind.
But feeling come, with trembling, the cold death;
Rent Tertius, hastily, roll of his account:

And part, (on Jovis Vindex, calling!) binds
He, round light scabbard of his horseman's glaive;
And wrote, Ex clade Romanorum, Ver .
So cast, in Maran's stream, his dying hand!

Certain, next eve, post-riders to Longport
(With Belges, guides,) it fleeting found, by hap,
In ford of Lea; where watered they their steeds.
Those one sent back then, who this bare to Aulus.
Have perished, all which lingered in the path,
Fainting with wounds and thirst and weariness;
Whom finding, angry Icenians did cut-off.

Lo, Roman towers, that now wide walls o'erlook
Of Trinobantine war-god Camulus.
Is sway in some and battery of ram-head beams:
From other, mighty archery, of steel-stringed engines;
Launching both great winged darts, as shafts, and stones
Of poise: walls, whereon now beleaguered Britons,
May stand uneath. Few days, they, yet, them fence,
With countermures, gainst that strong siege of Romans.

Helm-clad, like Belisama, lo, queen Embla,
With archers' guard and spears, walks hourly round:
And where, war-lady, Embla stedfast mounts,

There power, with beauty and grace seems of a goddess.
And who is there, hearing her heavenly voice,
His shield not strains, in sterner wise, and arms.
Who, even the aged, feels not then revive,
(Beholding her, clear glory of womankind!)
The flowers of spring-time, in his withered blood?
All, after Embla look, where she doth pace.

And weight is aye, of sorrowful dark thought,
And travail, in all breasts, for Caradoc,
And cannot be repressed; because not yet,
He, Shield-of-Britons, wakes out of his trance;
(Fighting, for mastery, in his royal veins,
The radical heat, with venim's deadly force.)

Murmur, who barefoot go before that porch,
(Where the lord lieth, not tasting meat, save oft
Is little milk and mead poured, twixt his teeth,)
That Togodumnos perished by a shaft.
Opinion also, mongst blue Britons, is;
(It druids sought out, of some Numidian captive;
Which this, by signs, to them, declared!) the shot
Was tinct in venim; (namely of hornéd asp,
Bush-adder of their droughty wilderness;)
Whence must the strongest die; whom not preserve,

The gods! By day and night-time wakes queen Embla,
Singing aye spells, by loved Caratacus.

Vol. iv. p. 26.

Archers of Andred, nigh five hundred bows,
Keep Camulus' walls; else weak were their defence,
Which hold the dune, wives, striplings, and old men.
Each eve, they watch, to dawn; come day, till even,
For the returning armies of blue Britons.

When that first rampire, which girds-in their town,
Have Romans won, part-razed, and choked the dyke;
(Wherein sharp tree-trunks, which so bound, beneath;
And wreathed their boughs, and that in rows, above;
They, by the soldiers, could not be removed;)
The inner bank, their miners under-delve;
Bank of heaped earth, it is; that, Gaulish wise,
Bonded with pillared beams, and rammed with stones;
Gainst which prevail, not lightly, battery of engines.
Moreo'er, by day and night-time, have relays,
Of cohorts, digged wide trenches, in the plain;
To lead away the currents of the Colne,
That naught might, to the sieged, but brine, remain;
Which daily infloweth, twice, of the salt tide.

Wherefore, when whelmed is now, on the low world,
Night's hollow shadow, without gleam of stars;
The queen, all who unapt, by kind or age;
(Wives, little ones, old wights,) to fight on walls,
Gathered about her, in the market-place;
Sends weeping forth, with three-score Andred bows;
Where path, o'er fenny strand, lies, at low ebb:
And thence, by privy ford, unwatcht of Romans,
(Through favour of some god,) those silent wade.
Seemed Camulus go before them, in a cloud;
That, unmarked, they pass sentinels; and beyond,
Come safely o'er Colne fen, soon those take wood!

Is Cartismandua sitting, sad in bower!
She, though the dune be shut in, by assiege;
And Caradoc lies at point of death, she hear,
Comes no more forth; she wakes, by Vellocatus.
Though wood her heart be, for her squadrons lost;
Would not she reck of loss, would but crude heavens
Her, ah! restore this deadly Vellocatus!
Whose wan lips seems already, to have kissed,
Goddess, abhorred, of death! would but her save,
Her gods, from this last loss of hoped-for love!

On Morrigu, she, great queen of witches all,
Loud frantic calls; and on false Arianrod,

For succour, goddess of the silver wheel.
By spells, sith, summoned her familiar spirits;
She enquires, how fatal stars, might from their courses,
Be wrested, and compelled the very gods?

Again, the Roman siege, till eve, endures.
Then carracks' sails and masts, of long-beaked ships
Seen standing, navy of Rome, into Colne-mouth!
Had tarried them the wind, which verred, when past
They were Thames' frith; and fell on them, sea-reek:
Whence the third morrow, (being Southward cast;)
Returned, by the two Forelands, steering North;
They, fetched Thames' tiding mouth, had safely passed;
And Fowlness sith, ingathering with the land;
Where seemed them, the element snowed of feathered kinds;
Whose clangor like to voice, at dawn, of legions,
That levy camps. Night-time, by stormy banks;
Where hollow waves and mingled Syrtes seemed
Contend, and yelling Britons from sea-brinks;
They slowly sailed. But undescried Rome's navy
Was, of those swart, wing-breasted, long-ribbed, keels,
With nimble dragon-stems; which for them wait,

Under the grey East wind, of Saxon pirates.
Land-inward now they fleet on Colne's salt tide.

Sent Embla; and called then elders of the dune.
And come those, soon, in king's hall, to the queen;
They do behold, (who seems, ah, nigh to death!)
Laid on a bed, warsire Caratacus.

And seeing now they, by sea and land, beset,
Not longer, might endure; but every hour,
This city in danger lies of leaguering Romans:
She deems, (as was established before-hand,)
The sire to save forth, in a covered cart.

In troublous hour, of sorrowful last loss,
They thank queen Embla, and praise her pious read.
Make ready, a líght wain soon, some, and yoke-steeds;
Other call Andred archers, for their guard,
From the sieged walls. Who noblest do therein,
Lo, reverent lift, (on pillows, now borne forth,
Swooning, yet all his sense dismayed,) sire Caradoc!

