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

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!

200

Then those make, shield to shield, the warsire round,
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.

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!