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

Aulus builds strongholds in the East Marches. Kowain, sailing with Duneda's ships, harries the lands of traitorous Bericos and Cogidubnos. Death of king Bericos. Caradoc, Summer ended, returns to Moelmabon. Almain strangers arrive, in mourning weed. After meat, they declare; that Thorolf is fallen, in battle! Dark grief of Briton kings and warriors. Wittig's messengers have brought gifts of ornaments and arms. They tell of that great battle, wherein Thorolf fell; and of his high funerals.

Caratacus encumbered with grief, goes forth to the starry Night; but miswent, in his path, he is come now to the grave-field. There, in his frenzy, he would have slain himself: but a vision withholds him of his germain, Togodumnos. With sword of Thorolf, (which was of Brennus,) Caratacus slays the rinded trees! Belisama, shining goddess, descends from heaven. She watches over the hero's sleep. Wakens the king, at dawn; and now come unto himself, Caradoc returns home.

Another Spring-time is in; and Kowain, sailed forth, destroys Roman ships. He is wind-driven thence to Aban, fair Brigantine haven. Kowain returning through the sea of Severn, is cast over, by storm, unto Erinn; where he comes to his king Duneda.

Tumult of Iceni grows in Roman East Province. Ostorius' horse are gulfed in Meltraith Fleets. Caratacus, carried, by

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the fury of his steed to a castrum gate, is saved by his god Camulus.

Then war is renewed in Britain. Ostorius, Cæsar's new legate, succeeds to Aulus. Night-battle in a forest. Britons assail the marching Romans, which have that day the worse. Upon the morrow, when battle is renewed, Titus and king Caratacus fight.

The warlord journeying, mongst Britons' Northern tribes, is in danger to be felonously cut-off in his sleep. Duneda's navy is burned in Severn. East-men choose now Cathigern their duke. Ostorius, marching through Mid-Britain; receives, from Cartismandua, a secret embassage.

Out of the West, ascends Caratacus. Ostorius marches to meet him. The legate's oration to his soldiers. Warsacrifice of druids. King Caradoc's last speech to blue Britons.

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Being nigh the time, when should, in Britain, Aulus
Lay down his charge; the legate cast, how best
He might leave peaceable, this warlike Province;
And have, in Rome, therefore, a thank of Cæsar.
To which end now, twixt Avon and the Ouse,
He fortify will all river-passages.

He sends one Sylvius, captain of fleet-soldiers,
From Camulodunum, through Icenic marches,
To build strongholds; and chiefly a great square burgh,
Measured of lime and stone, like legions' castra,
In field; wherein, fast by the flood of Yare,
Might garrison lodge, gainst inroads from the North,
Of Britons yet untamed; and delve beneath,
(Station for longships, gainst the Saxon pirates,)
An hythe; and fence with banks and battled towers.

But when is Sylvius, thither, now arrived;
He, to those servile tasks, conscribes free Britons!
Men namely Iceni, which of Bericos' part;

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Had promised only, to yield Cæsar tribute,
Not vanquished were. Perceive those then; would Romans
Lay a perpetual yoke of servitude,
Under that name of lordship, on their march.

Now called Burgh Castle.

Sails, in first moon of the returning year,
From sea of Severn, with Duneda's navy,
(Wherein sit thousand chosen warriors;)
Young valorous Kowain. Come then morning red,
Of the eighth day; now entering in Colne mouth,
Their long war-keels, Dumnonians row to land:
Whence hastily gone up, bands of glittering spears;
Fair Mersea isle those waste, and homesteads burn;
And, therein, every stranger woman-born,
Whomso they meet, slay; be he Gaul or Roman.
Some taken alive, (already dead for fear;)
They hanged, as public robbers, in green trees.
Smoke of that sea-road was, from their new walls,
Seen of the Claudian Colony, in Camulodunum!

But lifting anchors, ere pursuit arrived,
Of Gaulish horse; those hoised to merry wind,
Broad sails, plough forth, Dumnonian twelve war-keels,
Heavy with spoils of Romans. Fallen that night,
They made again the land, furl in Stour Frith.

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At dawn, to make his name the more abhorred,
They steads burn of the people of Bericos;
And seeded fields o'errun, from shore, and waste.
But veering soon the wind, embarked Dumnonians,
Invoked their blue sea-gods, steer South, longs strand.
Next even, they sailing, under island Vectis,
Unlooked-for, in white moonshine, row to land;
And Belges' field burn, subject now to Romans.
There, having reaved much corn, they lade their ships.

Was, in these Summer days, cursed of all Britons,
Forsaken of all góds, fell Bericos
Deceased; prince which had Britain's Isle betrayed:
For Bericos, Claudius Cæsar, purpled sot,
First moved, in Rome, Britannia to invade.

That flatterer and Cæsarian royal Briton;
Riding with train of clients of his house,
(Men which were, mostwhat, bounden in his debt,)
Full of old wine and surfeit of strange Romans;
An over-fat lord, in the Summer's heat,
From hallowing Claudius' fane at Camulodunum;
Belin, the Sun-god, smote his treacherous pate;
His Briton steed him cast then, in waste heath;
And bandied back again, that foster earth,
(Which seemed, bewrayed, recuse,) his recreant corse.

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Icenians fall then, from oppressing Romans;
Whose tumult, that Colonia nova of Claudius,
Threatens: whereto arrived, the legate Aulus
Summons before him, lords of all East March;
Unto whom, reciting merits of the Romans;
He wills they, in room of deceased Bericos,
Receive, for king, his uncle Prasutagos.

This saying, the legate bound, in Cæsar's name,
That prince's brows, with royal diadem.
And being a great rich lord this Prasutagos,
In cattle and land and goods and gold and thralls;
And one that ever gave his voice for Romans;
He trusts thus void occasion of new stirs.

These things determined, Thames again passed Aulus;
And, three days, Westward rides, to Cogidubnos:
Whose Rome-built city, Regnum, gins, lo, rise,
Under white windy hills; whence, to sea-waves,
Through wide champaign, ship-bearing stream down-flows.

Lo, on the morrow, amidst their market-place,
On judgment seat, sits the proprætor Aulus;
And purpled Cogidubnos, (who Tiberius,
Claudius, now named, in Roman wise; and styled

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For Cæsar's business, mongst the Belges Britons,
Imperial Legate,) sits at his right hand;
Being girt, his brows, with royal diadem!

Then certain, noted in the late revolt,
Britons, led, gyved, before the Roman duke;
Conscious of guilt, embrace his knees! whom Aulus
Pardons: but who convinced of crimes, he judged,
Some, to be sold; a few damned of their heads:
Other, reputed turbulent, hath commanded
The legate, to be beaten with green rods.

Departing thence, now all his horse sends Aulus;
To seek, eachwhere, and they Caratacus
Might take. But found, no Briton, in these wars,
Is, that betray, for torment, or for meed,
Would Caradoc's lurking place. What glory had Aulus;
And he might lead that hero, in chains, to Rome!

Standing on scaffolds and all temple-roofs,
Should Romans, longs the Sacred Way, applaud;
To see, pass Britons' king by, to his death:
Aye, and him acclaim; and they should likely name
Him, colleague-consul, with the emperor Claudius;
When, next year, he should have returned from Britain.

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Another Summer season is now ended;
And dukes, to Winter castra, fenced with banks,
And towers, withdraw, from field, again, their legions.
Caradoc, with Maglos, leading blue caterfs,
Returns through Deheubarth, to Moelmabon.
Where come, in one high-settle, silent sits,
(Devising aye destruction of strange Romans,)
King Caradoc, daylong, with Silures' sire.
Over against them, Maglos sits, with Kynan;
In equal see, mongst captains, lords, and druids.

Winter is in, when twilight all by day:
Nor cure men drink of curmi, or sweet mead;
Nor any list, so darkened is their cheer,
Such heaviness in all hearts, hear evening tales.
And idle hangs the crowth, whose chords no more,
His hands may wake, who perished in the war.

Sit silent on, amazed, those Caerwent lords,
Oft casting down their eyeballs, to the fire;
Whilst dumb is every wonted cheerful sound:
Only his purblind soaring looks, uplifts
Moelmabon, oftwhiles, to his battle-gods!
Uneasy, in settle, sits Caratacus;
Whose high heart aches, within his straitened chest!

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Come strangers in, lo, from the gable-porch!
Towards the high seat they pass before the hearths!
Four men, whose raiment both and bearded looks,
And arms, do show them plainly to be Almains.
Wayfarers, those arrive, in mourning sort:
For blackened be their hose and wadmel coats,
And ash-strewn, their polled heads and visages.