With mournful cheer, and harnessed as she is,
Queen Embla mounts. His sacred head upbear
Her wifely knees: and troubled cast to ground,
Britons their weary looks; when now they fare.
For, (queen of all their hearts!) were, without her,
As moonless night, this dune besieged, on Colne.

She, more than walls, was rampire of the town.
They, lifting up sad eyes, on Caradoc, gaze,
Britain's warsire, whom should they see no more;
Looking, for their own deaths, upon the morrow!

Now covertly, on float of beams, is wafted o'er,
The king's wain; to yond fenny brinks of Colne.
(Claudius, new muster maketh of his legions;
Wherefore his horse and cohorts were withdrawn,
By favour of the gods, down in the plain,
To hindward of the dune, this afternoon!)
Three hundred Andred bows, the warlord ward:
And as they from salt strand, up, fearful fare;
Much Embla, in heart, prays, to her Briton gods,
They might win safe, to far-off fords, of Ouse!

Queen Cartismandua, sith, (to whom queen Embla
Had message sent;) from Camulus' river-walls,
Now dusking the air, in like sort, lo, outfares:
The Northern queen outfares, with Vellocatus!
That prince upholding, in Brigantine chariot,
Drawn of white steeds. And leans his manly face,
That languishing seemeth dead, on the queen's breast!
Whence, falling long adown, his golden locks,
Are hers, in lovely wise, confused with his.
Brigantine guard, (tall champions of her house,)
March, with the queen's wain forth, as sixty spears.

But, sith, she her steals from Embla, in dim night;
When passing forest-places; and is cause
The cold chaste looks, to Cartismandua, are loath,
Of that sad queen, still seeming her reprove.

In this long glooming, come, like dim pinegrove,
Those Roman masts and yards: that anchors shoot,
Where Colne's fleet spreads, below the dune; and deep
Thence, slides the stream. Then mariners, in their ships,
Then soldiers, thrice, loud shout, in Latin tongue!
Their cry passed the hill-dune: it heard the legions,
Whose double voice makes answer, from two vallums!

Quoth doting Claudius; that now, after meat,
Sits in the imperial tent, with purpled captains,
Par-breaking, nodding his cup-shotten face;
Our ships, Meherc'les! drink-mates, fellow-soldiers,
From Tenedos be come in; whose wooden wombs,

Shall bring, to-night, forth harnessed Roman soldiers;
And Britain's high-walled Ilium, shall burn!

To Colne-side, hath sent Aulus, Roman knights,
With Gaulish horse; in Cæsar's name, commanding
The præfect, Cælius, he disbark his soldiers:
And early, at morrow, when should they hear trumpet,
Beyond dune walls, of there assailing cohorts;
They mount up likewise from their river vallum.

Shipmen, which climbed now their main-tops, surview
That town, in part, of the blue barbare Britons!
Behold, how, in a twilight market-place,
Go thronging people armed; mongst whom, white druids.

A. Sax. fleót, estuary.

Those sit, in council, in the temple-court;
Where warriors come in, from round-leaguered walls;
Other are hurt, are some old impotent wights.
Guitelnus, reverend, white-browed magistrate,
Speaks, mongst that dying people of Camulus,
Whilst all give ear; hark speaks, with submiss voice;
Over the river quagmires, lies yet path,
Where the sea-lavender and salt samphires grow:
Haste them, whoso would saved their lives, there pass!

A weeping company, lo, for their homes lost,
Bearing, their stuff, in sacks, with fearful foot,
Outwend! They Colne, in the cold glooming, wade.
Camulus, the most, of those, then saved: but met,
With other, men in barks, (armed waterers,
Of the fleet-soldiers;) that few having slain,
Of those poor Britons; bind, for thralls, the rest.

Guitelnus caused, be delved, this night, deep pit
And also wide, under their market-place:
Where thing, which cannot be, by fire, consumed,
Might buried lie. This done, he, magistrate,
Cast public wealth in; druids cast temple-gifts;
Cast private men their good! Trampled of feet,
Last rammed they, even with the ground, the place:
That when were taken the dune, might stranger Romans
Not find to spoil this substance of poor Britons!

That remnant, lo, in their wide sieged-round walls,
(Which may, no more, a golden sun, behold,
In heaven,) sit armed, round house of Camulus. Much
Those commune, sad, in sheen moonlight; and watch,
Their devout eyes, that starry pomp, on high;
Wherein be mansions of their fathers' gods!
Beseeching those, remember Foster Britain,

After their deaths! Guitelnus spake of wars,
Of Tasciovant, and divine Eppilos,
In ancient days. Vain thing, quoth he, it were,
Old unweld wight, that may not handle, more,
His weapon, seek save, by unseemly flight,
Few days, (days void of honour,) of vile life.

His wise lips ceased to speak; for, even now, springs
Ambrosial sacred dawn, of the light-god.
And hearken, a far-off bray, ah, heavy note,
If any feared to die, of Roman clarion!

Hark! Britons' watchmen cry, that come the legions!
All death-vowed, with Guitelnus, then uprose.
Their druids them lead, in Camulus' sacred court,
With solemn tread, his temple-house, thrice round.
Then, seeing, of all their deaths, the looked-for moment
Arrived is; puts hand, lo, Guitelnus, erst,
To eaves of the god's porch; and pluckt-down thatch!
The like do all: then, passed forth, in the street,
Men rent down spar and rafter. They sith heap
These round about them, in their temple-place.

Utters already, in heaven's Eastern steep,
Born of vast night, new day, his teeming head!
Guitelnus stretched, towards that eternal god,
Amongst his citizens his two palms; loud prays,
Abate, lord, the flames' torment, and abridge
This fleshes anguish; ease our dying smart!
Be as a glaive, of hero's hand, pluckt forth,
From scabbard, the swift passing of our spirits;
And be exalted to the deathless gods!

Kindred and friends, holding each-other's hands,
Embrace, for the last time, and kiss. Loud druids,
Intone, in this extremity, antique hymns;
Of virtue, against the eager edgéd pangs,
Of raging element, that shall on them seize!
Priests, from the altar, bear forth flaming brands!
All stedfast take: they fire then halm and wood!

