The Dawn in Britain by Charles M. Doughty |
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 | The Dawn in Britain |  |
This hapless battle-sun, at length, is ended;
Leaving Isle Britain thrall and prey, to Rome!
Whose funeral shroud wide skies seem, dipped in blood.
Fly, to much slaughter, ravens from hill-woods;
And groaned, in their high rests, the foster-gods;
That haste fling night down, from the heavenly towers.
Leaving Isle Britain thrall and prey, to Rome!
Whose funeral shroud wide skies seem, dipped in blood.
Fly, to much slaughter, ravens from hill-woods;
And groaned, in their high rests, the foster-gods;
That haste fling night down, from the heavenly towers.
Falls night's wide mourning raiment, on the ground;
Nor any went to Camulus' bride-feast.
Or was, the god his arms, from battle-blood,
Washed; or that field glassed crystal firmament;
Or Britain's bloody Dawn, would show the gods!
All night, the heavens, waxed red, did seem to burn;
Which seen of peoples, even to furthest Britain!
And sending gods, o'er-all, derne wailful sound,
Beneath the cresset-moon, like lamping brass,
Was eachwhere, nightlong, fear of impious death;
Falls new strange dread, on drowsy watching hearts!
Nor any went to Camulus' bride-feast.
Or was, the god his arms, from battle-blood,
Washed; or that field glassed crystal firmament;
Or Britain's bloody Dawn, would show the gods!
All night, the heavens, waxed red, did seem to burn;
Which seen of peoples, even to furthest Britain!
And sending gods, o'er-all, derne wailful sound,
Beneath the cresset-moon, like lamping brass,
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Falls new strange dread, on drowsy watching hearts!
What clods, beside Tifidiog's stream, be these,
Cold as the dew, which seems dank stars to weep;
Lie wallowed in their blood? When this day rose,
In mist, were beautiful young valiant warriors,
Britons, whose bed of death this trampled grass.
And who lie, full of wounds, in field, alive;
Have none to succour them; less happy, alas,
Than who already have breathed forth their spirits.
Cold as the dew, which seems dank stars to weep;
Lie wallowed in their blood? When this day rose,
In mist, were beautiful young valiant warriors,
Britons, whose bed of death this trampled grass.
And who lie, full of wounds, in field, alive;
Have none to succour them; less happy, alas,
Than who already have breathed forth their spirits.
Yet in that night, was saved, Caratacus,
So loved him gods; which, yester, took all seeing,
And sense, from him, of Britons' extreme loss.
So loved him gods; which, yester, took all seeing,
And sense, from him, of Britons' extreme loss.
| The Dawn in Britain | |