These ridden have, day and night, from their longyawls,
At East sea-cliff; to king Caratacus.
Nay, and some those messengers had, erewhile, at Verulam
Seen, helm-clad, harnessed, leading Thorolf's spears;
For are they lords, which come from Wittig's march.
The strangers sit down, mongst king's Winterguests;
But none spake word, in hall of Moelmabon!

Britons do whisper, lords still on them gaze;
Expecting those should speak; yet none asks tiding,
Till the king's guests have eaten. In deep-lipped horns,
Bears Darfran, steward, them sweet-breathed metheglin:
And Almains, silent, drinking out, salute
The Briton kings. Anon, are tables set,

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Before the strangers; whereon wheaten loaves,
And brawn of tuskéd swine: but when those Almains
Now ended have to sup; What tiding, asks
Moelmabon, they, from over-seas, him-brought?

With slow and husking voice, of them that mourn;
Those answer to Moelmabon, make again,
Such as they couth, in halting Briton tongue;
Thorolf is fallen, in battle, and ship-laid!

When heard this grievous word, as endless night
Of death, on soul sinks of Caratacus!
Who mantle drew, much labouring his vast chest,
O'er his stern altered face. Loved the war-sire
That Elbe-land ethling; and had Thorolf's power,
In Britain, countervailed a Roman legion!

Groans Moelmabon, king of warlike men.
He old, in that remembering his sons' deaths,
Commiserates Wittig; left, midst foes, alone,
Without sustain, in warlike land of Almaigne.

Sounds, in king's hall, confused constraint of men:
For stricken of enemy's dart him-seems each one.
Then brast, in loud lament, the strangers forth.
Seem Winter eaves, of melting icicles!
Those Almains' cragged brows. Rose voice mongst Britons,
Of manly plaint; as each, of fallen kin,

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Records, in war with Rome: nor Thorolf few,
In Britain, had, in battle, saved from death!

The people, when even is come, gin now depart
Forth, one by one, to sup. When only rest
Kings, lords and druids, with their Almaigne guests,
The sire's mead-hall is shut. Then Fredigern,
Cousin to Wittig, noblest of these strangers,
Lo, opens gifts. This ale-horn, silver-lipped,
(Of ureox, which had, when he came to Almaigne,
For love of Fridia, hand slain of great Brennus,)
They bring, for a remembrance, to Moelmabon.

This Thorolf's collar, cunning handiwork,
Of Weyland, of the fine burned gold embossed,
An hunt shows of grey wolves; and this, (which was
The homicide brand of great Rome-conquering Brennus;)
Wherewith slew thousand, his resistless hand;
And fed the wolves, in Britain and Mainland,
To his great kinsman, king Caratacus,
King Wittig sends. This raven-helm, of bronze,
And Thunor's golden hammer ornament;
Which hanged, from Thorolf's nape, on his vast chest:
And this the hero's brooch, of a palm's breadth;

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Bright jewel, which like golden sun is wrought;
To his son's battle-fellows, generous sons
Of Moelmabon, Wittig, father, sends.

Chichester.

When lords have mourned, and noble women wept,
In hall, their fill; desiring him that dead
Is, whiles, with sighs, men name the hero oft;
One Radwald, mongst the Almains, gan rehearse;
(Left sick, in Thorolf's ships, had Radwald seen
That field;) how fighting gainst great armed inroad,
Fell Thorolf. Gathered to him hastily were,
From Elbe-land's borders, (home of warriors,)
Stout men, not many, which returned from Britain.
With riders, and with bowmen, Getas were
Great army. Thorolf then, all day, their charge
Sustained. Rattled loud dints, on shields, of spears
And swords; and oft seemed dimmed heaven and the world;
With the infinite many of shafts, which Getas shot.

Round the ethling, foremost champions fell, till eve:
In tempest bursten was of Getas' spears,
His white-horse shield; his iron war-kirtle hanged,
Bloody, on his panting chest, to-hewed, to-rent.

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Gold-bristles, then, the hero cast, to ground,
(His helm); so dasht, so hackt to shards, it was.

His enemies fled, when rang it on the stones,
Aback, aghast! Then seeing impossible thing,
Were scape this field; sith might not he, alone,
Contend, with thousand flocking enemies, champions:
Disdaining come, in Getas' hands, alive;
Calling aloud on Woden, his sires' Sire,
He leapt, midst thicket of strong Getas' spears;
And hewed him round, all-weary, as he was;
A bay of death. Then Thorolf's furious hand,
Point turned of spear, (which now he broken hath;)
Turned in against himself! and his great force,
Through-smote, neath his rent hauberk, his ribbed chest!

Like to some root-fast pine, which gods, of storm,
At length o'erthrow, that ruins, in vast space,
Fell Thorolf forth! Sith, o'er his bleeding corse,
Fell, till the last one, Thorolf's lords and champions.

But the same night his foes, which held that field,
Rendered great Thorolf, with his arms and harness!
Drawn forth, from bloody bank of mingled slain;
They sent his body, on bier of ashen green;
With heralds, granting pause of hostile arms,
In worship of the illustrious hero dead.

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And was, when gathered spoil, at morrow's eve;
And buried now all weapon-slain, in field,
Bearing pine-boughs, with blackened visages,
In shining harness, Getas' princely men
Marched, men of stature, and many have war-wounds;
To Saxen Thorolf's solemn funerals.

Nigh was that field of fight, to creeky haven;
On whose shole strand, lay Thorolf's snake-necked ships;
And the king's dragon-keel, with gilded ensigns;
Hight the Goldorm. There, after day's lament,
Of Thorolf's sea-folk; and few left of his,
'Scaped from that field, to ship; four enemy dukes,
And Catlif, (who the king of Getas' son,)
Convey great Brennid Thorolf, washed from blood,
Fair as in life, on his white battle-steed,
(Freyfax, borne in his ship,) upstayed to ride.

Men of his keels, lift reverent down the dead;
And bear, slow-paced, on Catlif's door-like targe,
With mourning hearts, over salt strand, aboard
Goldorm; where, on high stool of polished elm,
Rune-graven, and dight with plates of shining brass,
They stay him up, on pillows. His dead brows,

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Men crown with helm of antique Arthemail;
(Gift, which once Tuscan Arunt sent to Brennus.)

They laid his bruised targe, of the linden, light,
Dight with hard hairy hide of the ureox;
(Gift of Hild, Elsing, who his foster, was;)
That glorious gleamed, with whorles of tin and brass,
Covering the hero cold, on his large breast.

His peers, (dead ethlings and companion warriors;)
Whose corses, in slow ox-wains, follow his,
Men lay him round, all on the rowers' banks.
Last Briton hounds, and his slain battle-steed;
To burn with him, in the two stems, they laid.

His own then, and all truth-plight Geta men,
Great plenty of darts and shafts, which gathered were,
In slaughter field, heap round those Woden-dead:
So that was seen, like hoy, high-fraught, with wood,
Of Goldorm, soon, the royal warlike board.

Then sea-folk smeared, the funeral ship, with pitch;
And cast in tallow and fat. Sit friends, sit foes,
Kindled great fires, with torches in their hands;
Waiting the cresset moon, when he should rise!

Lightens, before his coming, now wide East.
Gin shipswains, knees, from under Goldorm's bilge,
Withdraw and shoring-staves: climbed some, aboard,
Large mainsail hoise; and loose out to night wind.

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Cast noble Getas gifts; saies storied bright,
With needlework; proud arms, into the ship,
Vessail and ornaments; to great Thorolf's spirit!

In that, heard trampling hooves, and shimmering seen:
(Is dread, by night-time, sudden gleam of bronze!)
Getas, round shields embraced, grip long war-spears:
They, truce-plight foes, that funeral keel close round;
Ready, and need wére, to fight, till their own deaths,
Tall men of war, to ward great Thorolf's corse.

Heard lamentable women's shrieks, anon!
From steed, all of a foam, Elfrida, eftsoon,
Alights; true wife of that great hero dead:
And, ere-year, were their joyous spousals made!
With her rides an armed company; and, lo, old Gizla,
Mourning milk-mother of the ethling Thorolf.

Warned them prophetic virgin, Veleda, crying,
Yester, from tower-head, in the wind; she saw
Great Thorolf's ghost, received amongst the gods!
Haste men to sea-strand; where they, yet, should find
His body slain, mongst oath-plight enemies.

With few, they hied then, hither; on swift steeds;
Nor stinted, day-time, nor night-long, to ride;

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Abstaining from all kindly nourishment.
Last heard they, of some wayfaring man, this eve;
Where lay that death-field, fast by the salt waves;
And Thorolf dead, mongst soothfast enemies!

Those noble ladies; in whom life and breath
Remains, uneath, Getas lift on the ship.
Shrieks Elfrida, beholding, under stars,
How her dead Thorolf sits, a solemn corse,
Among the dead. She, passing to him, swoons.
But Gizla, kissed the lord, son of her paps,
From head to foot, fell down, at Thorolf's knees;
And there lay still, in cloud of death; for brast,
The weary heart, within her feeble breast.