With furious high intent, those Britons' throats,
Shout, (from amidst their burning,) saviour gods!
Who fall down scorched, soon smother, in thick smoke:
Thus all those perish, with a constant heart!

Dread, hungry-tongued, wild nimble-footed flame,
Roars of their torment. Soon the wattle-streets,

It raught. Of hill-set, leaguered, Camulodunum,
Surges vast balefire! on the morning wind,
With flakes of flame upblown, stench, falling ash.

Legions, in march, behold, amazed! Cries Claudius,
Long, gazing-on; Ha, Ilium doth burn!
Sound out the legate's clarions, that halt legions:
Then cease fleet-soldiers from their river part!

Noon was, when Cæsar sent forth certain knights,
With Gaulish horse. Passed undefenced dune gates,
Those circumspectly enter; and burned streets,
Behold; all cindered, full of smouldering heaps!
Wherein those spoils, long promised, lie consumed;
Which should have eased, and even enriched Rome's legions.

Father of Cunobelin.

(Or Eppillos;) a son of Commius.

The next hour, lo, in sight of all, draw in
Gigantic yoke of Afric elephants,
The imperator Drusus Nero Claudius;
In chariot standing, of Caratacus,
For the more glory. And was that winged white war-cart
Taken in the battle. Kowain and Venutios,
Leapt, when o'er-yerked Goldhoof the beam, to grass,

Down, hastily; and they with sharp skeans shared his trace.
Constrained to leave, midst mortal press, king's chariot;
Those saved the royal team, and that uneath!
Themselves scaped hardly away, on the steeds' backs.

Cæsar commands, when Camulus' gate he passed,
To raise, in forum burned, of Britain's Ilium;
(Which vapours yet, like a vast dying pyre,
Full of white bones of Britons,) the imperial
Pavilion. Of the bitter reek, recks Claudius
But small; nor stench even of his enemies' corses!

Lo, in the prætorian tabernaculum, erst,
He sitting, of his legate; bravely endites
And seals now imperial letters, to Vitellius,
His colleague, (namely in that year's consulship:)
Sith, to Rome's Senate, writes magnific tidings;
Under his auspices, how Britannia prostrate,
Lies; their metropolis burned: blue Britons tamed;
He added hath, another world, to Rome.

Now Asiaticus, who, from Gaul, outsailed;
To wait, in Britain, on the imperial state;
Being Epicure's own son, and friend to Claudius:

(By certain his procurers, in Gauls' camps,
Men which can speech of Britons,) daily enquires;
What dainty pleasures Britain doth afford?
Yet lately showed this senator, in the field,
Was sprung, of worthy loins, his noble blood;
That could he, (as could Luculle,) both fight and eat.
In thickest strife, named tribune of a legion,
(For Dolabella hurt!) he led his soldiers,
All day; and with what countenance wont are Romans,
To lean, with flower-crowned brows, at solemn feasts.

This lord, to banquet bids now the emperor Claudius;
Of such poor wilding thing, to taste, to-night,
As, (this side seas,) have found his Gaulish servants;
Of any singular savour, delicate;
Sturgeon and lamprey and eel, with poignant sauce;
Roebuck, and swan's fat roast, and snipes in paste.
And Chian, and Falernian wine he hath;
And mulse, of a ripe grape, from Roman Alban;
And oysters, which his shipmen fished, where Colne
To salt sea-flood, outgoes; more sapidous
Than what fat shells, are culled longs Tyrrhene strand.

Is only for them twain, this supper dight.

Shall maiden-captives serve them, which unlaced,
Unto the navel, loost-down their long locks;
Of perfect feature, each esteemed a talent;
And tickle the cold veins of Cæsar Claudius.

Bright daughters of who noblest, mongst blue Britons,
(Were wont, companions of the Verulam's kings,
With them, on swift war-wheels, in field, to ride;)
In what day taken was great Cunobelin's dune,
By sudden assault, wherein your brethren slain;
Were ye also sold under Roman spear:
But not, for that, are bond your high-born hearts,
To your Land's insolent stranger enemies!
In your dear stedfast eyes, none wantonness
Hath dwelling-place: but their proud maidengaze,
Swart, little-statured Romans hath despised;
Naught matchable, to your people's comely youth!

Lo, the triclinium, in wide Seres tent,
(Without the walls, prepared, in a fresh mead,)
Of Asiaticus! There, on purple, couched,
At board, now Cæsar Claudius, leaning, quoth,
Good is this loaf, of sheaf reaped by our soldiers!
We also some will fraught, in ship, to Rome.

Which grind shall Briton captives; and, thereof,
Be loaves set, on all tables, in Rome's streets;
What day, to Roma's citizens, we shall make,
(As erewhile divus Julius,) triumph-feast.

Thy maidens, Friend, be like to marble nymphs,
Of Praxiteles, fetcht to Rome; those which
Stand in impluvium of our golden house;
Swift Cynthia's train, with silver bows; that seem,
And rattling quivers, on their budded breasts,
Leaping their high round flanks, on crystal feet,
Follow, with loud holloa! the chace in heaven.

This, which beside me, my Valerius, hath
So bright long hair-locks, like ringed wiry gold,
And gracious breast, whereon sit wooing doves,
Meseems that famous Cnidian Aphrodite,

Great goddess mother of our Julian house;
Whereby now Thermæ Agrippæ are adorned.
What, damsel! mix me cup of Lesbian wine;
And give, with kiss of Venus' lips, of love.
Ha, these, that skill not of our Latin tongue,
Hold scorn of Cæsar, Asiaticus!

And he; Have patience, lord; for they are barbarous!
Is the ignorant condition of all women,
They smally account of learning, wisdom, place;
But only of the first flower of a man's youth.
Would such not mock, and we their feet did kiss!

This Briton loaf, accords, imperial Claudius,
Well with old Padan cheese of Mediolane,
And succory; and some mixt bitter herbs, therewith,
That make digestion sweet. A baxter, once,
That hurled the rumbling mill-stone, with his hand,
Robust, (hath left Terentius writ,) was Jove.
But more, and better, Epicurus saith;

Is earth Jove's mill-stone, whereon ever rolls,
(Frothing out infinite mortal miseries,)
His over-stone, grinding us men, to powder!
How cheers, to-night, my divine Claudius?

