 | The Dawn in Britain |  |
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.
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!
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,
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.
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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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.
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.
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!
Their fellowship in high hall, their hardy deeds.
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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.
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!
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!)
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!
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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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.
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!
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!
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!)
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!
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,
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.
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(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.
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,
He, as from sea's cliff, sees none further path.
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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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!
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.
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
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.
The forest boughs together: but that spirit
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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.
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!
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!
| The Dawn in Britain | |