Yonder, Caratacus battle joins; leads Maglos,
With immense shout, Silures' rushing spears.
Those fall, like butting rams, on legions' cohorts.
But when Duneda's royal mount, behold
Britons, burn like vast beacon-hill, above;
Their hearts stood still, within their straitened breasts!
And faint their knees; looked even proud warriors,
Where might they save their weary lives, from death.
Though god-like, yet, like brazen trumpet, shout
Sounds, bove the strife, of Caradoc! fly blue Britons:
Ravished was, in their routs, even the king's chariot.
In vain the warlord, feeble of his hurt,
Leans forth; and heartens still, with voice, blue warriors!
Fast, áfter them, pursuing then bloody Romans;
Is Isca field left empty, with her dead!
How smokes that goodly great dune royal; rich
With shipfare, and tin-traffic to the Main:
High seat, of druids' veiled antique discipline!
Great was that victory of the Roman legate.
Wander, as roes, and tremble, in the fern,
Of summer woods, her drooping fugitives.
Journeying hurt king Duneda, in war-wain;
Ere dawn, raught to dune-hill of Amathon.
