The Dawn in Britain by Charles M. Doughty |
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 | The Dawn in Britain |  |
Being come Caratacus, and Embla and peers,
With long disease, to gates of hostile Rome;
When it is night, and no man in the ways;
To the Gemonium, (prison named of sighs;)
All brought, in covered carts, therein were cast:
Where hidden, in loathsome den, beneath the earth,
As in a tomb, from heaven's cheerful light;
They await the ignominy of most cruel deaths!
By strangling, at base hands of vilain wights.
With long disease, to gates of hostile Rome;
When it is night, and no man in the ways;
To the Gemonium, (prison named of sighs;)
All brought, in covered carts, therein were cast:
Where hidden, in loathsome den, beneath the earth,
As in a tomb, from heaven's cheerful light;
They await the ignominy of most cruel deaths!
By strangling, at base hands of vilain wights.
Yet erst will Claudius show Caratacus;
(King, which these nine years hath withstood his legions;)
A public spectacle, in the Roman streets.
(King, which these nine years hath withstood his legions;)
A public spectacle, in the Roman streets.
Behold then, on set day, those royal Britons,
Sad, squalid, chained, are lifted, bleak of hew,
Up, from that dreadful lower prison-pit,
Of Servius Tullius; (which, four-paces deep,
Is ceiled with stone, beneath the Roman street;)
Into sun's blissful ray, to march, from weight
Of night, to death! Behold Caratacus!
With pomp, (great barbare Island's king!) led forth;
By the world's sovereign-City's thronged paved street;
And through triumphal arc, decreed to Claudius;
Whereon his fond new name Britannicus, writ!
Behold, bronze images, gilt, on that arc's top,
Set up; of Britons' trimarch, and scythed war-carts:
And, in the entablature, battle, graved, is seen,
Before paled walls of hill-set Camulodunum!
Sad, squalid, chained, are lifted, bleak of hew,
Up, from that dreadful lower prison-pit,
Of Servius Tullius; (which, four-paces deep,
Is ceiled with stone, beneath the Roman street;)
Into sun's blissful ray, to march, from weight
Of night, to death! Behold Caratacus!
With pomp, (great barbare Island's king!) led forth;
By the world's sovereign-City's thronged paved street;
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Whereon his fond new name Britannicus, writ!
Behold, bronze images, gilt, on that arc's top,
Set up; of Britons' trimarch, and scythed war-carts:
And, in the entablature, battle, graved, is seen,
Before paled walls of hill-set Camulodunum!
Loud trumpets sound! Much insolent concourse is
Descended, in Rome's ways, of mingled speech;
(For flow the world's offscourings now by Rome,
Wherein are infinite slaves of many wars.)
Stand, on all foot-ways, Rome's proud citizens,
Ranged; bove whom framed be scaffolds, in long rows;
Where sit patricians, and Rome's senators;
And ambassades, with purpled magistrates;
Women look proudly on, from every porch;
Stairs, pillared temples. Other throng house-tops;
Where great Britannic king Caratacus,
Their Sacred Way along, towards his death,
Shall pass. He cometh, lo, chained, like salvage beast!
Afoot. With him fares Embla; and, twixt them both,
Their little daughter traces, Maid-of-Kent.
Descended, in Rome's ways, of mingled speech;
(For flow the world's offscourings now by Rome,
Wherein are infinite slaves of many wars.)
Stand, on all foot-ways, Rome's proud citizens,
Ranged; bove whom framed be scaffolds, in long rows;
Where sit patricians, and Rome's senators;
And ambassades, with purpled magistrates;
Women look proudly on, from every porch;
Stairs, pillared temples. Other throng house-tops;
Where great Britannic king Caratacus,
Their Sacred Way along, towards his death,
Shall pass. He cometh, lo, chained, like salvage beast!
Afoot. With him fares Embla; and, twixt them both,
Their little daughter traces, Maid-of-Kent.
His brethren peers, come after, in Rome-street.
As, on Jugurtha bound, all Romans gaze,
On thee; (with ribald jests, they mock thy looks,)
Sword-of-the-gods, divine Caratacus!
As, on Jugurtha bound, all Romans gaze,
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Sword-of-the-gods, divine Caratacus!
Great king Cunobelin's scythe-cart, then is seen;
Wherein war-kings of Britain wont to ride.
