 | The Dawn in Britain |  |
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.
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!
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:
12
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!
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!
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!
13
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!
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 Dawn in Britain | |