The queen reviving, in the evening wind;
When Gizla she beheld already passed!
Disdaining any her, to her dead love,
Prevent, in cragged path, of Hel, swart goddess,
Uprose; and embraced Thorolf's shielded corse;
Her white hand, ere there any might withhold;
Snatcht spear-head, of those heaped from slaughter-place,
Wherein he fell, she launcht her widow's breast!
And sinks Elfrida, bleeding, on them both.

Great sigh went up, from all that mourning folk!

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And she, nigh-spent, makes sign, with dying hand!
On whose white wrist, shines long-wreathed golden bracelet;
And, from her bright brow, as she beckoned, sliding
Her rochet, that is hemmed with precious ermine;
The fainting lily-fair young queen is seen,
Gold-dight. Upon her front, moon-sheen broad fret,
Of far-fetcht pearls; and hangs, like Brisings-men,
Of sea-stones, dew-drop clear, a shining lace,
Down from her gracious neck: (will Chaucan's queen,
Elfrida, her spousal ornaments bring again,
To Thorolf, even in hell!) Sign, makes she then;
Put fire, launch out! Priests hallow Thorolf's corse
With the hammer of high Thunor god: sith all
Those corses dead; and they her dying bless!
Many together heaving, then, thrust forth,
From shore, the funeral ship, down to salt deep!

A. Sax. Brosinga-mene (monile); the necklace of Freyja.

Like swan, which proudly breasts the tide, her yards
Belayed and rudder-bands, Goldorm now sails
Forth, on night frith, where lightly blows the wind.
All cry, Farewell! which watch on the sea-strand.

With wake of burning light, long drives the ship:

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And still men watch upon the sand; and chant,
To Balder's hall, who fairest mongst the sons
Of Woden, named, is Thorolf's fiery voyage!
Till morning star, when now, like fisher's brand,
That funeral keel, which sithen seen no more.
Thorolf returned, (all cry then,) to the gods!

A sennight long, cast friends, cast Getas, foes,
Then funeral mound, on foreland of that shore;
Which shall, from age, (well-seen of all that sail,)
To age, to keep great Saxmund's name, endure.

The bereaved fatherhood of Moelmabon,
Of Wittig asked; and quaked the old king's voice;
For like now both those sires, in endless loss!

They tell how Wittig, to a sea-isle passed;
And thence his royal words bare Higelac forth;
Higelac, who, of all men of Almain speech,
For his well-shaping tongue, accepted is,
Next after Heorrenda, the old, lay-smith;
A wight divine: of whom, whilst dwelled, is told,
He yet mongst men, son of a king; (yet some
Him, son of Bragi name, the maker-god;

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Ere took him, in their glittering hall, to sing,
In Asgarth, children of blithe blessed gods,)
What time he sate, to make, alone, in glade;
Gathered to him all beasts, of field and wood,
All creeping things in grass; worms under clod;
Fowls, lighting to him, folded their swift wings;
Sate on his shoulders, and his sacred knees:
Fishes left swimming, in the hasting stream;
Which stayed, the while, and fell her roaring waves!

Higelac then speeding, to Cheruscan kings,
From hall to hall; invoked the Saxen gods!
Quoth lay, which he, of Thorolf's death, had made:
Him likens he, to Balder; for whose death,
Wept all thing in mid-earth. Him, sighing, trees
Bewailed; winds howled, and sweated rocks and stones;
Stood speechless-beasts, in long astonishment!
Wights mourned and sprites; and cast-down were the gods!

Higelac sate, suppliant, at their Winter-hearths.
Then rose five Brennid kings, in furious mood;
Which Woden breathéd, in their warlike breasts.
They sware, with enemies, men, and hostile gods,
Do battle, till world's doom, and their own deaths!

Each levied a strong power, in his own mark;

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And come together, to moot-place, they choose
Great Awehelm, Friedemund's father, their proud duke:
Then marched those unto war. And followed flocks
Of hoodie crows, ravens and howling wolves,
Their folkings forth. Then Saxen kings thrice smote
The giant Getas: all his foes they strewed,
(Shouting dead Thorolf's name!) in Wittig's march.
Fell Catlif, slain, amongst the birds of death!
Honoured him Saxen heroes, with high mound.

Teutonic hero of song and glee-craft. A. Sax. Heorrenda; Icel. Hiarrandi.

In sacred silence of night-stars, pale druids;
From Moelmabon's hall, have made, gone forth,
Response: Lives, kinsman of Isle Britain's kings,
Thorolf, henceforth, in the divine abodes!

Moelmabon, long-aged, purblind sire, then rose;
And bowed him reverent, towards South part; (from whence,
Men deemed, descend, into the world, the gods:)
And the remembrance-bowl, his trembling hand,
From Nessa, the hoar-headed queen, receiving,
(Ah, war-bereaved, with him, of generous sons!)
Wherein, and secretly, now some drowsy herbs
She steepéd hath; (whereof, is faith, who tastes,
Should presently even forget a mother's death!)

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First, on the floor, he pours, before the gods,
Out golden mead, to their dread powers, beneath;
So tastes: then tastes the warsire Caradoc;
Kynan sith, the sire's sons, and warlike peers.
Thorolf! all standing, call with moaning voice!

Descended, from high settle, Caradoc,
Nor salutes any; and to high night, went forth.
The king's doorward, his lean infested looks,
Marked; fixt his austere gaze, on the cold loft;
Where, after daily funerals of the sun,
Shine stars' caterfs, that silent rise and pass;
(Wherein, of men, that Belt-of-strength is seen,
Of heavenly gods!) as he there sought dead Thorolf.

In Caradoc's hand, gleams Marvor, that lean blade;
Which, in old days of Brennus, vanquished Rome.
The warlord treads forth, on white Winter-mould,
Of snow: and Caradoc still afflicts himself;
Nor ceases, with his deadly heart, commune.
Him-seems, in every bush, meet Thorolf's ghost!

Had entered Caradoc path, to Embla's house;
But travailing much, in busy troubled thought;
At parting of two ways, oblivious;
So clouds of sorrow cumber and oppress
His sense, the sire miswent; or demons, else,

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Misled, of ground or wood. Was mid of night;
When looked he, see now his own lighted porch,
Under hill side; behold is the corpse-field!
Where, men of Caerwent, fallen, in war with Rome,
Lie in grave-mould: this place is known to him.

He oft himself, with warriors, lords and druids,
Came hither, following wailful funerals;
(And orphans' outcries heard, and widows' shrieks!)
He saw men borne forth, dead of Roman wounds,
Upon their pictured shields. Moelmabon's sons,
Ferriog and Merion, hither were conveyed,
In welted hides of bulls, from far in Britain;
Bounden their corses were on blackened steeds:
And lie those graved now, under frozen snow;
Yonder, in shadow of the royal mound,
In this bleak moonshine. And who slain, and burned,
In their war-weed, on many an high-strewed pyre
Silures' chief ones, their white cindered bones,
Uplaid in honey and fat, sent hither were.
And pight, at each mound's head, is some wild stone,
Wherein scored token seen; that men, which knew
His shield in warlike field, his name might read,
Who lies, (cast carcase, clay, neath clay!) beneath.

The sire records then, one by one, their names;
Their fellowship in high hall, their hardy deeds.

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On these dead silent warriors, Winter lies;
Whose lodging was the iron wall of their harness:
Whose memory, and their high praise, from living breasts:
Doth fade like passing sound, of trampling steeds!

The warsire sate him down, at a grave's head;
And glory, embraced that mounded foster-earth,
(Whose sacred Womb her children doth receive,
Again,) to his dead battle-fellows, gave
Caratacus. He calls young Ketternac,
To mind, who sleeps here, fathom-deep beneath,
A buried corse. Life of that noble youth,
He himself, in Camulodunum field, had saved:
At Caer Glew, sith, young Ketternac was pierced;
Tempting, with Maglos, burn the Roman work.

Hurt unto death, of his kinsfolk, borne forth
On wattled boughs, to ship; he lived yet pass
The threshold of great hall of Moelmabon:
And heard the loved youth bard touch harp, and chant
His hardy deeds. The mead-bowl at his lips,
He pledged Caratacus, and yielded breath!

The warsire dasht a woman's tear, (that wells,
Unwares, for man is woman-born,) aside!
And gazing on these burials of dead warriors'
Flesh; (now new guests, all they, in Hall of Death!)

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Of whom not few fell him beside; gan muse
The warlord's heavy heart; where have their being,
Beneath, or in what circuit of yond stars,
Disbodied souls! and what is that which saith
An antique funeral chant of Verulam druids?
Spent spirits, rekindled, at the Light, above,
Revert, from stars, to be new bodies' guests:
And other hymn, Are men the living dead!

