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

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.