It draw forth, teamed, six tall young noble Britons,
War-captives! and winged dragon seemed the beam;
With vermeil shining scales. The bilge is full
Of dints; yet seen distained with battle-blood!
The wheels seem running eagle's claws, of bronze.
And men those barbare brazen hooks behold,
Whereon, were wont be hanged, in every field,
The off-hewed polls, of chief slain ones of Romans!
Wherein war-kings of Britain wont to ride.
It draw forth, teamed, six tall young noble Britons,
War-captives! and winged dragon seemed the beam;
With vermeil shining scales. The bilge is full
Of dints; yet seen distained with battle-blood!
The wheels seem running eagle's claws, of bronze.
And men those barbare brazen hooks behold,
Whereon, were wont be hanged, in every field,
The off-hewed polls, of chief slain ones of Romans!
Was taken that royal cart, at Camulodunum;
Wherein is reared now of Cunobelin,
Broad sun-bright targe; and hauberk of Manannan.
The shrieking Briton axe-tree, of hard bronze,
Rumbles, not-washt, with scab of battle-dust,
And rotten gore, on, dread, through mighty Rome:
And thereon gazing, shrink the hearts of Romans;
That fear again the antique Gauls of Brennus!
Wherein is reared now of Cunobelin,
Broad sun-bright targe; and hauberk of Manannan.
The shrieking Briton axe-tree, of hard bronze,
Rumbles, not-washt, with scab of battle-dust,
And rotten gore, on, dread, through mighty Rome:
And thereon gazing, shrink the hearts of Romans;
That fear again the antique Gauls of Brennus!
Thereafter, four-wheel Briton wagons drawn
Are. March tall young men, captives of the Isle,
Beside; upholding barbare glittering ensigns.
Those wains pass forth, behanged with painted shields,
Of island peoples, vanquished in the wars.
Gleam war-horns, in the first, and long iron glaives:
Bound, in the next, lo, thraves of bronze-head spears.
Are. March tall young men, captives of the Isle,
Beside; upholding barbare glittering ensigns.
Those wains pass forth, behanged with painted shields,
Of island peoples, vanquished in the wars.
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Bound, in the next, lo, thraves of bronze-head spears.
Passeth forth godlike, pale, Caratacus,
(Whose only arm a nation's shelter was!)
Betrayed, not taken, in wars; midst dog-faced press.
The Briton king, erect, magnanimous,
Vouchsafes not them behold. The stings have pierced,
Of ire, his noble breast; proud sorrow slays.
(Whose only arm a nation's shelter was!)
Betrayed, not taken, in wars; midst dog-faced press.
The Briton king, erect, magnanimous,
Vouchsafes not them behold. The stings have pierced,
Of ire, his noble breast; proud sorrow slays.
On Embla's looks, long-time, all Romans gaze!
Though she, from prison-pit, come lean and wan;
So fair a woman's face, is none in Rome.
Her tresst locks part are wounden, like to crown,
Upon her noble front; part, backlong hang,
Like veil of gold. She, sad-faced Britain's queen,
Hath a royal majesty, in her countenance!
Though she, from prison-pit, come lean and wan;
So fair a woman's face, is none in Rome.
Her tresst locks part are wounden, like to crown,
Upon her noble front; part, backlong hang,
Like veil of gold. She, sad-faced Britain's queen,
Hath a royal majesty, in her countenance!
Like snowdrop pale, (the innocent oppressed!)
Their maiden child, she leads on by the hand.
(These oft speak, twixt them both, in Briton tongue.)
That little daughter dreads swart looks of Romans;
And cannot choose but weep, because these chains
The king, her father, bears: nor wots, (amaze
Her, so sore, all things;) they wend to their deaths!
Their maiden child, she leads on by the hand.
(These oft speak, twixt them both, in Briton tongue.)
That little daughter dreads swart looks of Romans;
And cannot choose but weep, because these chains
The king, her father, bears: nor wots, (amaze
Her, so sore, all things;) they wend to their deaths!
Those peers, that follow, of Caratacus,
(His brethren named,) seem harts, mongst wolves of Romans.
The cruel Romans murmur, whilst they pass;
What joy were, see these enemies cast to beasts!
Great-statured Idhig seems them Father Mars,
His harness doffed; such his great brawns and breast!
(His brethren named,) seem harts, mongst wolves of Romans.
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What joy were, see these enemies cast to beasts!
Great-statured Idhig seems them Father Mars,
His harness doffed; such his great brawns and breast!