But who lie, gaping upright, in the grave,
Whose rottenness we rue; ben not their deaths,
(Night-sleep, this iron griesly grip, which hath
None wakening, clod laid under clodded earth,)
Surcease of burdens, and of every pain,
Less grievous than our life, which yet, the sun
See'th; that, like sháft's flight, tossed in every blast;
Whereon, again, the woundless air doth close:
Or like as tainted footstep, in this snow,
Soon fading; which, therewith, doth utterly perish!
But, and when cometh aught thing, of good, to us,
Is that a seldom grace! King Caradoc felt
His heart, like burning coal, in his cold breast,
For Thorolf's death, his brother, in Mainland.

Where were ye then, O gods? Were warlike arms
To his conjoined, of unsubduéd Almaigne;
Should not, together, they have vanquished Rome!

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When he bethinks him, son of dead Cunobelin,
Then, of his germain, martial Togodumnos,
Morag and Golam, Ferriog and Bodvocos,
Brentyn and Fythiol, and Heroidel slain,
With many more; and now lord Beichiad dead,
New fiery torment kindles all his being.
He snow, with his two hands, whelms on his head!

Him-seemeth now left, alone, in a dead world,
Mongst these unbound. Such, on his weary spirit,
Then darkness falls, him-thought, ceased heavenly stars,
To shine above: and sighed Caratacus;
We perish, praying to insensate gods!
Are men ungodly? ben not yé, O proud gods,
Inhuman! or have ye no power to save?
(When gods, their faces, turn away from us;
Must not mishappen thing we undertake;
That, groping, few life-days, still wrestling pass!)

Ye careless stars, which shine, in chambered night,
Shield-hall of heaven, like cierges clear; whereon
Hang fates of men; and ye indeed be gods,
Rid us of Roman strange invading enemies!

Him-seemed, then, his own soul, in waking vision,

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In likeness see of caged small writhing vivern,
(The cognizance of great Cunobelin's house,)
And peeping gods, gigantic visages,
Which balefires, mocking, kindle him around.

He rose then up, as one that wakes in dream
Of sorrow, and so stood still. On his brainpan,
Him-seems sink deadly whelming weight; as some
Giant hélm were, which, so sore, him doth oppress.
He sweats, part Caradoc trembles, in the cold!
Him burns dire thought, in breast, sharp tooth, short stroke,
Even of this antique blade, should lay to rest,
His life, which now forsaken of his gods:
One pang end all! like unto his, who leaps
In chilling wave: so loost all cares, to-night;
Should sleep, lifted, for ever, from his breast,
This raging smart; and passed his soul from earth,
Descend unto the fathers' forepast spirits.

He is alone, with Death, in this dark wood;
And, with a frozen heart, that homicide hand
Of Caradoc feels, among the mounded dead,
The mouth adown, of lean devouring blade;
Whereon, fame is, had perished Second Brennus!
Less dread, him-thinks, that griesly face of death,
Than this disease of life, which is; whereas,

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He, as from sea's cliff, sees none further path.

In that last desolation of his spirit,
Him-seems, stoop, semblant, from white moon-rid cloud,
Of his great germain, buried Togodumnos;
Draws back his hand! Thou great upholding spirit,
Dost, in his fatal hour, thy germain save!

Abasht, wox Caradoc; and there fell new thought,
As from the gods, in his heroic breast;
What joy should, to his enemies! be his death,
Grief to all Britons! left, without sustain,
Ah, Embla and their sweet babe: were vanquished, then,
Blue tribes' resistance, in this Roman war;
Should not they be, ah, captives, sent to Rome,
To deck a triumph: through Rome's city led;
Of some foul gaoler, ah! outraged in their chains,
Sith strangled! last hurled from that bloody stair;
Whence, of the common hangman, drawn with hooks,
Their royal flesh be cast, as enemies' corses,
In flood of Tiber! Caradoc, again, thrust
That baleful brand down in his sheath! and took
Cunobelin's warlike son, anew, his breath.

Soughs the night-wind; and smite with dreary sound,
The forest boughs together: but that spirit

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His godlike front allays. Rose the warsire,
And he mounts forth. His soul longs thither, where,
He might, with wolves, howl, bell with the grave-owl;
And bellow forth the woodness of his soul!
Nor come unto men's living ears, his voice.

And, is it the wild hunt, in skies, he hears?
Furious night-host; wherein fell Morrigu rides,
And her swart hags, with hounds of fiery breath.
The Guledig's cry, him-seems, that fares in clouds,
And Antethrigus' shout, which rings above!
That headless hunter drives, in heaven's wide heath.

It is, in the night woods, wolves' murderous voice;
Which glutted, ere, in slaughter-fields, their gulfs;
Wherein fell flower, of Britons' comely youth:
But deems them Caradoc, in his wildered mood,
Romans, werewolves, and their wolf-suckled kings!
Through glade, with gait of giant, the hero fares.
Would, mongst these wind-cast beams, his strong fierce hands
Their crude abhorred hearts, rent up, by the roots!

Issued, like lamp, from wild wood of the skies,
Now moon outshines; and cast great forest stems,
Whose crooked boughs rock on this frozen wind,
Swart shadows; and weep oft their snowy crests,

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Down on sheen hulver thicket boughs, beneath.
Caradoc them deems, who now, night-dreamer walks,
With darkened mood, shafts, harnessed Roman soldiers:
And wind-gusts, piping loud, blow like an horn!

Like ureox, then, he rushed; and rang dark forest,
With battle-shout of great Caratacus!
With that Rome-quelling brand, which ere of Brennus,
He slays, (alas, for ruth!) the rinded trees.
Romans him-thought those stedfast timber-ranks;
Him-seemed his hands smote tribunes and centurions.

Last stumbling Caradoc forth, on some gnarled root;
(So that strong vertue, of drowsy herbs, now wrought;
Which Nessa steeped, in hall, in the king's mead;)
Wallowed in snow, the warsire slumbers fast.
Rest hero, sleep, under these starry gods!

Like to some swart vast fowl, how silent Night,
(As Day she covered, with her dusky wings,)
Broods o'er dim sullen round, of earth and woods!
It night of the moon-measurer of the year,
Is, wherein Belisama, eyebright goddess,
Girded in kirtle blue, with woodwives sheen,
Wont to fare forth; and her shield-maidens' train,
And loud hounds, in the forest-skies above.

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She, Caradoc seeing, stays her aery wain:
And, marvelling! in cloud-cliff, her divine team
She bound: so lights this faery queen, benign,
(Like her sire Belin,) to the kin of men.
She goddess, leaning on her spear-staff, wakes
In this his loneness, in cold midnight grove,
Over the hero's sleep: and, in herself,
Quoth; what is blind, brief, discourse of man's life,
But as a spark, out of eternal Night;
That shines as gledeworm, in the world, a moment:
Or glairy path of snail, which in the sun,
Glisters an hour; the next, of dew or rain,
Is molten. Like to hart, of a great horn,
Fallen in some hunter's pit, lies here king Caradoc,
Man best beloved, mongst Britons, of all gods!
Yet is, of mortal wights, an old said saw;
Is worth no weal, who may no woe endure.

Sith, with her shield-brim, she traced round him, sleeping,
A circuit; wherein enter, him to hurt,
Might sprite, nor wight, nor beast, nor element!

In his dead slumber, dreams the glory of Britain,
He sees Hell's brazen kingdom open wide,
Land of the sunless dead, derne plain beneath,
Full all of dread inextricable paths;

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Whereo'er, for light of day, hangs fiery mist.
There journey trains of spirits, whose cold graved joints
Lapped some in clay; some lie in foundered ships,
Other cast under thorny brakes and moss;
With creeping things, which suffer cold and wet:
He sees then glorious Thorolf go to land!

But day-star risen, passed Belisama forth.
Then cometh soon up the tardy sun, above
These Winter woods, like targe of glistering brass;
And grows glad morning light, from part to part.
Like to a pair of scales, thus chant pale druids,
In giant palm of world-sustaining god,
Is Day and Night. What hour Day riseth forth,
Descends the baleful Night behind his back.

Last stirs the sire, lo, stretcheth, in his sleep;
For thrills the royal ear, ripe merry note,
Of throstle-cock, that pipes from thicket bush!
Like jolly plough-swain, fluting in his fist;
Or who a-Maying goes by the green forest.

He wakes, upon his elbow then upleans;
And looketh him, lo, about, like one distraught!
Then heavy rose the king Caratacus;
And in that seemed some staggering miller, pale;
On whose courbe shoulder, weight is wont be laid,

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Of his lord's grist, and who is old; so hath
The warlord dredged night's hoary powdered frost.

