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

King Brennus journeys, with Fridia, leading with them their son Sigamer; to visit her father's house, in Almaigne. Brennus, ambushed in the high Alps, is wounded to death. He dies. His solemn funerals.

Queen Fridia and Sigamer come to Almaigne. The young king, Sigamer, rides to his uncle, Belin. King Belin sends the prince, by ship; and bearing his father's urn; unto Archigal, his son, now a king in Britain. Come to Troynovant, the young kings, Sigamer and Archigal, depose great Brennus' ashes, in his mother, queen Corwenna's tomb.

Sigamer and queen Fridia return to Heremod, in Italia. The ethling's death and high funerals. Fridia, in her late age, repairs to forest Almaigne; and thence she passeth from the world. Arthemail, son to Sigamer, conquers Cimbria.

A late nephew to Arthemail, the Second Brennus, leads a great mingled host, Eastward, forth. In this warfare, he first overruns Macedon, and slays the king of Greeks. Brennus, forced Thermopylæ, enters Hellas. Descended to Delphos, Brennus spoils the great fane of the Pythic god: but, pursued and vanquished by the heavy wrath of heaven, king Brennus slays himself.

But when, again, of many-hewéd Spring,
Is seen the budded green, Gauls wend forth armed,
To ear, not well assured, that conquered field;
Each people with their ensigns, lords and druids.
Come speeding messengers, then, with word, from Arunt;
And warning likewise sends king Biandrante,
Of gathering great Italic armament;
To wage new warfare, with the Gauls of Brennus.
Then, who late spersed in field, draw to their camps;
Whence to the Umbrian city, Ariminum,
As foreordained was, all now march to Brennus:
Where come, the third day, enemies them enclose.

Innumerable, their power fills all the plain;
Like as an harvest field, with wavering helms:
Mongst whom were seen men, like to Romans, armed.
Three days and nights, each other, those observe,

Knowing the dreadful conflict of their arms
Must be to death, for victory; in this strife,
Twixt kins of Italy and intruded Gauls,
Transalpine peoples. O'er Ariminum plain,
Look down, from their immortal seats, high gods;
And tempests hurl through heaven, sign of their wrath.

Now seeing is come of one, or other, nation,
The fine; not few, which sick, among the Gauls,
Or hurt, or weary of unhopeful lives,
Vow them, with dire rites, to infernal gods;
For safety of their friends. To-day, those then,
These call, as were to their own funerals;
And take of them farewell! Hath any a debt,
He cannot solve, he it promiseth, truly, pay,
In that New Life. Those drink, to their hell-voyage.
They sith, as who already dead, sit lapped,
Apart, in shrouds; and taste no vital food.

Those sally, at dawn, with loud chant, to their gods;
Whose part it is bring dying souls to rest:
Straining, the most, long spears, and without shields;
They march to death. Few, mong them, which have steeds,
These knit, with chains, to burst the enemies' ranks.
With blowing trumps, Gauls issue from the town,

Save few, which ward the city's toweréd walls;
Wherein they leave their wives and little ones.
Lo, shining hundred squadrons of tall Gauls,
And Almains, armed; whom dukes, as hirds their flocks,
Lead forth. The brethren kings, the middle hold:
Duke Heremod riding, lo, on his white horse;
In Britain chariot, Brennus. Biandrante,
Marching in haste, with the Italic aids,
For risen rivers, might not to them pass:
Nor Clusium's lord might send, in aid, whom threaten,
The rest, both of Etruscan states, and Romans.

Then, as their custom is, on the green grass,
Gauls sit; and wait first onset of their foes.
The sun shines on Italic harnessed legions!
Rank behind rank, wide-glittering waves of bronze,
They phalanxed stand. But past now midday heat,
Gave Nertha sign: then Brennus sends forth chariots,
Whose scythed shrill-running wheels, and aspect strange;
And riders launching iron sleet of darts,
Affray, on the two horns, the enemies' horse.
Then Brennus sent out part of the trimarch,
Mingled with Almain runners. With dread yell,
Those hurl, and immane brunt of uncouth arms;

Gainst phalanxed enemies, clad in bronze. Beneath
Pulse of their feet, quakes terribly the earth.
Tremble, in darkness of infernal gods,
The Italic dead. Vast pouderous cloud uprolls,
To heaven; above the bitter gleam, in field,
In infinite homicide hands, of glaives and spears.

With immense voice, together, rush the armies!
In Gauls' midfront, lo, who, with funeral chant,
In their bleak shrouds, hurl blackened, as the night,
Not looking back; men vowed to gods of death!
The cry of them affrays the stoutest hearts,
What for their brunt, and for their linkéd horse.

The steel, in Gauls' tough hands, Sons of the North,
Through the enemies' frozen mails, smites souls to death.
Stagger again the Italic harnessed legions,
Before strange naked nations of the North.
Vast battle reels; and fall, on either part,
The lives of men, as sere leaves, to the earth,
Under sharp spears and glaives of thronging warriors;
And who are trodden down, neath horses' hooves.
Sounds confused horrid din of smitten shields,
And shouts of dukes, (for gods augment their voice,)
O'er cries of dying and triumphing wights;
Neighing of steeds, and warhorns' iron noise!

Ingenuous Gauls exceed, in furious force;
Tuscans and Umbrians, in old battle sleights.

And those fight fiercely, vowed their souls to death,
Which fell from Heremod, unto false Palarge;
Men that were cast out, from all camps of Gauls.
None pleasant meat, nor drink, sith passed their throats,
Nor any gave them fire, under their pots;
Nor heritage they obtained, with other Gauls,
Of conquered land. Like as sharp hail, that smites,
On summer field, down-beats the standing ears;
But, in that, itself fails, and molten is;
They hurling on thick phalanxed Umbrians,
Desperate of health, fall smitten down to death.