And, ruckling, he; Methought, beyond the seas,
This isle another world. Valerius quoth,
And thou, our god, join'dst that new world, to Rome!
Old Bacchus, women vanquished, in the East;
And men him called a god, for there found wine:
But Claudius conquered world of giants and corn!
Though many were the gods of the blue Britons,
Prevailed our divus Claudius o'er them all.

That men made gods, may sooner be believed,
Than gods men made. If gods this mortal mould
Shaped, what may deem men of their handiwork!

But that were children then the blesséd gods!
Not their craft's-masters. Were none list of meats,
And gracious Venus' mirth, and Bacchus' cups;
Who, longer than his nonage, would, therein,
Continue, willingly! Taste victorious Claudius,
These shells, and shalt thou find them saporate,
Full of cold salty humour of the sea!

And babbles Claudius, yexing in his talk;
Wherein lie pearls, which sought for Julius.
And he, to Britain, would invite Rome's Senate.
With vinegar, and tart wine of Tusculum,
They should esteem these oysters of the Colne!

Thus Claudius spake, returning from his vomit;
With awry garland on his reeling pate,
Hemmed with white locks. Sith, for his stomach's health,
Of Britons' mead, (as Nestor's cup,) with leeks,
And certain powdered cheese, prepared, he drinks.

Better than crabbéd wisdom of rough brows,

Fond sophist's scorn, and sour wise-seeming looks;
(Being idle labour, of as vile account,
As daylong wafting of the forest's boughs,
Or quapping voice of the insensate waves,)
Is mirth, with present solace, and heart's feast.

Thus Asiaticus: and cries, Her'kles! Claudius,
Thy saws sound better than Lucretius Carus;
Whose versets made I Attic in my youth;
When I the like, ha, my Valerius!
Or of more praise, could deftly turn, as this;
Celestial Sapience! Thou the phœnix bird,
That sings from heavenly spray, midst glittering stars;
Few are the days of men, in mortals' ears.
Are men the puppets of high heavenly gods.
Good reason then, were present joys embrace;
And not some cold conceit of things that be not:
Fools they, that lead their lives, in wilful death.

This from the drivelling lips of Cæsar Claudius;
Who hardly, passed, three other years, in Rome,
Shall give, but only choice of unjust deaths,
To his companion Asiaticus!

As them, this so rich consular ere commanded,
Kindled have mariners of his ship, to-night,
(Without, in the poor Britons' cindered street,)
Watchfires of rosin, sandal, pleasant woods:
As in his gardens, on the Pincian hill,
(Magnific alleys, fountains, porches, arcs,
Adorned with many famous statues,
Of vanquished Hellas,) is his sumptuous wont;
When any supped with him, of Cæsar's house.

And being now all made ready, newly invites
That noble Senator, imperial Claudius:
Who, yexing, walks forth, leaning on his hand;
To gaze on Ilium, that yet flames, by night!

When Cæsar passed hath the pavilion's porch;
Those damsels, suddenly, ah, greedy of their deaths!
Together, at a run, brast furious forth.
They, with their fisted hands, did smite aside
The watch: they beat back harnessed legionaries;
Such pith, in women's arms, of the bold Britons!
The Almains' guard, then easily they forerun;

And, in yet smouldering pit, full of deep fires,
Where, of god Camulus, erst, an oracle was;
Wherein now, fallen down, burning mighty beams!
Those noble virgins, frantic, start, alas!

Where fell they, in fiery powderous hearth, alas!
Brief was their torment; surged a folding flame,
Crowns and consumes the glory of their gilt locks.
Their eyes, that wont, like molten stars, on Romans,
Shed scorn, be sightless cinders made, anon.
And veiled, in modest wise, round, that crude flame,
Their gracious limbs, that sink, down soon, in death.
Seemed, noble Briton maids, your saviour gods
Allay, of your pure flesh, the dying smart!
And yet they, a moment, wreathe, and did uprise;
As when cast gobbets, on some temple-hearth!
Horrible, anon, arose, as smell of roast,
Of them, the parfume of whose life was such
As spring-time's virgin-bosom of the earth.

Then come few soldiers; those gaze-in aghast!
And some was heard reproach old doting Claudius:
Yet answered other, Better thus their deaths,
Than, with long bondage, when deflowered their years;
And slaves their maiden's honour had possessed!

So came, half-drunken, leaning on the hand
Of Asiaticus, fond imperial Claudius;
Somewhat, by this new-rushing, in the night,
Amazed; though follow guard of Ubba's spears.
Cæsar, at the pit's brink, stayed; and admired,
To look on Priam's daughters' fiery grave!
Fell, from the blear eyes of his totty head,
Therein, few rheumy drops. Might Scævola's deed,
In stories old, not be compared to this,
Quoth he, that burn themselves the Britons' dead!

When shines new sun, in heaven, with cheerful face;
And lavrock mounts, from battle-bruiséd grass,
Of Colne; and comes already crow, of cock,
To Claudius' ears, and clarions sound the watch:
He, from his surfeit, trembling wakes and pale.

Sith, entered his chief captains; their relation,
To the imperator made. To Cæsar, Aulus
Records; how had tumultuous sailed his army,
From Gaul. Then he, grand pontifex of Rome,
Decrees lustrate, with old Etruscan rites,
His legions. Cæsar, lo, and purpled dukes,
With vervain crowned, descend to Colne's green brinks.

Erst priests, now noon, at altars, sacrifice,
Lo, hundred ewes and hundred farrow swine,
To Rome's trine greatest gods, and purge the navy.
Thereafter mounted Claudius, in his litter;
Is, in large plain, borne forth. With glittering ensigns,
At clarion's sound, now halt his warwont legions!

Lo, Cæsar seated, in imperial state,
On bank, made with degrees, of the green sods.
Conformable to old Rome's Etruscan rites,
(And whereof even a learned history hath
Claudius himself compiled,) should be led round
A swine, a ram, an ox; with solemn pomp
Of priests and shrilling pipes; and chief centurions,
His legate and who tribunes of the legions.
But certain Hellenes, flatterers, (libertines
Of his,) much labour to persuade fond Claudius;
For his more dignity, by how much exceed
His deeds all memory of the former ages;
That, in their stead, were led forth elephants.

