The Dawn in Britain by Charles M. Doughty |
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 | The Dawn in Britain |  |
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.
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,
Of his lord's grist, and who is old; so hath
The warlord dredged night's hoary powdered frost.
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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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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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(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.
| The Dawn in Britain | |