Wives issue from the town, behold, of Gauls,
In arms, and driving asses in the field,
Loaden with wine and water-skins. Those them give
To drink, that thirsting fight: and, sith, hurt warriors,
Charged upon their beasts' chines, they bear again,
Out of the battle, to Ariminum!

Descended, on an head of Apennine,
To view this mortal strife, were the land's gods.
Is sacred hill, which guirlands, like a grove,
Much smelling juniper and sweet eglantine.
Are gods, with them, of Gauls: but sit, with shields,

Gods over against gods, apart, and arms;
And rue their divine breasts. To each, ascends
The myriad-prayer, in battle, of brave men.

This seen of Nertha, from her temple thatch;
She, like to mavis, which, from winter spray,
Flits, sprinkling powdered snow, from aery feet,
Leapt: her sole parting from Etruscan walls,
Poured down the stones. But she, like unseen shaft's
Flight, overleapt sheen phalanxed umbrians:
And her third step arrived at the hill's foot.
She stays, to take her majesty, a moment;
Like that which sacred priests see, in their dreams.

Is mutable the great Earth-mother's face,
Part shining as the sun, part wimpled seen.
Her kirtle, green, is flower-dight to her feet.
Her odorous bosom, partly bare, is seen,
Full all of milky mammels, without count.
Born all live's-creatures are, out of her breast;
And all shall, to her sacred womb, return.
Dark riddle seemed her aspect, as the world,
Was mantle, on her, spread, like Earth's green mould;
Which baldric girded in, that seemed the seas.
Her divine necklace, chain of lightning seemed;
That leaps, in tempest, on some lowly ground.
Seemed starry night sit on her aweful front;

Yea, and seemed, both day and night, she, greatest goddess;
And new and old; and seasons of the year:
Now smiling hope, now lowering deadly dread;
Now damning wretched wights, for her own guilt.
Oft seemed she wax in stature and then wane;
(Like as there fountain is, in Clusium, seen,
Of king Porsenna,) to the lowly ground.
Seemed sounding lute, sometime, the mother's voice;
And tempest, otherwhile, of stormy god.

When Nertha seen, Earth-mother, to approach;
Before whose divine steps, springs cyclamen,
And the crag-rose, and dainty goldilocks,
On that hill's sacred height, in the fresh grass;
Gods reverent rise, her greatest godhead greet.
But she, sequestered her, on marble stone,
Sate down; and myrtles veil her crystal feet.
She, wimpled, sate; nor word, as yet, she spake.
But her benign great only Presence wrought,
That eftsoon gods appeased, on both their parts;
Accord to Umbrians, Tuscans, their land saved,
(Lands full of fanes, with guirlands ever deckt,
And gifts; and sweet, to them, ascending breath,
Of altars rife:) and they, to Gauls of Brennus,
Which passed the Alps, discern Italic seats.

Then, clouds discussed about them, the low field,
Glittering, with mortal agony, appears.
Enforce a deep-ranked phalanx, fenced with bronze,
Lo, strong shield-wall of Gauls and mingled Almains;
Which, like a wood of long earth-shadowing spears.
Mongst whom duke Heremod, like a lion, fares,
Of matchless force. King Brennus godlike rides,
In Britain chariot, leading the trimarch.
Before them, go down squadrons, man and horse!

The sun is westing, o'er that weary plain,
When sounds in Umbrians' rearward, fearful noise;
Warhorns and immense shout! Turn blesséd gods,
Their divine looks. It voice is of the aids,
(Cisalpine Gauls,) which king Verpolitus leads;
Hasting their marches, twice ten-thousand men.
Taken in this double mischief, unawares,
As twixt the twiblade of a shepherd's shears;
Are broken, before tall Gauls, the enemies' legions!
Then press, in all the field, of fugitives.
That seen, Italic Gods, in haste, descended,
Thick twilight mist draw, down, o'er them, wherein
Tuscans and Umbrians save their weary lives.

Night fallen, stalks Horror, in that bloody plain,
Where groans of wounded sound and dying men;
And carrion fowl, on creaking wings, alight,

From welken paths. Wolves hunt down from the hills,
To stink of battle gore, in the bruised grass.
Gauls' wives, with brands, go seek forth, and armed watch;
And bearing wine and bread, their wounded ones:
Nor few heard wail and bitterly lament,
Which theirs have found, alas, lie, without breath!
Broad-shining, o'er that field, soars the moon-goddess.

When morrow's sun upmounts, with baneful heat,
Cumbered, is seen, with swollen carcases,
The mould; nor spoil magnanimous Gauls of weed:
But gathered, in long rows, their warlike hands,
Strew pious dust, upon the enemies dead.
Sith borne forth infinite prey, from Umbrian tents;
It burn, vowed to the gods, those Gauls of Brennus,
On hundred heaps. Thing not, by fire, consumed,
Or aught that might their noble hearts entice,
To lust of slothful riches and base pride,
Or faint man's courage; they, save corn and cloth,
Cast, outforth, to swift river and sea waves.
They mar and waste even quaint Etruscan harness.

Returned then heralds of their enemies;
They truce require of Gauls, to burn their dead.
But seen no corses, muse those messengers!
Italic mould them covers, in long mounds;

Nor went down, naked, any chiddering ghosts,
Slain by the Gauls, before infernal gods.

Gauls purify them then, in Sena's stream,
From battle stains; and give thanks to their gods.
Sith Laon, Teo and Imolus, Umbrian kings,
Come with great retinue; and to Gauls' king Brennus,
Lighting from lofty steeds, do reverence:
Twixt whom and Brennus, peace concluded is,
On this wise and confirmed; to Sénones Gauls,
They all their soil, cede, this side Apennines.
They join then, o'er the altars of their gods,
To-day, right hands; slain common sacrifice.

