 | The Dawn in Britain |  |
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;
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!
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;
190
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.
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.
| The Dawn in Britain | |