And yet is darkness, in the royal breast;
When, lifted up his eyes, he new light sees!
Shrink now clear stars; and come, the sacred Dawn
Is crownéd queen, in wide watch-hill of heaven.
Behold new day, unfolding, like a bud!
Sweet voice of early birds, sounds in the wood.
This snowy bosom of the mould, like mead,
In Spring-time, is, of gowans, blushing red;
Kindled, yond hills shine, as some Summer heath!
Whence sun, like eagle, soars, on wings of gold;
Shedding new gladsome ray, on dead night-world.

Sprang, in that moment, mighty gentle hound,
With a deep throat, and licked the royal feet!
He bays, that rings again the Winter-forest.
And Caradoc knows the wolf-hound of the queen;
Which wont to nourish her white hand; and gift
Was of her father, Cantion Dumnoveros.

And sees, in this, the sire, his mantle warm,
Girded on the hound's chine. None other hand,
Than her own loving hand, him sends this token!
He it loost; and on his shoulder casts anon:
Cold is his flesh. Though climbs now Winter-sun,
This stern East wind blows piercing as a dart.

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Embla, when came not home loved Caradoc,
From king's mead-hall, sate in long confused thought;
Whilst ached her panting chest: to every sound,
Attent, her fearful ears! When night's midwatch,
Past; she sent servants, to Moelmabon's court.

But those returned, with word, the sire went forth;
Whence her, the more, misgives her wifely heart.
Yet sent the queen out other, in this night,
With brands; commanding, seek by field and forest.
Those come to her, again, ere morning-break:
And found have they, how far they sought, right naught.
That raiment she then bound, on her hound's back.
So cried, Hie, Berroc! seek thy lord, seek forth.

Returned, unto himself; Caratacus
Beheld, like shining adder, on the ground,
That fatal glaive! Him-seems, even now he Romans
Smote, or else dream were! Smote he, slew he, Romans
Not, in great battle, this long night? and put
Cohorts to flight? But, when he all him round,
The forest stems behewed beheld; and knew
The place; and all behackt that antique glaive
Of Brennus, which might well have holpen Britain!

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For sorrow and shame of this disparagement,
(He, lord of armies, of twelve sceptered kings,)
Done to his royal state, he waxed nigh mad!
Caratacus, impelled then, of some god,
Embraced young forest pine, it, by the root,
Rent; and he hid, in hollow, of swart mould,
Which opened had, like pit, his divine force,
The glaive, which should have vanquished again Rome.

Went up then Britons' lord, in his right mind;
For he neath ash had slumbered, whose deep root,
In healing well, is wet. Plumbs now the snow,
Before the sun, from cedars' lofty crest;
Where gins to pipe the great cock-of-the-woods.

Rusht, sudden, an o'ergreat grey, gaunt, wolf, forth!
From craig, on Embla's faithful hound; that towsed
King Caradoc's weed, to draw now his lord home.
They wallow and wind with hideous noise, anon;
And grinning teeth, and long upstaring hairs;
And, with fell claws, each other rend to blood,
Staining the forest snow. Caradoc's high hand
A wild stone caught from ground; he smote that brute's
Hard hairy chine, and all his pith was loost.

To warm his lukewarm blood, the sire forth goeth,

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A sturdy pace, down from thick latticed wood.
He treads known path now, to his forest lodge;
Neath brow, sequestered from the common foot.
It Moelmabon gave, to Embla and Caradoc;
For loves Silures' sire, as his own sons,
Cunobelin's son. He went by folded flocks;
But bark the very curs on Caradoc!
So seemed he stranger wight. His foot he hath
Stayed, yet unseen of men, within a grove:
For, lo, from other part, comes servants' train;
Are men of his own household, which, (o'er all,
Having, in vain, him sought to-night!) turn home.

To Verulam warriors, message then, the queen
Would send, whose camps lie in the further forest;
Calling them forth, to seek the royal footprint,
O'er hill-snow, of their king Caratacus.
Like unto new-born day, lo, weeping, Embla,
(Who die would, in his stead!) is now come forth,
At open gate, towards her returning servants;
Tidings enquire, to read their doubtful looks!

Caradoc, yet nigh the sheep-pen, his lord, Gorran
Erst knew, lo, from yond thicket, coming on;
And cast a joyful cry! Then all, to meet him,
Outrun: before them all, runs Embla queen.

Them rime-god Caradoc seems, of Eryr's mount;

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(So dight he is, with leaves and hoary frost;)
That, winter-long, in cave of steepling rocks,
Sleeps! and (like chamfered fallow field,) is warped,
To ghastful looks, his wonted comeliness;
For yet unconquered sorrow holds oppressed
His heart. She kisseth him, with silent lips;
And leads in, by the hand, (that icicle seems,
Closed, in her woman's feeble and warm flesh,)
To house: and hastes to bring, from sacred hearth,
Him posset drink, she had prepared to this.

Embla new fever fears of his old wound;
For yet, nor sense he seemed to have, of aught;
(If he might smile, should seem to wake the dead!)
Nor mind of any. Ran a little maid,
Dear fruit of both their loves; that joys and plays.

She climbed, unto her father's knees, anon;
To Caradoc stretches her two gleeful hands,
The babe. He her uptook, as one who dreams!
Looks in her eyes, plays with her sunbright locks;
Eyes, like blue cockle, in the Summer corn:
And Tad! the dear child cries. She laughs, he loves.
Then, hundred sithes, he kissed her infant lips!
And were to shield this loved one little head,
Life, in world's mortal tumult, yet, (which is

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Vast wailing place of vilain wights, wherein
Our efforts still frustrate the gods,) desires.

That warhound couched, crept to his lady's feet,
Now bleeds; (nor she was ware, for busy thought,)
From vein, fang opened of that felon wolf.
He his húrt licks; gazing still on his lord, Caradoc,
Gapes; and in that yields the true ferine breath.

Father.

But, in the inner chamber, heavy sleeps,
All day, and the next night, Caratacus;
And wakes in his mind's health. Yet council druids;
Till were the malign influence overpast,
Of certain stars, he no more issue forth.

There visits him the royal fatherhood
Of Moelmabon, with his warlike sons:
And sent Silures' king, for famous bard,
Talaith; who brother is to Mogunt, priest
Of the Sun's fane, of hanging stones: where learned
Talaith, (in dream,) to make and harp, of Belin!
Whom, when he hears, is Caradoc's heart refreshed.

Loosed, in first moon of the returning year;
Again, hath valorous Kowain; whose swift keels
Passed, wind-borne forth by Durotriges' coast.
Night-time sith sailing on, by sound of Vectis,

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In feeble moonshine, he espied new navy,
Of Rome, lie riding, under Belges' shore:
And being the most prows void of outshipped soldiers;
Kowain some fires; (cast, in their hollow boards,
Pots, full of flaming pitch:) other, wherein,
Were few fleet-rowers, in the blind night, 'scaped forth.

Thence, steering, under Cantion's brant white cliffs;
They, in each haven and road, burn Roman ships.
But sith the wind increased; and were they cast,
In weathers black and rough, out of their course;
And, driven from land, still borne forth towards the North.

The third day, they make fair Brigantine haven,
Of Aban. And, behold! how at waves' brinks,
Parisii already assemble: who their dukes,
In war-carts; the stout people, in a caterf.
For their sea-watch, which station on cliff-head,
Had, now an hour past, shouted o'er their fields;
Sails seen! Then, Are approaching pirate keels!

But when men mark, high-builded those war-prows,
Whose tackling and broad sails of Briton fashion;
And, hang longs their high boards, Dumnonian shields;
And valorous Kowain is, who them thence hails;

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And Labraid, pilot of Duneda's navy:
They gladly shouting, bid that prince, descend,
With his: and all cry Welcome to their strand!

Then every charioteer, some high-born guest,
Uptakes: who simple footman, leads forth rowers
Or warriors, to nigh mead-hall of Volisios,
In Petuaria; of this Brigantine march,
Lord and high magistrate; where then, eftsoons, all
Arrive. And, after meat and mead, that lord
Hath promised aid; when war renews king Caradoc,
Of hundred scythe-wheel battle-chariots:
And curmi, and bread he sends, to Kowain's ships.

Parted from thence, returns victorious Kowain.
But come tenth eve; when now, to Gulf of Severn,
They gin stand in, rose vehement wind: and borne,
Whither sun set, through long tempestuous night,
Are still, with weight of storm, their dark hulls forth,
Over swart billows. Last, morn rising sheen,
They a fáir Land see before them, which is Erinn.

And, lo, like vision of the blessed gods,
Is king Duneda standing, on that strand!
And people, of Summer-land, Dumnonians,
Known by their looks and weed, with the hoar sire.