In soil of fair Italia, dwell henceforth,
Gauls peaceably, which had passed high Alps, with Brennus;
Where plenteous fields, as erst in Spain, they ere.
And sith, both out of Gaul and forest Almaigne,
Valiant young warriors, from high frozen mounts,
Descended, wont, each mid-year, to their brethren,
In Italy, to arrive. And, to all such,
To keep, two years, the borders of the Gauls,
In warlike arms, of Brennus is assigned;
Then they like heritage, of conquered land,
Receive. Pass years; and as, each summer season,

Of the tall blue-eyed nations of the North,
From the vast mounts, descend, adventurous youth;
So those high Alps, returning home, ascend
Not few Transalpine Gauls; some to take wives,
Some sick, some ones to visit their old sires.
Other, with king Ladower, the former year,
Returned, to pay their vows, in Gaul's dim woods.
Went also up the ethling Heremod;
Fearing lest Aella should forthfare to Woden.

Duke Heremod come again, longs homeward, Fridia,
Unto their parents, Hildegond and king Aella:
And glorious Brennus promised ride with her.
Shall wend, with them, now great-grown, Sigamer;
Who newly, of Heremod, received manly arms.

Two months, they make them ready; and in the next,
They part, from Vercellæ. Train of warlike men,
March with them. They, by Mantua, journey hold.
Then under the Euganean hills, whence flows
Down Athesis, to city of Cenomans,
Sheep-rich Verona: and sith, by craggéd paths,
They mighty knees mount upward, of vast Alps,

Cloud-shouldering cliffs. They pass now treacherous coasts,
Of Rhætians; (men esteemed some salvage kin,
Of Tuscan nation.) By Tridentine town,
When Brennus fares, mongst his tall warriors,
The ingenuous Gauls do to her people no harm;
Holding all places, to the gods of ways,
Sacred, wherethrough lie common passages.

Passed headlong Talfer and last tumbling streams,
Of Athesis, the cold; now, in deep cleft,
They mount; where trode is, for their beasts, uneath.
Winds beat on them, rain and sharp rattling hail.
Men cower, with frozen limbs, like icicles,
Neath frettéd craigs; and shields depose and arms.
Lie, hidden, false Rhætians, in those crooked cliffs;
Waiting, this third day now, to slay great Brennus.
Sudden, from height, they roll down, on Gauls, rocks:
And the erst silent valley, with huge din,
Rumbles of this dread death, happed in a moment!
Where many are bruised, of falling stones, to death;
And shoot, on Gauls, down, Rhætians, venimed shafts.
Warriors, each moment, fall; and men were hurt,
Ere might they take their shields and handle arms.

Twixt hauberk and bright helm, swift flying arrow,

With quivering wings, thrilled shoulder of king Brennus!
Who journeys, as in hostile coast, in harness.
Young Sigamer wades, already, the cold stream;
Run forth in warlike arms, with his young men.
Mongst scaurs, they leap: they, climbed those craggéd steeps,
With dreadful yells, now, in their enemies' throats,
That durst them not affront, thrust their stiff spears.
Some, soon, they, as from ladder, hurl, from rocks;
Some drive down, bounden captives, to king Brennus.

Ceased is all storm, great Brennus bleeds, alas!
Laid under rowan tree, his harness doffed.
By atrocious spasms, is the hero's face,
Rackt, which like image was of the war-god.
Smile the king's eyes, seen Sigamer safe, his son;
And seeing him thus bring, bound, his enemies.

From Fridia's eyes, radious with light divine,
Fall no weak woman's tears. Done-off her morion,
She with it hastily, to the cold brook, ran;
And water fetched, to wash the wound of Brennus.
A druid leech, lo, opens, with sharp bronze,
The hero's flesh; and venimed flint draws forth.
Eftsoon, is flower found of the healing god,
Which name men wound-heal, in that mountain place.

Like-hewed it is and shaped, as the sun's rays.
This, bruised, lays Fridia to the hurt of Brennus.
In that, his shooting grief, she sought appease,
With murmured spell; uplifts, to heaven, the queen,
Her spotless hands, and to the goddess prays.
Her, Nertha, in Senogallia, hears; and rues
The everlasting weird, that must die Brennus!
And yet such power, from far, the goddess wields,
(Though creep cold subtle venim in his veins,)
To Fridia's whispered spell, that eftsoon cast,
In slumber deep, the Briton hero lies.
She, like an unseen wind, herself arrives:
Nor long remains; unmeet were blessed gods,
To look on mortals' pain, and dying grief.
Covering her face, she, mother, lifts her feet;
And in a moment, passed to forest Almaigne.

Who slain, men bury, in that cragged place,
Delving uneath: who wounded, they set, part,
On their few beasts; part which can march, aid forth,
Upleading and upbearing, by the hand.
Young Sigamer, litter, hath prepared, in this,
Of rowan boughs; whereo'er forth-spreads the prince,
On soft-strewed ling, his shining upper weed.
Then noblest Gauls and Almains vie, by turns,
The sire bear forth, (their shoulders, chiefest warriors

Stoop; mongst whom some ones now were hurt, of Rhætians,)
In weight of sleep. Gauls say, and might men thus,
Bear stricken Brennus, past vast bergs of Alps;
Their nations' gods should him revive, they trust.
Strong men, made gentle, for the love of Brennus;
Those tread, in measure, in that mountain path.

By him, aye traces on white wayworn feet,
Ministering to her loved spouse, now hardly in life,
Queen Fridia, ah! weary in heart. She prophetess
Seeth, in herself, how little hope is left:
But, in his fresh years, end, must godlike Brennus,
Mongst high waste Alps; and mount the hero's spirit,
By fire, to stars. But aye his, yond vast mounts,
Renowned, (even mongst high ever-living gods,)
Victorious warfare, shall, to latest age,
Be, in kings' halls, of warlike Gauls and Almains,
Matter of noble vates' golden song.

