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

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.