Assented he; and from his ivory throne,
Beckoning, sends for the huge slow-footed beasts:
(Howbeit he, for them, beves will sacrifice.)
Waver, the while, Rome's legions, glittering ranks,
As the sea's summer face: for soldiers' hearts,

Conscious of guilt, wax lean, in their proud breasts:
Misgives them, Claudius Cæsar cruel is,
More than Caligula. Ís not also Claudius,
In Roman theatres, noted to be pleased,
To look on much blood-spilling, and men's deaths?
What, and if Cæsar, that now is, commanded,
(Cast lots,) each tenth stand forth; and punishment,
For their revolt, be, by their fellows' glaives,
Slain! Yet they well have quit them, in the war;
And Britain's fields have a large tithe consumed!
Standing on this, now on that other foot,
By turns, each, unto both opinions, leans.

But their derne whisper, come to Cæsar's ears,
Through Sabine and chief tribunes of the legions,
Claudius that affects clemency of great Julius,
And magnanimity of divine Octavius,
Framing conformable countenance, to their, crowned
With laurel, sacred temple-images;
He lightly passeth over their default,
According to the laws. Consoles them, sith;
Saying, they full wéll have borne them, in the war!

Sith, Victrix names he, Conqueress of Britain,
His fourteenth legion; which, in that sedition,
Had foremost been; yet, since they passed Gaul's seas,

In every field, most valorous those were seen.
He ordáins then, that be named the Saviour-legion,
Henceforth, those pia cohorts of Vespasian.
But Cæsar, on the ninth, Hispaniensis,
Displeased, laid, (legion, which their eagle lost,)
This punishment; that they hold still hindmost place,
Till ended were this war, in every march.
Soldiers then, knowing their lives saved; in Britain,
Salute, (this second time,) Imperator! Claudius.

He, Cæsar, for have given him the gods,
So high felicity; and his heart is glad,
(In token he would, there none were called to-day,
In question; neither mourning be put on,
For any Roman, whom the laws have slain;
In antique tablets writ, of frozen bronze;)
Commanded, be his eagles crowned with bays,
And wreathed the bundles of his lictors' rods,
(Wands cut from Colne-Scamander's osier brinks,)
With flowers. Moreo'er, donation to the army,
Sheep, without number, spoil of the poor Britons,
And thousand beves, he gives with wine of Gaul,
And double rate of corn, that might, to-night,
Make merry, in all their tents, victorious soldiers.

Sith, rising in his see, commemorates Claudius;
Reading from scroll, what noblest deeds were done,

Of Romans and allies, in Britain's war.
Hark Cæsar names them, fifteen legionaries,
Nor fewer of the warlike Gauls and Almains;
And loud, approach, commands them, one by one!

They, before Claudius, on degrees of sods,
Lo, stand; that should, for valour, in the field,
Be crowned in all the army's open viewing.
Hath Cæsar certain baskets to his hand,
Prepared; wherein, be laid their glorious meeds,
Brooches and bracelets, golden collars, chains,
Phaleræ, and horsemen's silver ornaments.

An oak-leaf-plight crown, by itself, is seen;
Guerdon, for life of citizen preserved!

Loud spake then Cæsar; Fulve, of the ninth legion!
Receive, centurion, of thine imperator;
In testimony of thy military worth,
And good desert, this bracelet. Ever bear
It, on thy right arm, mongst thy fellow-soldiers!
And thou, Favoni Aper, knight of Rome,
Thine emperor, thee indues, with torque of gold.
Take this the glorious guerdon of thy merit,
And ever bear it, mongst thy fellow-soldiers!

Unto thee, Novicius, of the second legion,
Decurion soldier, gives thine imperator,
This hasta pura, the exceeding meed,
Bear witness, all the army! of eagle saved!
It ever bear, amidst thy fellow-soldiers.

So Claudius, to each one, praising their deeds;
The imperial words, rehearse then, to the legions,
Their captains with great voice; and sith their tribunes,
To men of the allies, both Gauls and Almains!

Then, to his curule chair, of ivory, calls
Forth purpled Cæsar, lo, young Flavius Titus,
Beloved of all the army! and he, desirous,
And ruddy, ascends the imperial degrees,
Of the field-sods. Reached forth the imperial hand:
Cæsar, him, for Corinium's conquered wall,
(Whereon stood erst Vespasian's manful son,
Stripling almost in years; by whose proud deed,
That stronghold first, in hostile soil was won,)
Gives mural crown, behold, of the fine gold!

Claudius himself, then, in his state, uprisen,
Before that valorous young man, knight of Rome!
(Soldiers' most coveted meed,) on him, the chapelet,
Whereon inscribed, Ob Civem servatum!
Imposed, for Roman citizen's life preserved.

For when the pia legion's duke, Vespasian,
Was fallen, from off his steed, mongst thronging enemies;
He, many Britons having slain around,
Brought forth his father saved, on his own horse!

From two-score thousand throats of legionaries,
Went up, so main voice, then, that, for the noise!
Birds fell to ground. And Cæsar sate, amazed;
For common saw now is, in camps of soldiers,
That the three Fabii more have wrought than Aulus!

Last, the emperor calls forth, some great-statured Almain;
Whose name of barbare sound uneath might tongue
Of Claudius frame. This man saved Cnæus Geta;
And when was broken the framea, in his stiff hand,
He bet back Britons, with his only targe.
And he, with laud of the imperial mouth,
From Claudius, lo, receives broad golden brooch!
Joy, with much shouting, all the allies of Rome!

Claudius absolves, sith, from their sacrament,
A thousand veteran soldiers; and ordains,
(Thing which he dreamed of, three times, in the night,)

Here founded were, a colony of veteran soldiers,
To be a rampart of Rome's laws and arms!
And officers he appoints thereto, and augurs;
Of his colônia, like a camp of legions,
To mete out cross streets, forum-place and walls
Foursquare; and measure thousand plots of glebe-
With stakes; and beacons set up, through Colne fields.
And that be here coined money, he commands;
Tribute, (as ere in Gallia,) of conquered nation.

At morrow's day, the emperor puts his hand,
To compass in, with furrow, his new walls.
Lo, garlanded Claudius' sacred plough, with flowers!
Whose glittering share draw, yoked, instead of beves,
With slow foot forth, huge Afric elephants.

The short lance of antique German warriors.