Softly, they bear him forth, till the day's ending.
Swelled his strong limbs; and dead seemed, oftwhile, Brennus!
To blackness changed, the hero's godlike face.
Last, waking from long swoon, he beckons halt!
Then, on Child Sigamer, fixt his extreme looks,
The king of Gauls deceased, in his wife's arms.

Deep is that mountain valley, and swart, rock-crowned,
Fleckt with new snow; and seemeth some dread vast tomb,
Whereon dismounts the sun. Gauls, there, and Almains;
Polled, with lamenting cries, their tawny locks,
Them lay upon great glorious Brennus' hearse.

The Adige.

At morrow's eve, erst, to Verona, warhounds
Arrive; about whose necks, found graven tokens,
In birchen rind. Lo, one is portraied crowned,
By arrow, pierced; whereunder Brennus' sign,
A raven and bright star, his morion's crest.
Command, straightway, Verona's magistrates,
Kindle hill-beacons. Leap up wild red flames,
From brow to brow. Of stout Cisalpine Gauls,
Rise valiant youth then, all that night, in arms.
Already at day, great companies; who to horse,
Who foot, to Adige stream, descend and pass.

Whilst order them Verona's magistrates,
Blind Rumour, with his hundred tongues, is rife.
Yet, ere the sun well risen, in bands, the fords,
They wade; four thousand spears, with thousand horse;
That breast up, with stern heart, to succour Brennus.
Those all day mount; they put on all that night:

Then light, on wounded wights, in craggéd path;
Men of these hills, known by their speech and ensigns.

When dukes of the Verona Gauls, their glaives'
Sharp, set, unto those tawny caitifs' throats!
Those them acknowledge Rhætians: and how laid
Their people an ambush; and mongst many Gauls,
Which round him marched, they saw to fall king Brennus!

Lo, Brennus, dead, borne to that cold swift stream,
Called after by his name; where, washed his corse,
In leathern booth, the hero is outlayed.
Queen Fridia and Sigamer then, by hourly course,
Keep watch; and noblest Almains, with their arms.
Sith Fridia bade, (to whose prophetic breath,
Give all men heed,) build breastwork round their camp.

Ere yet the dayspring, have them, there, beset,
Yelling upswarming enemies, these hills' tribes.
Were old men the more part, which marched with Brennus;
That weary of wars, and sere their valiant limbs,
Now turn, to die, in their own foster Almaigne.
But, like pines, their stout hearts are evergreen;
With vertue, which flows from the mighty gods.

As some gaunt mother-wolf, surprised in forest,

By hunters' hounds, whose lair in sullen clefts
Of the high rocks, where suckles she her cubs;
Her fastness, with upstaring hairs, defends:
And seemeth her body all hideous teeth and claws;
Her griesly jaws are battles of sharp spears;
And dart her baleful eyes out flakes of flame.
She doth, though they her rend, not shrink nor slack;
Nor doth her griesly ire, to fight, forsake,
And without pause: so warriors of great Brennus,
For Fridia and Sigamer, and that sacred corse,
Make strong defence. Sufficeth them go home,
(Should lie their bodies round the hero's tomb,
Sith Brennus here lies slain,) from hence, to Woden!

Now goes up, on them, a new sun; and still,
With the day's heat, their battle doth increase.
Stripling, in years, Child Sigamer, (in his looks,
Like Brennus,) on their rampire's further part,
Fights in his father's arms: and where the strife
He sees unequal, runs with some of his;
And issue, from his hands, unerring darts.
Gauls, surging Rhætians, beat back from the wall;
Would it pluck down. Lo, yonder, how, as hind,
Turns everyway, gainst hounds, her gentle front,
To fence her fawn, and smites with her swift hooves;
Stands Fridia, in glittering arms, before her dead.

Under her bowstring, chiefest enemies, warriors,
Have fallen upon their face. Deem Rhætians her
Her brother Heremod, for her noble stature.
Ah! and would were, now, god Woden's targe with her!
But it, in Nertha's fane, uphanged, left, Brennus.
Yet breath of the safeguarding mother-goddess,
The enemies' shafts and darts makes fly awry;
And hurtless, like as children's reeds, to light,
At her white sacred feet. How the sun's cart
Tarries in hill of heaven! Fight Brennus' warriors,
Till faints, for lack of kindly food and rest,
Their force. Now when their shafts nigh-spent, and darts,
Gauls, leaping on their breastwork, hurl wild stones.

Past noon then, Tola, Rhætians' duke, made head,
In shining arms, hand on Gauls' wall, first laid:
He drew down stones, and would disrock Gauls' work.
Gainst him, runs Sigamer, in great Brennus' harness!
The battle reels: midst rushing enemies,
Fridia sees sink, ah! Sigamer's raven crest!
Strongly the pang of mother's heart repressed,
The widowed queen. Parts her prophetic lips,
A wingéd prayer. It heard, beyond vast Alps,
Nertha. In this extremity, to the heavens,

Straining her eyeballs, sees the queen approach,
In welken path, an erne, and knew the goddess!
And she, anon, sees Sigamer risen, her son;
Whom overborne had press of his own men.

O'er the enemies, her wide even wings upholds
That erne: then rushing, stoops, from haughty flight;
On Tola's morioned front! How Rhætians' duke,
Buffets the labouring bird, with mighty pens;
And with sharp beak, his cumbered eyes doth threaten!
As crow on silly sheep, on him she rides;
And with her crooked claws, rends his armed hands,
He lifts confused. Nor could the divine bird,
Pluck down the duke. How, at that portent, stand
His warriors, in amaze! Child Sigamer flung,
(It guides her breath, and gives the goddess force,)
A sharp dart; and it pierced king Tola's harness.
Entered the bronze his gorge; and gurgling blood,
He headlong fell, dumb, like a sacrifice!
But the erne went from men's seeing. The son of Brennus,
Exulting, spoiled then Tola, of bright harness;
Making, his father's warriors, shield-burg round
About him, with defence of long sharp spears.