Who sailed with Kowain, see New Isca rise,

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On yond green hill: but might they not outship,
Though now the night wind laid, yet, for great billows.
Gainst ebb, men leap, from anchored prows, to land.
Then all go up, the royal hand to kiss,
Of sire Duneda! and he embracing Kowain,
Praising his valiant deeds, him calls his son.
Much asks also Duneda, of Amathon;
But chiefly of Caradoc, and of sire Moelmabon,
And Almain Thorolf, and divine Manannan:
And where, he enquires, is his son, royal Hælion?

Duneda, to New Isca, from sea-waves,
Leads Kowain, in steep path, then, by the hand;
And seeded plots him shows, and his eared fields.
Follow, who came with Kowain, in the keels;
But rue, in looking forth, their faithful hearts;
To see, so strait their lord's house and New Isca!
Nothing like Isca burned, in Summer-land,
Of Foster Britain. Sith, neath boughs of ash;
Yet timbered no mead-hall, on the fresh grass,
Midst poplar grove, men sit at meat: they sit,
In long discourse; till the new moon is seen,
With sickle-face, this third day old, in heaven.

Then risen Duneda, father of his folk,
Lifted his hands cried loud, to the Night's god;

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That, like as he increased, might have this nation
Good chance! When sith his shining wheel, in heaven,
Should wane, so might their griefs: lord, at the least,
Leave us in no worse case! Yet, through short night,
All sit. Few list the curmi and new sweet mead,
(Which Kamlan pours, in yewen cups, from keeve, )
To taste of Erinn. Lords, in speech demiss,
Of Roman arms commune, and Camulodunum;
Caer Isca lost, and Catuvelaunian Verulam.

Quoth Kowain; how should one, in Aesgar's room,
Deceased, be chosen chief druid, in Deheubarth.
And power therein was seen of Joseph's God:
For, in what place had Aesgar cast to kill
Those innocent strangers, on them, loost wild beasts;
Was he himself beset, when he would pass,
Of angry swarms, from hundred hives, at once;
That him, with infinite venimous stings, have pierced.
Aesgar, in fiery passion, grovelling fell:
And swelled so, that he might be known, uneath:
He gave the ghost, before the morrow's sun.

But day-star risen, Duneda pours to Noden,
His cup: and sith, to strand, dismounts, with Kowain;

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And lords and warriors sailed in his strong ships.
Those climb aboard: whence, standing on their poops;
They loudly all do Dumnonians' sire salute!

Those anchors cast, in Severn gulf, that night.
But, sith, drawn up their keels, leads Kowain forth,
To go, by land, to Caradoc, his ship-folk.
They journeying, the third morrow, in long path;
Meet with them some main-troop, of Roman horse;
Which ridden that way, explorers, chanced to pass.

At clarions' sound then, those, with levelled spears,
Ruin on Britons. Shipmen, drawn glaives forth,
Do partly resist thus: part leapt, to rocks,
To trees, like birds; fall, as from wait, on Romans.
They steeds, that pass, pierce; riders pluck from horse.

Gauls' brunt thus stayed, they compass them: on whom,
In disarray, Britons again give charge!
Rages their strife; Amathon's victorious son;
(Not less is he, to battle, on firm land,)
His foes discomfits. When then few remain,
Those flying 'scape, by swiftness of their steeds.
Under his glaive, fell Virius, knight of Rome,
Their renowned captain, valiant of his hand.
And Kowain brought forth Virius' steed and arms,
A New Year's gift, for king Caratacus.

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These days, yet more, in East part of Rome's Province,
Grows tumult. East-men, on whom lately imposed
Aulus, for king, Cæsarian Prasutagos,
Risen, in revolt, rushed hardily from their fens,
The Roman castra o'erthrew, at Sitomagus.

Trembles then Claudian colony, at Camulodunum,
Seen, round them, how blue subject nations rise;
Though such be, only, weapons in their hands,
As hinds and ploughmen use; slings, cattle-goads,
Bats, grasshooks, woodbills, bounden, on long staves:
For Geta took away their iron and bronze;
But could not take away the Britons' hearts!

Aulus, from strongholds and from towers, his soldiers
Withdraws, to march against Caratacus,
Who certain woods, he hears, holds in East Province.
The duke, before him, sends out troops of horse,
And expedite cohorts. Whilst, by Meltraith fleets,
O'er wide salt plain, of ebb shore, those then pass;
(New moon now is,) Noden them saw far-off;
Unto whom, with father Lîr, mongst antique gods,
Was, of this Isle, the sea-waves' ward, assigned.

Fared Noden pompous by, to yearly feast;
Of blue sea-gods, in crystal halls, beneath

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Isle, which then Sarnia hight. In, towards the land,
He turns, with fury, his triple-teaméd chariot;
And tumult great, of rushing wild-waves' spirits;
That ride, as foaming steeds, sea-billows' croups.
And follow (an infinite spume-sprinkling train;)
The, on gólden axe-tree, rolling, broad divine
Wheels, in wide salt sea-flood, of stormy god;
And play him round, and do on him attend.

Blowing then his sea-children, all, at his
Command, in whelky horns, grave note! he leads,
Vast waters' wall, with plunging foot, on Romans!
Those taken, in angry surges, twixt sharp cliff,
And folding flood, in turmæ and cohorts, perish!
Ooze covered them, on that deceitful strand.

A. Sax. cyfe.

The warsire, towards mid-Britons, lately marched.
He now, where no cart-way; and cannot pass
Wheels of his chariot, rides on Roman horse.
One day, before the main of his caterfs,
Him chanced he went, by site, where enemies halted,
From march, mete camp, and foursquare vallum cast.

Then was, by sudden fury of Virius' steed;
Which breeze hath stung, and burst the rein, O gods!
Is Caradoc, in a moment, to Rome's port,

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Carried. Foes swarm him round: durst none him wound,
All fearing him approach. Running, swift-foot,
Britons soon their sire raught; they fence with shields:
But covering Camulus him, with his vast targe;
Coursed his strange steed beside, anon, him ruled,
By the forelock; and drew the hero forth!

Then war renewed, in Britain, as at erst.
Fires, on all beacon hills smoke; flame, by night!
The legate marching, with assembled cohorts,
Them, each day, leads, in view of blue caterfs;
But aye the more, with ensigns and with chariots,
Grows glast-stained host: come scythe-carts, from the North.

What hour, one eve, wont Romans halt, to lodge,
Rush suddenly forth blue Britons, from green wood,
With dreadful cries. Who first, thick spears, arrive;
Fall on the legions' muniment. Saw blue Britons,
That fight neath wicker shields, then Romans' backs.
Fly cohorts, on whom Panic-fear hath seized.
Britons, with loud cries occupy their castra!

Blue warriors, songs to Andates, chant that night,
Of victory; ánd they draw-off bloody harness,

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In broad moonshine, of their slain enemies.
In that field's midst, they heap then Roman arms.

Come dawn, some Britons, climbed into tall trees,
No more perceive those Roman fugitive soldiers!
Who came, with staves and bills, cast these away;
And choose them, of all Roman spoil, out arms.
Seven captive ensigns, Caradoc sends be borne,
On swift feet, through all marches of free Britons.

But when Ostorius Scapula, Aulus hears,
(Whom Cæsar sends, new legate, into Britain,)
To Dubris is arrived, with fleet, and soldiers:
He in Verulam, (town which newly arms of Flavius
Reconquered,) now, disceding from his Province;
In Galba's hand, lieutenant of Ostorius,
His late high charge deposed. He sith to Gaul,
O'ersailed, returns, then private man, to Rome.

And being Ostorius entered in his office;
Though lateward now the year, when Roman captains,
Were wont, to Winter-camps, withdraw their legions;
This duke, into the field, recalls his soldiers.
He made recension, in the stative camps,
(Where those come to him,) nigh to Troynovant,

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Of Roman arms; then leads, past Thames, West forth;
Horse, new light-armed, with train and fourteen cohorts.

Warned by hill fires, caterfs, which late dispersed,
Tumultuously return. Behold, in field;
As two night-stealing sullen beasts of forest,
Whose prey is murdered blood, that chance to meet,
In some strait place: anon, with hellish heart,
And staring hairs, and roaring open throat,
And eyes aflame, the other each defies,
Eager to rend his adversary's corse;
So in night-watch, now cohorts and caterfs;
Approaching, one to other, in vast wood.

Lo, rising up the moon, in Romans' faces,
Britons' long, fearful, barbare shadows casts!
Seem flickering stars dance, iron light of arms,
Omen of victory, on whose thicket spears.

Archers of Andred shoot, from Britons' part.
Their shafts pierce Romans' plate: who, sudden yells,
Thrown up into the skies, of ambushed enemies;
And blowing bloody noise of Britons' trumps,
(That from steep clouds, rebellow in murk forest!)
Sustain uneath. Lifting the huntress goddess,
Her crystal shield, surviews strange Romans' deaths!

