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

The sickness hath allayed men's hostile hearts.
Titus deals kindly, with poor Briton folk,
Of these waste hills; and they again him praise.
And daily among them, he who hunting loves,
With few companions, bearing Gaulish bows,
Doth rouse the flying hart; or, mongst rough cliffs,
Thrills the grey wolves; or bays, in crooked denes,
The tuskéd boar, that rusheth on their spears.

Of certain monstrous swine, then Titus hears,
That harbour covert brakes, of yond wild crags;
Whence she, in dale, the seeded plots doth waste:
And with sharp tushes, which be sickle-great,
That sow hath many hurt, and rent their hounds;
And fall, like reeds, their weapons, from her crest.

One eve, as did they water their tired steeds,
By fenny brook, amongst brown bramble-brakes,
Outrushed, from thicket, that fell hideous beast,
Ox-great: her hanging dugs, unto the ground,
Did seem a battled wall; and on whose nape,
And brindled chine, thick yellow mane upstares;
Her eyes like coals. Stept lightly, upon his feet,
The Roman knight, and poising swift iron lance,
He shot; and twixt the shoulders, it gored deep,
The monster's flesh: that swine brake from them forth.

Mount hastily then the Roman knights, to horse:
Whose Briton steeds are wont, to these rough steeps;
But twilight thickens on her bloody trace.
Last they all lighted; and, now, tied their steeds,
They kindle fires and sup: sith, hunters, sleep,
Neath stars, on their spread cloaks, till morrow's break.

When drives new faery Dawn forth, in winged chariot;

And, from their golden manes, her rushing steeds
Shake dew, on the low earth; and, to wide airs,
Her veil of crocus and her purple amice;
Fleeing before Sun's face, she, virgin, casts
Upon the fleecy skies; those knights uprose:
And ready, anon, they mount again to horse.
Titus bears Æthiopian bow of steel;
Which only his young strength can ply, mongst Romans.
His messenger now it brought; (whom he, to-night,
Sent back to camp,) with Briton hounds, in leash.

In the fresh morning air, those questing run
Forth, on the blood. Not long was, or their deep
Throats men hear open. Romans, left their steeds,
Bounden, thrust-on, through thicket brakes, with spears;
For now is roused the swine, from her night-lair.

That sow outbrake, and rushed on men and hounds!
But her swift steel-head shaft attains of Titus.
She fell; and wallowing rent the bloody grass,
And smoked the mould; fierce hounds seize on her flanks.
The swine, of them, awhile, tormented was;
Then last, with ferine groan, she gave the ghost.

Sith, bear the brittled carcase Briton hinds,

(Poor wights, from herdmen's cotes;) and crowned with flowers,
Their heads, with merry songs, and blithe reed pipes,
Up to Rome's soldiers' tents. The monster's skull
They, and long red-bristled spoil, set on a pole,
Terrible to look on. Britons there, to drink,
Remain: they eat with Flavius' legions' soldiers.

Another while, strong comely Titus rides,
In the low plain, the avanc beast to hunt,
(Which, sithen, beaver hight, on English tongue;
Fiber in Italy, where great Padus flows,)
Which timbers her, in fenny streams, an house,
Of beams, hewed with her teeth: whose floor she beats,
And pargetteth, with ooze, her chambered walls.
(Her hairy hide is holden good, for rheums.)

Rides noble Titus, with few Gaulish horse,
And company of his friends. Till noon, they naught,
Yet, find to hunt. Would Titus then pass forth;
Those Britons' sanctuary isles, beyond
The fen, to view; whereof he heard, at Aquæ.

Descended now, to Avalon's lyn, they find
A causeway of beams; whereby, they overwade.
At Alban's borders, where white mere-stones set,
Britons meet Titus, with their magistrate;

Unto whom, (interpreting some Gaul with him,
Of the allies,) he peace, giving his hand,
And faith, confirms, of great Imperial Rome.
Titus, unarmed, then, enters with his friends.

Hyn erst leads Romans view, there, sacred pool,
Like crystal cup; where men wont cast-in gifts.
Titus ring, from his finger casts, of gold;
In saying, with voice of mirth; To Britons' gods,
Behoves pay tribute! Who come, with him; some
Cast pin; some a fibula, or trifle of great Rome.

But when those light companions precious gifts
Perceive, lie glittering on that water's floor;
Gold, silver vessail, sunk-up in base ooze,
Which, like scaled fishes, lurking under weeds,
The scattered sunbeams smite, whispering to Titus,
They him persuade, to break the Roman faith;
And blowing trumpet, call in harnessed soldiers,
These things to reave. Reading their guileful looks,
Gather the innocent Britons covert stones,
In their poor weed. But straightway noble Titus
Rebuked, in the Greek tongue, his friends; in whose
Hearts burns the hellish Roman thirst, for gold.

Then came an adder, with uplifted crest;
(Whose scaly boughts, uprolled,) out of the reeds;
And, hissing, fleeted on that water's face:

And Briton folk cry out, It is the god!
Whence, seeing them now much moved, made Titus haste,
To taste the proffered antique horn of mead;
That fetcht is to him, from Sun's temple-house;
Whereof, who drinks, men name him, sacred guest.
Hyn leads then noble Titus, to that hearth;
Where, day and night, sits, venerable priestess,
To bete, with fenny turves, of Brigida pure,
Daughter of the Sun-god, the mystic fire.
Looked Keina, longwhile, on that knight of Rome!
Sith, stretcht her lean palm forth, in Britons' tongue,
Spake with loud voice; and all, on Titus, gaze!

Titus requires, What thing the Sibyl saith?
The Interpreter whispered, in young Titus' ears,
Thou, after days, she saith, shalt rule o'er Rome1
And Titus changed his colour, and shook out
His garments; and made haste, to get him forth.

Thence, Romans, rowed, in little wicker barks,
Be come to water-hamlet, in the mere,
Timbered on stages. Romans, like to this;
In that campaign, which Lucius made in Thrace,
Had seen. Stand Britons forth, with brabbling voice:
They look askance, on strange approaching Romans!

Hyn calls young Cuan, bard of the Cranog.
And seem when this on Erinn's trembling crowth,
Plays, sunbeams fall, as rain, on the dull mere.
Hearing his Briton chant, much like to song
Of birds, in leafy woods, admire the Romans!
Quoth Titus, Less could the immortal gods
Not, unto men that live, than these, have given;
To whom are roots, he hears, of river reeds,
For meat; and fish, with honey of wild bees.
And yet, with golden music of the harp,
And warbeling chant, they live, as wanting naught,
Next to the gods. And Titus silver brooch,
Which fastened had his baldric, gave that bard.

Yet, as they row from thence, is told to Titus,
Of certain strangers, which, in Avalon isles;
Do lead their lives, in innocency, and in prayers.
And, lo, in holm, whereto they now arrive,
The man of God, who meets them, at the shore;
Venerable of aspect, long, white-bearded sire!
On whom then looking, Titus, to his friends,
Whispers, as they again go up on land;
Is not he like that Zeus of Phidias?
Which, in the Capitolium, now is seen.

Albeit, go clad, in Briton weed, those men;
Well, in the strangers' aspect, he perceives
That visage of the Jews, now many in Rome.
Hark! Titus speaking, in Hellenic tongue,
And using the grave countenance of a Roman;
Ordains, that they appear before duke Flavius!
Titus departing, spake; Should Avalon isles
Be sanctuary still, and free from Roman tribute.