Hath Nertha now descended, midst armed press;
And taken form of one Wermod, hoar-head duke,

(Was Wermod Heremod's friend, next after Brennus;)
She draws back, mainly, Sigamer, by the hand;
Saying, Fridia, his mother, called him, in her aid.
He brake then back to her, who sad-faced smiled;
To see, in her son's hands, those chiefest spoils,
Ceiled with Etruscan gold, that shine as glass!
He sate down, by her, widow, at the bier:
And slumber, on forwatched young Sigamer,
To crag-stone leaned, the mother-goddess cast.

Long dures, mongst the forefighters, of both parts,
Dread strife, before the wall, for Tola's corse.
Almains and Rhætians, heapmeal, fall thereon,
Till the day's end; each call on their land's gods.
Brown twilight; and now sacred night, descends:
Then Witta, Englen duke, with few of his,
Ran-to; from Fridia, borrowed Brennus' brand,
Gainst which, avails not aught defence of harness;
And beat back strife of bloody Rhætians.

In this, as shout, was heard from far, of Almains!
And is a company of tall Cheruscan youth,
Which pass these mighty bergs, to Heremod.
Before their violent spears, those valiant Almains,
Lo, thirty bounden wights, tumultuous drive.
Men of these hills, that taken were in nigh path,
This even. Of whom, that Saxon youth, by signs,

Had, hardly, learned; how were, before them, Gauls,
Beleaguered, Gauls of Brennus, by their foes!
Hastes Sigfried, earl, who those young warriors leads,
Loud shouting, through the mist, with flaming brands;
As steers, so rush they on, amongst blind crags.

First knew the queen, warned by the Mother-goddess,
Her people's voice: and, at her word, loud warhorns
Sound out, in the Gauls' camp, new joyful note!
And, soon, Cheruscan youth, like rushing drove,
Fall, in the night's dread murk, on Rhætians' necks.
Each bronze-head furious spear, a foeman slays.
Then Rhætians turned, in bloody routs, to flight.

Almains, o'er slaughtered corses, scornful, pass,
Then, to the wall; and to their fellow Almains.
But when they hear, king Brennus lies, there, slain!
Brake lamentable murmur, from all throats;
As when the widowed winter doth complain
Her loss, with wailing sound, through heath and woods.
Like bellowing ureox, Sigfried mongst them, fares:
Who entering in the camp, by Thunder! sware,
To slay his captives, round king Brennus' pyre.
Earl Sigfried, Sigamer leads; where sits the queen,
On dim earth-mould, folding her arms, beside
That funeral booth, to heaven, in bleak moonlight.

Nor word that ethling spake; but stooped, and kissed,
He a war-seared and now hoar-headed duke,
Mourning, his cousin's helmed prophetic front:
A sob, (but he his harm repressed,) him shook.

Kneels Sigfried; and the clay-cold hand, twice, kissed,
Of that great dead, and groaned the earl aloud;
In the rekindled now red watchflames' light,
That mighty corse beholding, without breath!
The eyes waxed dim of his young warriors,
And rugged seemed, with eld, their marble brows;
When they, for sorrow, on their way-weary feet,
Which trodden have so vast mounts, and so long paths,
Giddy, three times, that sacred bier, do pace,
With Sigfried, round; vailing their war-stained spears.

At morrow's day, the horse, from fair Verona,
Arrive! the foot, behold, towards noon. With dust
And battle, stained, come those Cisalpine Gauls.
For have they met with Rhætians, in hill-paths;
(Men fled from hence,) and foughten in derne night;
Till they, wayworn, prevailed, in bloody strife,
O'er weary foes. Few, lighting them the moon,
Which durst climb steepling cliffs, escaped that scathe;
Whence fell down many, to more dreadful death.

But when those, reached to Almains' camp, now hear,
(Glory of all Gauls,) lies slain great Brennus, here!
They stand, with weary bodies, in amaze
Of heart! sith, with their captains, pass the port.
Them brings on, orphan, young king Sigamer,
Where Fridia mourns, beside the hero's bier.
Her, erst, they silent, reverence, with bowed heads;
Then, long, all, on the king's dead face, they gaze!
Sith, three times, those tread round, reversed their arms,
With mournful cheer and slow, the illustrious dead,
In the cold Alps; from whose vast lofty craigs,
Rebellows loud lament of Gauls and Almains.

Gainst eve, who noblest, Brennus' frozen corse,
Upon their shoulders, reverend, taking up,
To a nigh headland, meet for hero's tomb,
It bear; site which hath chosen Sigamer:
Whence looking back, Italia is, the Fair,
Discerned from far. Of ling and juniper,
Strew sorrowing Gauls and Almains there, high pyre:
Whereon the king, that dead is, now uplaid,
Have the chief captains, lapped in royal weed.

As for those warriors, which fell, yester, slain,
Within their rampire; mounting this day's sun,
As thirty corses, hither, were conveyed:

But when lacked wood, to burn them, Gauls, on these,
(Laid by and by,) one mould heaped, and wild stones.

With sighs, lifts Fridia her two widowed hands;
Whose bleak looks like are to this withered grass!
Runyan, then, priest, young Sigamer, king, commands,
Slay Brennus' steed; which done, his long hair-locks,
Polled Sigfried earl, and laid on the king's corse.
The like do all his ethlings and chief Gauls,
Come from Verona. And brought Child Sigamer,
King Tola's harness, furnitures and bright arms;
He laid them, by his sire, great Brennus' corse!
Before all the armed Gauls, he stedfast then;
Received, from Runyan, sacred kindling brand,
In looking back, puts flame to Brennus' pyre.
Breathe out the mountain winds, red flames aspire;
They roar, above, like unto blowing woods:
And now, like fiery womb, infold the dead.
All cry out then, which stand by, midst thick sobs;
Brennus, Farewell, rest, henceforth, with the gods!

