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

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.