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Icenians, which in Caradoc's forward, march,
Like rushing steers, then hurl forth. Antethrigus!
They furious shout. Who foremost, to hand-strokes,
Be come; when, ah, gins heaven's night-queen, (eclipst!)
Withdraw, her light. Withholds religion then,
On both parts, fierce strong hands, of warlike men.
Romans recoil; but when, nigh dawn, Ostorius,
Kindling green boughs and holm, and raised wide smoke;
(Which blows the night wind forth, towards Britons' faces,)
Issues, as from pursuit, by other paths.

Caterfs new marching, with Caratacus,
Grown to great host, the third day, impetuous make
Assault on Romans, weary with long march;
In cumbered ground. Their yells, mongst thicket rocks,
Which sound; did seem proceed, from neath the earth.
Their onset hardly endured Ostorius' trains,
Till eve; then cast a vallum, in their midst,
In little space, and that behind their backs;
They, night-time, without fire or water, pass.

But come the morrow, Ostorius leads without
Their castrum; and enranged, in haste, his soldiers.

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Blaming their yester's faintness, he gave sign!
And they ashamed, with shout, rush forth; and cast
Thick javelins! and with glaives and their shields' pikes,
To-day, rebut the barbare arms of Britons.

Riding, mongst his caterfs, on Virius' horse,
Behold Caratacus; who, hark! with great voice,
His blue youth comforts, to renew the fight.
Esteem each one of weapons, which he bears,
As the arms those were of his saviour gods!

The sire, sith mounted, in Brigantine chariot;
Stands, like the radiant day's-god! hurling darts.
But soldiers daze; seen girded Roman harness,
Rome's short glaives in their hands, (like dyers' hands,
For woad,) on Britons' breasts. Even Roman helms
Shine, whelmed on long-haired barbare polls of Britons!
Britons, with Romans, wrestle in the forest.

Yet whilst this sun was young, came bands, by hap,
To that wold-side; (where towers and, famous sith,
Shall cities rise!) of glittering Gaulish horse,
Whom Titus leads. To-day had Titus cast,

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In that green place, to graze his war-worn steeds:
Where, and the knights, his friends, would he, with bows,
Seek beasts forth, of the field and wood; by brook,
And dew-steeped launds, and under cooling shade,
Of Summer boughs; by thicks and hollow denes;
And in the fern, whereas dun deer, lie down,
By golden paths, at noon, in secret glades:
And make them lodges, under crooked arms
Of the broad oaks, of leafy boughs, at eve.

But when, within, heard Titus battle-noise;
His Gauls shout! Shout again Ostorius' soldiers!
That made new effort, with great poise of cohorts,
Bear bloody aback blue Britons; on whose necks,
And wide uneven face, squadrons of Titus
Now impetuous ride. Vespasian's hardy son;
By valour of his arms, and warlike might,
Of his proud steed, shaking his armed stout crest;
With few, brake through, bold riders, men of his;
Where, in a twilight glade, in battle-cart,
Behold; that great king fights of all blue Britons!
What glory, and might he slay Caratacus,
Where his! They fight! but the blue long-haired sire,
In skill of arms, and his heroic force,

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And manage of brave steeds, exceeds, as much,
All Romans, as all kings, in his high worth.

Lightly, the Flavian blade, he bet aside;
And with broad glaive, in half-disdainful wise,
Young Roman Titus smote, smote on the pan:
It shared his horse-tail crest; and had not been
His helm of proof, had cloven, to the chin,
That knight of Rome; who stoops, to his steed's neck;
As one dismayed. Gauls, Roman knights, made force,
Then, all, at once, assail Caratacus.

But, in that point, arrive Brigantine war-carts;
Those which Volisios guides; on whose shrill axetrees,
Which fray Gauls' steeds, stand men, that hurl forth hand-stones,
And thonged spears! Leapt down then, with immane cries,
Those hale; and slay, on ground, their enemies!

As drave king Caradoc forth, he calls to Britons,
Disperse them, by thick coverts and rough brakes:
So leaves he a barren victory, to Rome's legions!

Verges the year: yet greater tumult grows,
Mongst subject peoples of the Roman Province.

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And when are floods erst bridged, of stony frost;
Careless of fords and Aulus' towers, men pass,
From roman pale, to go to free West Britons.

But prodigies have made cold the people's hearts;
For heard divine trump was, in Eryr, sound;
And, mongst the nations, bloody dew was seen;
And druids heard living groans, from dead kings' mounds!
Saw portents Romans also on their part.
At Troynovant, (that is now Augusta named,)
Smote lightning flame, the eagle of a legion.

The sixth year running now of Roman war;
When come is Winter, journeys the warsire,
From Caerwent, unto kings of far North March:
And Caradoc lies each night, in some lord's court.

He lights, come to Cornavian Pennocrucion,
From journey; and sups in Ruan's stone-walled hall.
Was there, in Caradoc's sleep, an impious crept,
To slay him. But upsprung, from the sire's feet,
A noble warhound; that the felon, pluckt
Down, on the floor; now strangles, with deep throat.

Upleapt king's champions, in the doubtful night:

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Those grope, in shimmering twilight, to the walls;
Where, at beds' heads, they left, uphanged, their arms.
Hurt, in blind tumult, ere might fire be blown,
Was many an one. His fellow, each misdeems,
That it was he bewrays Caratacus!

Light blown of dying embers, in their hearth;
Men rid that wretch, from under raging hound.
(Half-dead for fear,) it is a cripple-thrall;
Wont curmi bear, in his lord's hall, and mead.
Gorran, whose hand arrest on him erst laid,
Shows, this, lo, upholding! long skean of sharp bronze.

Threatened with extreme torment of the flame,
That wretch beknew his guilt: suborned with gold,
Him servant of Cæsarian Cogidubnos;
Who lately, a feigned bard, came into these parts;
And that with privity óf great duke Ostorius!
So Romans wont, in their ignoble mood:
Witness thou bleeding ghost of Viriathus;
And thou, great Roman, wronged Sertorius;
Jugurtha, and many more; and Gaulish Commius.

Ere had that caitif shed, in the king's drink,
Venim; which fell Lucusta's hand prepared,
By the perfumer's art, damned hag in Rome:
(But feeling, in his wayfare, his old ill

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Revive; the sire would taste, that night, no mead.)

And this, next day, was certainly known, by servant,
One given to ale; which snatcht, from hand, the cup;
Thereto resisting, of that wicked thrall;
Who bare, again, the royal mead; and did
Drink-out, to shining bottom of the bowl:
Whence being overcome, from the king's hall,
Men drave him forth. The wretch went home, to sleep:
But so incontinently wrung him his bowels,
He left not crying-out, in his pangs, till dawn;
When ceased his breath! Came knocking, heard that noise;
And gropes in, from the porch, another thrall,
For is this blind. And fiercely, If any, enquires,
Do wrong to Ruan, or his sacred guests?
But when he understood the cause, had license,
With wounds he slew, on wounds, of his own knife,
That fellow thrall! and drawn his carrion forth,
On the laystall, to crows, it cast, and kites.
Princes and champions, with Caratacus,
Then sware an oath; at king's bed-head, henceforth,
To wake, in arms; and that by nightly course.

Lifted, on immense wings, flew Rumour forth,
From Penkridge craigs; and, at all Winter-hearths,
Uncertain tiding whispers, dread. But Caradoc,

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Being come again to Caerwent, to Moelmabon;
Is word, by messengers, brought, were burned in Severn,
And broken, at the shore, Duneda's ships!
And cause, few ravisht brands of herdman's fire;
That empty keels, (which dasht together, ere,
And hurled to land,) in tempest of night wind,
Kindled. But lords feel strangling in their throats;
Astonishment! that do hear, their breathless hearts.

Now Penkridge.

When field's wide bosom clothed again is seen,
With the new blade; and full of budded green
The woods; and ere more leisure have blue Britons,
To gather, with new frenzy in their hearts,
Ostorius draws forth, from their Winter-camps,
The armies of Rome's Province, twenty cohorts.

Nathless, in secret of thick woods, to place
Called the Three Oaks, assemble East-men Britons:
And they there choose, in room of Hiradoc,
(Who, sick, lies at East cliffs,) and Madron hurt;
Young Cathigern, to be duke of blue caterfs.

Mongst those glast-stained, is Cathigern as a Roman;
Prudent and stedfast, to observe his season.
But when his war-youth, offered sacrifice,
Of sheep and oxen, eat their evening meat;

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(Wherein, of druids, were happy omens seen,
Of victory;) and would they straight hurl forth on Romans;
Them Cathigern promiseth, on the morrow, fight.

Now of wide-springing dawn, dim twilight is.
When erst might know a man his brother's face;
Order them Britons: who then oak-leaf crowned,
First leaping from thick wood, tumultuous spears,
Assail banks, (yester cast,) of legions' castra.