His captives Sigfried, in aparted place,
Dispiteous, slew. Bury young men of war,
Their thirty yet warm corses, round the pyre,
With Tola's corse. Sons of these Rhætian Alps;
They, without end, shall Britain's hero serve,

In the soul-kingdom of the Northern gods!
Watch Gauls, in arms; but when those funeral flames,
Have died down, in white embers, to the ground;
With water, quenched them Sigamer, of the stream.
He, from the midst, then, the white bones of Brennus,
Gathers, with devout hand, into his shield.
And for was there none honey, in that place;
Fridia embalms them, with sweet flower of pine.
In Tuscan precious cere-cloth, lapped, she them
Will bear, in her most sacred barme, to Almaigne:
To send to Brennus' brother, royal Belin;
That he might bring, to their last rest, in Britain.

Mound infinite stones, Gauls, o'er that burning place;
And henceforth, shall the king's heroic spirit
Safeguard, men say, this passage of high Alps.
Sigfried sith, at the tomb, hails Sigamer, king!
King! hail him, with one throat, both Gauls and Almains!

Then, on their several ways, they all depart.
Italic Gauls, in heaviness, now descend,
With Sigfried; Sigamer mounts up, towards the North.
And, still, the widowed queen looks, as she rides,
Back on swart grave-hill of loved glorious Brennus!
None enemies more molest them, in their march.

So is that name, (renowned mongst men and gods,)
Blown through the world; till when of forest Almaigne,
They borders pass. All men, of Almain speech,
Reverence queen Fridia and Sigamer, in their path.

Dwells Fridia one year's space, in Aella's garth;
And in the next, receives the dying breath,
Of agéd Hildegond, her mother dear.
Then past midwinter, Aella fares to Woden:
Which published through Lippe-mark; was, at month's end,
Assembling, very great, of warlike tribes;
Mourning, in arms. The king, whose blood descends,
From Woden god; they all, with groans, mound-laid.
In Aella's garth, then, seven nights, holden was
A royal feast, of ethlings, freeborn, thralls;
Weeping and drinking their lord's funerals.

Aye, and much had joyed, to see, those spouses, old;
Child of their child, to glorious manhood grown,
Young Sigamer, seed of victorious Brennus:
And dearly him both embraced had on their breasts!

These sorrows past, rides Sigamer, with few Gauls,
To Sens-on-Yonne, unto his uncle Belin.
He Sigamer seeing, his twin-brother's son,

Come in king's hall, (hall shingled all with shields;
And where, upon high walls, hang antique arms,
Of quaint device,) so like of gait and stature,
And noble feature, unto godlike Brennus;
Bring Brennus' bones, from their dear resting place,
The priestess bosom of his germain's spouse;
Did off his diadem: and from the king's stool,
Down-lighting, where he sate, among his peers;
With ashes of the hearth, his royal hairs
Bestrewed. So, all day, sits with covered face,
The Sénones' king apart: nor would taste meat,
At eve: till gentle Hermione him besought,
(Queen radiant-faced, with beauty of the gods,)
Now call, at length, to his rememberance,
What honour due to Sigamer, their loved guest.

She took the son of Brennus, by the hand,
And kissed his manly front; and asks of Fridia,
His sacred mother, who her sister dear.
Sith sate queen Hermione, on the king's knees,
A babe, babe Leolin, her nourseling sweet;
Belovéd fruit of him who lately in Spain,
Subdued, of their two sons, alas, deceased!
Young Levemaur, by sickness of the land.
And now of Archegal, their other son,
He who, yet childless, o'er great Troynovant, rules,

In Britain, is adopted Leolin.
Sits comfortless, as added grief to grief;
But cherisheth the noble child, king Belinus.
Weeps Hermione: young Sigamer, with them, weeps.
Then gave the queen that babe, to his young arms;
Commending Leolin, unto both their loves.

Not, till third eve, came Sénones' king, again,
To his high hall, and public audience.
He Sigamer calls up, to his royal stall!
Then to the king's high hand, an herald bears
Remembrance-horn: and erst king Belinus drinks,
To solemn mind of, (all Gauls' duke!) great Brennus,
His germain. Drinks prince Sigamer; sithen drink
The Sénones' lords. All name great Briton Brennus!
Covering their heads; and cast their looks to ground.

Sith, chants shrill Briton bard, high deeds of Brennus.
Howbe, were all too small his island mouth;
The god-like glory, wide-blazed through the world,
Of the hero to endite. The great conquest,
Of Spain, he chants; where children of the Gauls',
And Almaigne gods, these days, have plenteous seats.
And sith Italia, past the mighty Alps,
Italia, fairest soil of the whole earth!
And he then names, of kings and dukes, rehearsed;

Whom slew great Briton Brennus' hand, in fight.
Gauls groan; and pour out to the hero's spirit,
From silver-lipped bulls' horns, of their sweet mead.

All Belin's lords give, to prince Sigamer, gifts.
Who, from his valorous left arm, which, neath shield,
Put strongly off, ofttime, death; some golden bracelet:
And who ring-gold, from off his warlike hands.
King Belin gave, to Sigamer, arms and harness;
The best uphanged, on Correus' ancient walls,
Apt to the young king's stature; and steeds and chariot,
And gold of Spain. And hardly the king's heart
Might suffer, when fulfilled a month now was,
To Britain, the beloved young prince depart.
To bring, to their last rest, his germain's bones.

Him Belin sends, with pomp, upon the Seine,
Of barges and young lords. A longship waits
Him, at that river's mouth, with sixty rowers.
He mounts aboard. Whilst then young Sigamer sleeps,
Lapped in his royal saie, on the ship's poop;
Wielding their pithy arms, long pines, those smite,
In measure, the sea's face. Come second morrow,
Sees Fridia's son, nigh hand, the ice-white cliffs,
Of Britain's Cantion! Toucht his barge, to shore;
Leaps forth, lo, radiant as a god, on land,

Land of great Brennus, his child Sigamer;
Isle of the gods, soil sacred to the sun,
Land of the steed, the harp and battle chariot.
He brings, in his two hands, his father's urn;
That Belin crowned, with leaves of beaten gold:
Had they, which after-sent were, from Verona,
To bear that urn, to Sigamer; found with Fridia,
Him marching, past high Alps, in Almaigne paths.