One led, lo, of the royal war-cart steeds,
Which Caradoc fed, with the white barley ears;
And Embla's white hand combed, in far-off Britain;
His mane, long-drooping, stains yet warlike woad.
Is he the last of those which drew the chariot
And royal sons of great Cunobelin;
With silver bit, and barded to the ground,
With gingling little chains: dight his breast harness,
With coral studs, and emailled scaly brass,
Fashioned like sheen spring-leaves and bright-hewed flowers.
Lace, of great pearls, hangs, on his neck, of glass.
Which Caradoc fed, with the white barley ears;
And Embla's white hand combed, in far-off Britain;
His mane, long-drooping, stains yet warlike woad.
Is he the last of those which drew the chariot
And royal sons of great Cunobelin;
With silver bit, and barded to the ground,
With gingling little chains: dight his breast harness,
With coral studs, and emailled scaly brass,
Fashioned like sheen spring-leaves and bright-hewed flowers.
Lace, of great pearls, hangs, on his neck, of glass.
Not as when Hart-foot, with his dam, Blue-mane;
Or his yoke-fellow, swift Gold-hoof, he ran,
Under bright silver yoke-tree of Cunobelin;
And shook the hulver-beam of the king's chariot.
Wound-weary old, this famous battle-steed,
Gaul's long paved way, and, sith, vast Alps hath passed.
On his broad chine, hath carrion leanness seized.
His bronze-shod hooves, which wont, in island Britain,
To trample Roman shields, uneath tread forth.
Of stature low, he goeth, in Rome's paved street,
With drooping crest. And heard, mongst mocking Romans,
Was word, from mouth to mouth, Whether is this
The horse or ass, of king Caratacus?
Or his yoke-fellow, swift Gold-hoof, he ran,
Under bright silver yoke-tree of Cunobelin;
And shook the hulver-beam of the king's chariot.
Wound-weary old, this famous battle-steed,
Gaul's long paved way, and, sith, vast Alps hath passed.
On his broad chine, hath carrion leanness seized.
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To trample Roman shields, uneath tread forth.
Of stature low, he goeth, in Rome's paved street,
With drooping crest. And heard, mongst mocking Romans,
Was word, from mouth to mouth, Whether is this
The horse or ass, of king Caratacus?
They gaze on arms upborne, of tall blue warriors,
On staves and tables, of two Briton kings.
But most Manannan's hauberk Rome admires;
That casts, divine, a strange victorious gleam!
Much like quaint precious armure which uphangs,
In temple of Bellona, of Britomaros;
Or that of Gaulish king Bituitus;
Who rode in Fabius' triumph, of old time;
In silver war-cart, clad in gilt ceiled harness.
On staves and tables, of two Briton kings.
But most Manannan's hauberk Rome admires;
That casts, divine, a strange victorious gleam!
Much like quaint precious armure which uphangs,
In temple of Bellona, of Britomaros;
Or that of Gaulish king Bituitus;
Who rode in Fabius' triumph, of old time;
In silver war-cart, clad in gilt ceiled harness.
Men gaze on Caradoc's helm, of lucid steel,
Whose crest that dragon of his royal house;
And golden belt of strength, and tremble Romans:
And the king's glaive, which heapmeal hath slain soldiers.
The same is noised, was sword renowned, that Brennus
Cast in those antique balances of old Rome!
Whose crest that dragon of his royal house;
And golden belt of strength, and tremble Romans:
And the king's glaive, which heapmeal hath slain soldiers.
The same is noised, was sword renowned, that Brennus
Cast in those antique balances of old Rome!
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Yet seen borne collars, kingly ornaments,
Gold frets, broad brooches, rings and long-spired bracelets,
Cups, silver mead-horns of old Verulam kings;
Gold bends of charioteers, bright tyres of steeds;
Then spoil of infinite bronze, lead, silver, tin.
Last princes, hostages, of submitted tribes,
Of Britons, march; about whose noble necks,
Wreathed torques shine, of the fine burnt gold of Britain!
Gold frets, broad brooches, rings and long-spired bracelets,
Cups, silver mead-horns of old Verulam kings;
Gold bends of charioteers, bright tyres of steeds;
Then spoil of infinite bronze, lead, silver, tin.
Last princes, hostages, of submitted tribes,
Of Britons, march; about whose noble necks,
Wreathed torques shine, of the fine burnt gold of Britain!
| The Dawn in Britain | |