But suddenly issuing, from all ports, at once,
With clamour, Roman soldiers! their light armed
With the stout thousands of Icenian youth,
Contend; sith heavy cohorts. The wide plain
Seems shrink, under their tread; and shine with gleam
Of confused arms: it saw, from heaven, high gods,
As harvest field, which wallowed is of wind.

Then sharded soldiers beat back naked Britons.
And must, for all then his heroic force,
Young Cathigern withdraw foot. Britons betake,
Being many slain, them backward to thick wood,
Headlong; and find new breathing space. But when,
From his mid-course, dismounts sun's flame, East warriors
Fall out, on Romans, journeying to new camps:

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And who them smote before, Britons now slay,
In their long trains. Who erewhile them pursued;
Now, they pursuing, redden their blue hands;
And stain this foster mould, with Roman blood.

Sith brought in Belges' scouts, new word, to Romans;
How Britons are of flocking youth r'inforced:
The sun shines on their hundred barbare ensigns.
With bruit those come up of vast Winter shore;
Which beaten is of long wave-brinks' infinite foot.

Commands Ostorius, dig then his camps' fosse,
With walls downright, deep twenty feet. Are Britons
Hardy and adventurous, to assail night castra.
But blotted was, gainst eve, day's cheerful light;
And from dark mouth of heaven, vast thunder roars:
Sharp hail, with lightnings, falls from grovelling clouds.
And wipe desire of battle, from all hearts,
Britons and Romans, now their angry gods:
These, under skins, those harbour in wet woods.

But Belges' spies, which were, at dawn, went forth,
Being come again, at mid of day, renounce,
How glast-stained Britons were of new disperst:
Whose beasts, by freshet flood, the night-time past,
(Thus confess wounded captives, whom they brought,

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At the spear's point,) were borne away and lost.
That water wide is out, by field and forest!

Romans, sent scouts before them, then marched forth;
And way hold, through Mid-Britain, towards the North;
Whence aid flowed erewhile to Caratacus:
And Romans having need of beasts and corn;
Their foragers waste wide field round, and steads burn,
Of Britons which lurk fugitive in thick woods.

Receives Ostorius secret embassage,
In this, from Cartismandua, imploring aid;
Fearing her foes should fall, on her, at once:
The queen submit her promises, unto Cæsar!

Out of the West, ascends Caratacus.
Men go before him, leaf-crowned to the gods.
The king the wilds of Ordovican nation,
Would fortify; and live there free from Romans!
Shall Kynan follow him, with strong caterfs;
With whom the warlike son of Moelmabon,
Marching with his; and joined to them is Kowain.

Which known, through spies, Ostorius turns aside;
To go unto West parts. Journey then legions
Forth, painfully, by waste hills; and find no paths,

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In coasts, where only salvage wights abode;
Which know not grain, nor any use of bread;
Whose most meat their ewes' milk; and whose wont is,
To wake, all nights, abroad, to ward their folds,
From wolves. Bear sharp stangs, hardened in the fire,
Those in their hands, for spears. Great shock-haired curs,
Run with them: and from wait, like eagles' craigs,
Those salvage wights wont shoot down shafts, on soldiers;
Which them Cyclopes call; that find oft milk,
Great store, in their round-heaped, (like caves,) stone cotes.

Last, when now legions, after travaillous march,
By squalid skrents of stony hills; (where lost
They their most carriage have and steeds; whose hooves,
Sock'd or unshod, so pathless and rough rocks,
Unapt to tread,) come to inhabited
More open ground; the duke Ostorius hears,
Caratacus hath, with ensigns and caterfs,
And bands of oak-leaf crowned, (breathed in whose breasts,
Is fury of battle-god,) before arrived;
And certain hold, now not far-off, besets:

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(Caer Caradoc named, in later age, the place;
Where, in one marriage bed, of the fresh mead,
Bordered with flowering rush and golden flags,
And willow herb and peerless waterlilies,
Flow Colonnuwy and Tifidiog streams.)
This, building stones, repairs Caratacus;
Part with felled trees, and heaped with hasty earth:
For will he here wait onset of the Romans!

Blue warlike Britons, chanting battle-songs,
Sit; and on whin-stones, whet broad glaives and spears.
Other new-tress long wicker shields, or stretch
O'er them new hammered hide; some fret, at fires,
And supple sinewed bows, and twist new strings;
Or fledge their quivers full of long war-shafts.
Then all their warlike breasts stain, with new woad.

Approached, at morrow's eve, Rome's glittering legions;
Now castra mete, from Caradoc, a large league:
And dying, in what hour they halt, the sun,
Seem the wide-kindled heavens as a vast pyre!

Past is long twilight of short Summer night;
When druids, in magic trance, behold their gods;
That sit, on rainbow thrones, the skies above.
Belin, they heard, amongst those blesséd ones,
Far-seeing god, read Clothru and Ethne bind,

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Strife-fiends, abhorring his ambrosial light.
Consenting, gods then send forth, the night wind,
Which Grey is hight, from under cold North stars;
That bitter rime, those hell-hags, sleeping, cast
Round; and wall-up, in glassy tower of frost:
Yet, they ere day, through subtle fraud, 'scaped forth!

Slumber caterfs; but cannot sleep their dukes:
Strong are the enemies' gods! wherefore their hearts,
Like rumbling water-mills, o'er rushing brooks,
Clap, in their breasts. Kindled great beacon fires,
From hill to hill, when rose the Land-cry forth,
Make known already, unto farthest Britons,
Great battle-hazard of Caratacus!
That all make supplication, to their gods.

Gainst this new sun, on flickering wings, upmounts
Blithe lark, from the low bent with heavenly throat;
Whence creaking ghosts, from men's slain limbs, to-night,
Like gnats, shall rise. Mead where the gentle hart
Was wont, from hurst to holt, to have his flight;
And partridge cock, with ripe and merry note,
Now calls: when stills the dew, trode this fresh bent
Down, in long battle-strife, with jelly blood,
Shall, blackened mould, lie house of funerals;

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A solitude, of rotten graves of warriors,
Henceforth! Comes this new sun up, with still heat,
And shoots slant beams, like lances, to dull earth.

Behold, the legate's purple is displayed,
On his prætorian tent, in legions' castra;
Dread sign of battle! Strait, he leads, with trumps,
Without all ports, his legions; and instructs,
In field, vast shining threefold battle-ordinance.

Beckoning their præfects, all dight arms, at once!
And infinite breastplates cast large brazen gleam,
As river were; and glance, like blades of grass,
Their glaives; and seemed, like leaping flames, their spears.

Behold, then, Britons' bulwark, black with shields!
Wherein shine groves of spears, like lamping bronze.
Ostorius, lo, with tribunes of his legions,
Rides now, spy-out yond fastness of blue Britons;
And their defences view. Them steeps enclose;
Part stony walls; trees, banked with sods, the rest.
Quick stream, before them, runs; uncertain fords.

Returned, again, with speed; loud Cæsar's legate,
From legion, unto legion, to his soldiers,
Spake; How those were the oft o'erthrown blue Britons,
Uplandish wights, unapt to handle arms;

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Having no certain bond; and none defence,
Of helm or harness: mong whom to-day seen,
Few men, of war! Consumed, already, O cohorts,
Their foremost ones, have your victorious glaives!

All shout to battle! Might uneath centurions
Hold back tumultuous maniples of their ensigns.
When known, eftsoon, their scouts have founden fords,
Sound clarions! leads Ostorius on the legions.

From druids' altars, whereon burn fat ribs
Of sacrificéd beves, reeks pleasant breath,
Aloft to nostrils of long-living gods!
On craig stone, stands great-voiced Caratacus,
His people's Ward, amidst their blue caterfs;
That the walled border man of this hill-strength.
And cries the sire; Have every man, in mind,
His father's mound; that take not grief their spirits,
When tidings come to them, under the earth.
Better, in field, were warrior to fall slain,
Still turning towards the foe his threatful face;

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Than 'scaped from fight, be on his weapon seen,
None enemy gore; nor wound in his blue flesh.
Better thus fall, than tarry long for death;
Till creeping age have so deflowered a man,
That he become a mockery, unto each wight!

Britons, their warlord's voice receive, with shout!
Bright harnessed, he them seems descended god:
And, in well-tempered helm, like to a flame,
Of ceiled smith's work, is closed his noble front;
And dreadful dragon seems his royal crest.
King Caradoc, girded with that golden belt,
Of Togodumnos; feels revive his force.

Great bearded, and long hair-locked druid wight,
Lo, standing on their wall, hark, curseth Romans:
Then casts, whilst Britons their armed hands uphold,
To heaven, his javelin, towards approaching soldiers:
Devoting them, to gods, beneath, of death!