The same day, have arrived Icenian legates,
Which of the traitorous part of Bericos. Those,
Lo, crouched, at Cæsar's knees, do promise tribute!
But when is come in Bericos, from Longport;
Binds Cæsar Claudius, sitting in his state,
His felonous brows, with royal diadem.

Came the most Belges' kings, to Cæsar, there;
(Disloyal ever to Cunobelin's house!)
And to imperial Rome, which rules the world,

They do submit them, to live under tribute.
Confirms then Claudius, Regnian Cogidubnos,
O'er towns and tribes of Belges, to be king:
And purple giving and the diadem;
Him names, in Britain, his imperial legate!
He attributes, also, to him, certain cohorts.
And Cæsar promised, to all Briton princes,
Which should submit them, pardon. He remits
The public confiscation of their goods.

Rose, clothed with purple weed, his temples crowned,
With gold-bright band, Cæsarian Cogidubnos!
And speaking, from the grees of Claudius' throne,
In Latin tongue, (he fugitive, learned in Roma;)
He lifts to stars, the imperial benefits;
And magnifies the high clemency of Claudius.
And, when here founded Cæsar's Roman town;
He craves, that site were, midst the market-place,
Reserved; whereas, To Clemency; (namely of Claudius,)
Might temple, nations, grateful, of the Isle,
Build; and be charactered on the gilded frieze,
Britons to the divinity of Claudius.

These things determined, from Britannia, Cæsar,
Hastes to his triumph, in imperial Rome.

Rides, neath Colonia of Claudius, Roman navy;
Now ready to heave anchor and hoise sail.

The day before, to gratify the army,
And Claudius, emperor, Asiaticus;
(Who now should journey forth, towards Rome, with Cæsar,)
In Camulus' meads, all at his proper cost,
Some little thing, a stage-play, would set forth.
Sence devised it, the philosophaster:
Yet somewhat, joining Asiaticus,
Thereto, of his own hand, had made his own;
As who would vaunt him also gentle poet.

Sit down, enranged, then, as in theatre;
In bosom of that hill of Camulus,
Lo, purpled Cæsar, laurel-crowned, and legions.
The scena, a scaffold large, where, pictured round,
Much wilderness is, of Britain's field and wood.
Masque shall, of Britain's Orpheus, there, be played.

Seemed then the choiréd Muses sit above,
In clouds, framed of the Isle's fine lawn; and aye,
Those sisters nine seem Orpheus to inspire;
Who, on a golden lyre, plays with his hands.
Seem, when, with clear note, like the heavenly lark,
He chants, the very forest rocks remove;

Incline the stedfast oaks, to him, their heads;
As pierced, by music, were their rinded ears.

To him, outran, then, salvage naked brood,
Of men; with whom leap beasts of several kinds;
Forgot their wildness, from a painted grove.
Bears Orpheus also, in a mask of wood,
Such countenance, as seemed Claudius, in his youth.
Sith, all that brutish rout, that Satyrs seemed,
And pictured nations of cerulean Britons;
Louting, in clownish sort, approached to Claudius;
Loud hail him, Second Founder of great Rome.

Still Orpheus chants: and seemed blue warlike crew,
Dance forth their mazy rounds, of vanquished Britons;
Treading strange wreathéd measures with swift feet:
He stayed his hand; and run all back to wood!
Again he plays: those turn then, in new kind,
Now like a people of Gaul, togata gens,
Bearing, with Latin cries! in, beams and stones;
Wherewith they temple found, to godded Claudius!
Whereof large fundaments gin those cast around.
In midst whereof, is Claudius' statua seen;
Which priests proclaim, is fallen, from stars, tonight;

And smokes, before him, incense, from the ground:
And all the army admire, and loud applaud!

Then other four pass forth, like heroes clad,
Companions, on the earth, of heavenly god;
Are friends to Orpheus, with high tragic tread.
Of the four tribunes, those bear visages.
And Aulus, all, and Geta and great Vespasian,
By name, acclaim; by whom these things were done

And, straight, is raised up, of some hidden engine,
(Minerva seems!) Colonia Nova, Claudia;
Like shielded goddess, with high turrets crowned.
A sea-god's three-forked mace, her other hand
Upholds: and lead those heroes her to Orpheus.
And Orpheus' front, with leaves of bays, she binds.
Gan loud, then, Orpheus chant, with deeper note!
And the four dukes, with him, of manly throats;
New Romulus, our divus Claudius,
Hath conquered, for great Rome, another world!
Then mightily all the army and long applaud!
So rise; for trumps, to meat, call legionaries.

In Colne's green leas, is portsale later made,
Without the dune, of weeping multitude;
(Were they so many, that, is told, their chains
Had fraught a carrack:) who of tender age;

(Were crowned, with the field flowers, their innocent heads!)
And feebler sex, erst. Seemed their piteous voice,
Cries of penned suckling lambs, and mother ewes;
Which turn, heavy with milk, to fold, at eve:
When gin them herdsmen, with loud curs, divide.
To divers masters, parted from their babes,
Under the Roman spear, were mothers sold.
Sith captive men, of all blue Britons' tribes,

Droves are, like pounded beasts, seen of bound warriors!
The most be those, (since, of this island nation,
Men wont not yield them to their adversaries;)
Who smitten in battle-fields, and left for dead,
Were gathered, or else purchased, for base price,
Of Gaul's slave-merchants; and sith, in the camps
Of legions, were those cured of their war-wounds.
Now slaves, at their vile list, them taunt and smite,
As their spears' captives! Yond, in hurdlepens,
Those stand; they wait, (which, for their foster-soil,
Have bled, and Briton gods; young drooping warriors;)
Now, at a Roman outcry, in their own land,
Ah, to be sold! Have merchants, from the Main,

Rich in this traffic; young men of good stature,
Esteemed of price, apt to ward great men's doors;
And should the more be sent, to marble Rome.
For now the merchant fleet shall sail, with Cæsar;
To Gaul's mainland. The imperial procurator,
Five thousand, the most tall war-hable youth,
Purchased for Claudius. These should be reserved,
For that magnific triumph spectacle;
Which shall make Claudius soon, in sovereign Rome!

Embarks now Cæsar, in high-pooped swift ship,
Of triple banks; which urged of chosen rowers.
Cæsar takes Sabine; who, of the blue Britons,
Can best great battle-shows devise, in Rome.