Archigal, his cousin royal, Sigamer,
With train of young lords, nobly clad and dight,
(All chariot-drivers, come from Troynovant,)
With torques of gold, meets, at Kent's pebble shore.
Those stand, at sea waves, by their glittering warcarts.

How goodly walk those young men and kings' sons,
Joined, sons of germains, hand in hand, from strand!
Their voices like, and like of flowering looks,
And countenance; and were knitted their young hearts.
But martial Archigal, born in the dim North,
In stature excels: prince Sigamer, all men mark,
In shoulders' breadth, exceeds, and his large chest.

Archigal, who elder is, the Italic urn,
In pious hands, with reverent brows, receives;
Wherein the cinders of his uncle Brennus;
To whose knees, once, he, a little child, had played.

How is the glory of those former years,
Become this little dust! Now with veiled heads,
Standing that urn around, tall Briton lords
Take knowledge sad, upleaning on their spears,
That this was Brennus. Lapped in pure white lawn,
Of Britain; then, of Dubris, who chief druid;
Whose brows with fillet bound, and golden leaves;
Whilst priests loud hymn intone, with trembling hands,
For he is old, the sacred pot imposed,
On swift-wheeled, cypress-dight, cart, twixt two druids.

So all they mount; and in one painted chariot,
The two kings ride. Fair Vale of Kent, they pass;
Then uplands green, where golden flowers the broom,
And sounds, from fresh groves, the melodious voice
Of throstle cock. And joys young Sigamer,
In his wise heart, seeing his father's Britain!

Now even is; when looms, in river mist,
Before them, wall of wide-built Troynovant.
Seen chariots of king Archigal, sound loud warhorns,
The watch; and soon, in mourning stoles, throng forth,
Tall Briton folk; that hail, the child of Brennus!
And stretch devout hands, towards the hero's urn.
But for behoves not, lodge the dead, in walls;
Wide Thames, in boats, to further shore, they pass;

Where leathern booths stretched, lo, in river's mead.
At Lud's gate, they take land. They visit mound,
There, of the Lady-of-Britain, their grandame,
Mother of heroes. Here, this night, they rest.

Erst, when new summer sun is rising sheen,
Slay white-stoled druids, with broad oak-leaves crowned,
Great-horned, swart bull to Gauls' infernal gods;
And with the blood, they sprinkle Corwen's tomb.
Intoned then mystic chant; with spades of bronze,
That mound, they open, of the Lady of Britain.

Eftsoon, come the two kings, with mourning train,
Then draw the throngs apart, to view them pass.
Old warriors them receive; and have these watched,
All night, at the grave-hill, in rusty harness.
Lo, sprent with dust, and crowned with dismal yew,
Their polled hoar heads: all leaned on their war-spears,
They reverent stand! Dead glorious Brennus, was;
In far Hesperia, duke of their young years:
For whom themselves would die, and might they his spirit,
Ah, call, again, from yond eternal stars!
Those fathers, looking on that funeral urn,
Sigh a lament, with faltering knees, for Brennus.

And delved a little cell, have now, and steined,

In the grave-hill; and it gore-sprent, white druids.
Sigamer, with swooning heart, of hue full pale;
Therein, with pious hands, at length, deposed
The Italic urn: and priests, whilst they intone
New chant, it seal above, with a great stone!
Whereon, heaps Archigal, kneeling, then, last sods.

Thereafter, turned to Troynovant, the two kings;
Made Archigal, three days, plays of running steeds,
And martial shows of Britons' warlike youth.
These things concluded, Sigamer, whose young heart
Longs home to Fridia, (who none helper hath,
King Aella dead, and Heremod afar off;)
Leaving great Troynovant, now, to Cantion port,
Returns, to ferry unto Gauls' continent.
Archigal and lords, convey him, to Kent shore.

Each king there, to his cousin, parting token,
Gives. Sigamer precious ceiled Etruscan cup,
Of the burnt gold, which Arunt sent to Brennus.
But wedgéd tin bestows, the Briton king,
In Sigamer's ship; and of most renowned warhounds,
(Each a team worth of steeds and battle chariot,)
Two couples throughly taught, and fleet of foot.
To Fridia, a sacred vesture, Archigal sends,
Whose hem of pearls, of fine white lawn of Britain;
Wherein seen broidered arcane signs of druids.

Then make the two young kings exchange of arms;
Their royal bracelets and gold rings: each calls
The other Brother! so they spake farewell.

Hoise Sigamer's shipmen blue broad sail; wherein
Three stars shine and three ravens, needle-wrought,
Of glorious Brennus, Belin, Heremod!
Speeding o'er windy surges, they steer, forth;
To Seine mouth: whereas, entering, at day-red,
Of second morrow; the young king, rows in,
By launds, now, and blue woods. Sigamer, to land,
Eftsoon descends: where mounting royal steed,
He, towards Lutece, rides to his uncle Belin.

Dwells Sigamer, in Seine's royal court, two days;
And in the third takes leave, to turn to Fridia:
But not ere Belinus and queen Hermione;
Have, (darling daughter of their elder years,)
Bright Ermelin promised, yet a comely child,
To Sigamer, to wife. To sunbright Ermelin,
Sigamer, the young king, and loved germ of Brennus,
Of subtil Tuscan work, gave a sheen bracelet
And brooch, of gold; wherein the bird is wrought,
Of love. They plight then, both, their young hearts' troth,
In Hermione's hands, of happy marriage.

