 | The Dawn in Britain |  |
So long, o'er earth's low field, then as swift chariot
Of Belin, god, on burning axe-tree, mounts;
Their crystal shields protending, cloud-girt gods,
Favour the Britons: but, past his mid-course,
Prevail, at length, the mightier gods of Rome!
Of Belin, god, on burning axe-tree, mounts;
Their crystal shields protending, cloud-girt gods,
Favour the Britons: but, past his mid-course,
Prevail, at length, the mightier gods of Rome!
199
Like is long brazen wall, the soldiers' front,
Of dinted shields, and harness purple-dyed:
Like then to climbing wave, that falls in blood;
Upon a bank of bleeding warriors!
Breath of their gods, a little yet upholds
The island powers, but no more shields from wounds.
Of dinted shields, and harness purple-dyed:
Like then to climbing wave, that falls in blood;
Upon a bank of bleeding warriors!
Breath of their gods, a little yet upholds
The island powers, but no more shields from wounds.
Caradoc, warlord, to what part, most, he sees
The battle-travail sore, sends strength of spears;
Or himself running, (since, in this March, were
Not paths for battle-carts,) the loose caterfs
Restores. But gin incline the wounded ranks,
Now, on blue Britons' part, of warriors' breasts.
The battle-travail sore, sends strength of spears;
Or himself running, (since, in this March, were
Not paths for battle-carts,) the loose caterfs
Restores. But gin incline the wounded ranks,
Now, on blue Britons' part, of warriors' breasts.
In that, he turned, recomfort a caterf;
Came hastily humming sling-stone, which strong arm
Hurled, of Iberian, mongst the allies of Rome:
And, on the neck-bone, smote the shining flint,
Twixt hauberk and bright helm, Caratacus;
Where, numbness of man's sense, makes, nigh to death,
The stroke; and so continues a good space.
Came hastily humming sling-stone, which strong arm
Hurled, of Iberian, mongst the allies of Rome:
And, on the neck-bone, smote the shining flint,
Twixt hauberk and bright helm, Caratacus;
Where, numbness of man's sense, makes, nigh to death,
The stroke; and so continues a good space.
As poplar, whose roots freshet hath laid bare,
When seizes tempest on his soaring crest,
Ruins from cliff; amongst his warriors, rushed;
And lay full still, divine Caratacus!
Then those make, shield to shield, the warsire round,
Impenetrable breastwork of their lives.
When seizes tempest on his soaring crest,
Ruins from cliff; amongst his warriors, rushed;
And lay full still, divine Caratacus!
200
Impenetrable breastwork of their lives.
Blue Britons, when the warlord's cry no more,
Above the battle-tumult, they might hear,
More feebly fight. A coldness dulls each sense.
Above the battle-tumult, they might hear,
More feebly fight. A coldness dulls each sense.
Doth Gorran off his lord's bright helm, at once,
That might the freshing air, upon him breathe.
Then softly, who noblest, on his flint-hard targe,
(Which dights thick rind of forest bull; whereon,
Shines, thrice enfolded, dragon of his house,
Whose fell head tin, the body is scaly brass,
Of horrible aspect,) lift Caradoc.
And him, to shoulders heaving, they tread back;
And bear the sire, twixt lane of knitted shields;
And save, maugré thick strife, from battle-press,
Of Romans. And, from skies, Rome's hostile gods,
Beholding, did applaud; and Worthy, spake,
Were those, in barbare arms, to have been Romans!
That might the freshing air, upon him breathe.
Then softly, who noblest, on his flint-hard targe,
(Which dights thick rind of forest bull; whereon,
Shines, thrice enfolded, dragon of his house,
Whose fell head tin, the body is scaly brass,
Of horrible aspect,) lift Caradoc.
And him, to shoulders heaving, they tread back;
And bear the sire, twixt lane of knitted shields;
And save, maugré thick strife, from battle-press,
Of Romans. And, from skies, Rome's hostile gods,
Beholding, did applaud; and Worthy, spake,
Were those, in barbare arms, to have been Romans!
| The Dawn in Britain | |