But come victorious Claudius, to mainland;
By long paved street, he rides, in speedy chariot,
Now, towards Lugdunum; city, in Togate Gaul,
Of his nativity; (where him bare Antonia,
After her flight and fear, to Claudius Drusus.)

He, journeying, draws, the sixth eve, nigh that town;
Whose noblest citizens, with the magistrates,
Be come forth, to third milestone, from their gates,
Of street called Sacra; (which, on either hand,
Proud sepulchres border, of chief Gaulish houses,
Both of this city and the Romans' Province;)

With concourse great, to welcome Cæsar Claudius,
Whom all salute, Our great Britannicus!

To Claudius, sith, much people, with the Senate;
Being come together, in their theatre,
Decree, with public games, triumphal arc;
And statua, with a golden Victory, winged,
In the imperator Claudius' high right hand.

Upon the morrow, Cæsar wends, with pomp;
To altar of Augustus, twixt the streams.
And, lo, one purpled, by that sacred path,
Him waits, whose forehead girt with golden bend;
But, as murk twilight, be this stranger's looks.
And knew him Claudius, Herod Antipas!
(Was sometime tetrarch of a Roman province:)
Caligula him exiled. Is he that fox,
Which John beheaded: he whose ward of soldiers,
Spit on God's lowly Jesus; Whom they bruised,
Ah! and buffeted! and Him mocked, with sceptrereed,
(Him, before worlds, All-ruler!) in his hand;
And diadem of sharp spines, and purple robe!

Now this, which built Tiberias, by the Lake,
Dwells, in a Roman villa, by Rhone's stream;
Where, of an evil spirit, is vext his mind:
And his adulterous wife, and she him, hath

In deadly hate. Abhors this royal wretch,
In Gaul, each day's returning cheerful light.

To Cæsar, bending, wisheth Herod gladness,
Of glorious Victory! But ill omen Claudius
Deems salutation of this Jew; nor spake
He word again; nor will receive his boon:
But gathering up his purple, on his face,
Cæsar, impatient, hastes, by him, to pass.

Were, three days, plays made, in their theatre;
Where men, condemned to death, did fight with beasts.
The sixth eve, at Vienne, embarked hath Claudius;
In barge, which falls, by day and night, down Rhone.

To rich Massilia, Cæsar now arrives;
Where mighty vessel, to receive him in,
With gilded poop, of many stories, lies.
That ship, by pulse is urged, of thousand oars.
The overmost, so are they great, be wrought
By wheels and pulley's force. With martial pomp,
Claudius, the great Poseidon, goes aboard;
For so is named this hull, that seems a town.

Fair blows the wind; and loosed from Gaul's great haven,
So they have towards Italia, prosperous voyage,
That the fifth eve, at Ostia, they arrive.
At dawn, behold, be come that city's Senate,

To salute Cæsar: and him, laurel-crowned,
Convey. Then, with them, Claudius rides to Rome;
Where garlanded now all temples of the gods!
And thronging citizens, in her Sacred street;
And banquets be set-out at every porch.

Erst, in the Curia, a naval crown, Rome's Senate
Decreed to Claudius; who Gaul's Ocean Stream
Had sent under the yoke! and yearly games,
To memory of Isle Britannia's great conquest.
And be that haven, in Gaul, whence Cæsar sailed,
Adorned, it pleased, with high triumphal arc:
And be, of Roma, advanced, towards the North,
The city wall; and Claudia the new port,
Therein, be named; for Roma, upon that part,
Enlarged Britannicus! Ending, then, new month,
Those captive thousands are, of wayworn Britons,
Come to the City Sovereign: through wide Gaul,
Scourged, like fierce beasts, their weary soles have marched.
Last were they, at Julii Forum, stived in ships.

Then Claudius, makes, for Romans, warlike games;
In that large field, without their city walls,
This side the stream, by yellow Tiber's brinks;

Which named of Marspiter, Rome's father-god.
Semblant prepared hath Sabine, of a dune,
In Britain, with her walls of wattled trees,
And stones and hoarded earth; and wicker streets.

There Claudius, (now surnamed Britannicus,)
On set day, his war-spectacle shows to Romans!
Britons, with Britons, in two opposed bands,
Shall fight to death. Two thousand, armed as Romans,
(Cæsar his freedom promiseth, to each one,
Which, in that battle, should have slain a man!)
Assail then, at third clarion: who within
Defending, glast-stained Britons; till last won
The wall, all perish, in their burning town!

Now Frejus.

These things in Rome: but, in far Island Britain,
Unwist, to the proprætor, Aulus Plautius,
Is, whether yet live king Caratacus.
His Belges' spies affirm, 'scaped the war-king:
Other opinion hold, fell Britons' king,
In battle. Some mean, the king hurt to death,
Perished, mongst Camulus' burning citizens.

Being Aulus left, to end the war, in Britain;
He, marched from Camulodunum, gathers tribute.
And, in the way; (where Cadern, magistrate,

Of late deceased; whose valorous son, Marunus,
Sore wounded, hardly saved was to far Ouse;)
Submitted, to him, merchant Troynovant.
Aulus sends Flavius, then, to Cogidubnos;
Confirm the Belges; and all towns receive,
Which yield them, giving corn and hostages.
Being come down, by swift marches, to Longport;
Warlike Vespasian, by night-time, embarked
His legion, passed that sea-sound to isle Vectis;
Which full, he hears, of the war's fugitives.

And though, in Britain, verging be the year;
Now entering, in the Scorpion, the late sun;
Yet Flavius, in brief space, that isle subdued:
So turns, with infinite captives, to mainland.

Then led, by guides, through wilds of Durotriges;
He assailed, out of the field, as they arrived,
From march; and took the town, fair Moridunion;
Whose king was fallen, mongst his proud warriors,
(Young valorous Golam,) under Camulus' walls.

In Britons' fields, where harvest-month now ended,
(Burned is earth's fruit; or stands unreaped and lost!)
Falls rain incessantly; wherefore might the Romans
Abide, no longer, under tented skins.
Then dukes, to winter-camps, withdraw their legions.

Vespasian marched, to site commodious,
For corn and pasture; where, amongst fair hills,
With temperate air, are certain scalding springs,
Of Sul, (Minerva of Britons,) healing goddess.

There, lo, of sick folk, is an open dune,
Where wont, in bowers, those sit, all day, beside
Blue vaporous conduits, dipping oft their limbs;
And drinking, oft, they snuff-up luwarm reek,
Casting-in gifts. Vespasian, now arriving;
That none have fear, proclaims: who, from the war,
There wounded lie, shall yield their only arms.

Entering, with reverence, then, the legions' duke,
Sul's temple-cave; whence issues tepid reek,
Of boiling well; great Flavius, to that goddess,
Sacellum vowed, and that of polished stones;
If, by her virtuous spring, were healed his son,
Titus, hurt, in the assault of Moridunion.

Concerning the well-bourn, and baths of Sul;
Is told, in antique story, of certain king,
How, peradventure, he those waters found;
Where opened had the soil, an heaven's lightning.

Bladud, surnamed the Wolf, of those few lords
Was, which, from wars in Spain, returned with Belin.

Come now from the Mainland, he homeward fares:
And Bladud journeying forth, in Britain, prayed,
To Belisama, his safeguarding goddess.
The king, one dawn, impatient forth to wend;
Wight, of strange aspect, took him, by the hand,
The other, on his bridle royal laid!

That Stranger's fashion was of shepherd hind;
Yet more his stature, than the human, seemed.
Even so, it pleased transfigure her the bright goddess.
Nor he resisting, Belisama leads,
Where trooping sheep-flocks, scald with evil fare.
Through reeking well-bourn them the goddess drives;
And they go healed up, on that further shore!

Though looked he wide, then, in large field, and sought;
King Bladud saw that herding-groom no more.
So lighted he, the virtuous brook, more near,
To view, down from his jaded steed; which forth
Feeds, wavering from him, in the sappy grass.
But the steed, yonder, sliding, in much mire,
Fell, in that sheep-bourn: wallowing then uprose
He, all stained his bards; but, shook him, with proud crest,
Loud neighing, unto battle and brood-mares.

The king, admiring! in that bourn then cast
Iberian captive, all with long foot-march,
Fordone; wretch, without hope; which, this morn, was
By wayside, left; where wolves, his abject corse,
Had rent, to-night: but, from that healing ooze,
Lifting, to heaven, his palms, thanking his gods;
Revived, as in his youth, that captive rose!

Bladud then, in the channel, washed his flesh,
Weary of long travail; wherein, gins to creep
Now lustless eld; and eftsoons the sire feels
His former pith renew, and warlike force;
And, from his heart, is wiped all rust, even as
From a new-furbished glaive. He caused his servants,
Then delve the bosom of that healing mould;
And open conduits. Bladud timbered, sith,
Baths, for sick folk; and himself there abode:
But Sul, name of the goddess of that ground,
Was to the slumbering king, revealed, in vision.

Is this that Bladud, whom derne whispering voice,
Stirred, of familiar demon, in his ears:
Who tempting fly, from Troynovant, to the gods;
In view of there great marvelling people's press,
Fell dasht, on Belin's temple-roof, to death!

The prætor Aulus winters now in Kent.
His quæstor everywhere the Britons' corn,
Exacts, whose harvest lost; nor mercy hath.
At his approach, him roused, then Dumnoveros,
Warden of Kent's shore, for Caratacus.
With all the remnant, of Kent's matchless scythecarts;
Crowned, with oak leaves, his brows, that sire rides forth.

Leading swift chariots, he repulsed proud Romans;
Falling, from thickets, on them, and hill-woods;
And last, where streaming Medway would they pass.
And ever, mongst who foremost fighters, seen;
Though bowed for eld and rheums, was Dumnoveros:
Till him swift dart attained, which his breast pierced.
His frighted steeds swerved, when the reins fell forth,
From his old dying hands; and, in brier-bush,
Was caught the cart: they it shook, and broke the beam.
Tumbled that long-aged sire, and yielded breath!
Nor since was noised, deceased king Caradoc,
Desired he longer life: and fell his champions,
Him round, that sought save forth the royal corse.
Ere night, took Romans Durovernium walls.

To Cæsar's arms, then yield them Lemanis,
And Dubris, Cantion havens; sith Anderida,
To Plautius, last submitted Rutupîa;
Wherein the widow of slain Heroidel weeps;
Far from his own, who lies, a buried corse!

But Aulus sends a power, to Andred forest;
To punish those hurst-dwellers, whom, in aid,
Caratacus hád called forth, to Camulodunum.
And are there mines of iron; whence Britons armed,
He hears, were to the war: wold very great
And murk; wherein, for latticed boughs, uneath,
Men pass: and archers climbed, from shroud of leaves,
Durst shoot, unseen, down shafts, on marching soldiers.
Fall many; nor might Romans wreak their deaths.

But when had Thorolf heard, in Verulamion,
That great discomfiture, before Camulodunum;
Nor hope rests, to renew the war, this year;
And now the days, at hand, of winter tempest;
Leaving five hundred helms, to Catuvelaunians,
And glaives, with all his spoils of arms and harness,
(Till come New-year,) to hold Cunobelin's walls;
He leads, to Hiradoc, maugré horse of Romans,

His hostings, through East March, to Branodunum:
Under whose cliffs, yet ride his dragon-keels.

There they, with a loud Woden-chant, embarked,
Life anchors; and blue broad sail-wings up-hoise,
For Albis' mouth: where, Wittig, Thorolf hears,
Sits daily gazing from Forseti's cliff,
To see his son's shield-scaled snake-ships sail home.

Lymne.

Pevensey.

A divine son of Balder and Nanna.

But what seest thou, these days, O foster Muse,
Which all this land surview'st, in sacred Alban?

In Avalon, Joseph and the brethren saints,
Are fathers to all orphans of the war;
And make resort to them, poor heathen souls,
As bees, to honey sweetness of Spring flowers.
Hath this year's harvest yielded, in the holms,
An hundred-fold. Such is God's blessing there,
On Shalum, Christ's disciple's hands; who hath
Enough, to nourish all who needy; nor
The bitter cry is heard there, any more,
Of outlaws, who, for misery, ready were
To perish. Joseph, Father-of-the-poor,
The Stranger, daily also, on the sick,
Lays healing hands; and they recover health.