All gaze then after Sigamer, who departs,

From their town gates; where Belinus called him Son.
The young king holds thence way, forthright, to Almaigne.
Passed Rhine; Cheruscans named him duke, he hears,
Of their outfaring youth, with crash of arms.

Now Dover.

When harvest past, and summer well-nigh ended;
Young Sigamer leads armed youth out, that would pass
High Alps. Returns queen Fridia, with her son,
To Heremod; and to weep, at Brennus' tomb.
Behold them, from the clowdy immense Alps,
Vast steepling towers, to Brennus' tomb, dismount,
Three thousand spears. There make they warlike pomp,
Marching about the hero's rest, in arms!

King Sigamer, loud, upspake then, from gravehill,
Praising, in both the tongues, his father Brennus.
And so, round-echoing bergs, re'nforce his voice,
That seemed those words of some immortal ones.
There many Almains polled their tawny locks:
Queen Fridia wakes, all night, at the cold tomb.
Sigamer, his warlike Almain youth, from thence,
When day is made, shows Italy, the fair;
Which, gleams far-off, like garden of the gods!

Then to his uncle Heremod, he descends:
And finds, (who yet bears mourning stole, for Brennus,)
At Senogallia. Rhætians, with mischance,
Hath Heremod vexed, two years, with armed inroads;
And filled those mountains, with their funerals!
In Gauls' new city, Heremod duke receives
Fridia and Sigamer, with much love and honour.
Queen Fridia weeps, whilst she, again, records,
How Brennus slain; and lately, in foster Almaigne,
That passed to the immortal gods, the breaths
Of Aella and Hildegond. Groans great Heremod!
And fallen, grofling, on swart mother-mould;
The duke, rent his, now hoar, locks; and loud, vowed
Hundred swart-faced sheep; two-score, black-felled steers,
His whole-burned offering, to infernal gods.
Then Heremod called the senates of Gauls' marches,
He bade them Sigamer choose, in room of Brennus.

Queen Hermione, erewhile, in Brennus' court,
Ariane, had nourished up, for Heremod,
Like lovely flower, young sister to great Brennus:
But of a fell disease, deceased, alas!
That royal maid; and would he none, henceforth:
Whence Sigamer, to the duke, is as a son,
Born of his sister and of noble Brennus.

The next year after; when again duke Heremod,
Would fare, to warlike foster-land of Almaigne;
Where, lately, (assembled, to the river Lippe,
To Aella's funerals,) had, with infinite shout,
The Saxon tribes, of great Cheruscan nation,
Him acclaimed, (ethling Heremod!) their war-king!
The duke, cast from his battle steed, that stumbled,
Deceased. Sore bruised; was Heremod, in his harness,
(Will of the gods, that might he fare to Woden!
Found none, mongst mortals, worthy him to slay,)
Pierced, in his fall, of his Iberian glaive!

At voice of Partholon, son of Biandrante,
(Erewhile deceased,) polled them the people of Ogmius;
Mongst whom stands, (old now,) king Verpolitus,
With cypress crowned. Polled them all Sénones Gauls;
Gathered to glorious Heremod's funerals,
With their war-duke, who swift-foot Vellorix;
(But he, in age, is swift-foot now no more:)
And Briton Gauls, which come with noble Bran,
And Carduan. Them polled all Heremod's Almains,
With Witta and Sigfried and great Irmenfried:
That blackened have, at hearths of funeral feast,

Their warlike brows; and mourning ashes cast,
On their hoar heads. Come Britons; the trimarch,
Shore, even long glast-stained manes, of their warsteeds!

All Gauls vast funeral mound heaped, in that plain,
Vieing, each people's priests and magistrates,
With other, which should honour him the most.
Italic Gauls vowed to great Heremod,
There yearly games. Praised him, now old, Biellan,
From the grave mound. Nor his well-speaking tongue,
Might, this day, frame the Eporedian king;
But that his words were broken, through thick sobs,
Of dear remembrance; who, all men above,
His entire friend, loved Almain Heremod.
Kings sacrificed, unto Heremod, as a god.

But was not there king Sigamer; who, in Gaul,
These days, hath wedded the fair Ermelin,
With joy of all. Returns not Brennus' son,
Yet; that king Belin, Hermion, noble Melyn,
Daily, for love, detain him in their court.
(Had Nesta, gentle child of Biandrante,
To him affianced, died in her young years.)

King, after days of Heremod, Sigamer rules;
Wedded with Ermelin, over Brennus' Gauls,

In far Italia. Pass then other years,
Till when young Arthemail, who of their two sons,
The younger; with his agéd mother, sends
Sigamer, in comfort of her now hoar hairs:
Who turns, obedient to an oracle,
Again, to her own foster land of Almaigne.

To Brennus' mound, once more, the agéd queen,
Approaching; Fridia, to child Arthemail,
(Her Sigamer's son!) it shows: she weeps and calls,
Aloud, thereat, on Brennus' divine spirit!
But overpassed the immense towréd Alps;
And journeying forth the queen, in forest Almaigne,
The ingenuous people reverence, as a goddess,
Her, widow of Brennus, agéd prophetess.

But she, to whom this world is derne and waste,
Without great Brennus, leaving by the Lippe,
Young Arthemail, with high kindred of her house;
Herself withdraws, to Nertha's sacred grove,
Beyond Lippe-mark. She wonnes, in tower, henceforth,
Which looks, o'er flint-grey waves, to that sea isle;
Which named is Holy, of the Earth-mother goddess.
There white-haired Fridia, for her children, prays:
And daily interprets her prophetic spirit,
Rumbling of billows; wherein the gods' voice.

And out of the infinite hollow surges' sound,
She, to all that ask, responds, of Almaigne folk.

Unto her, is given not to decease, by death;
That should not rot, in grave, her sacred flesh.
The queen, one morrow, looking from her tower,
Wide out o'er wandering waves, that fleet to shore,
Girded in long white stole, with wimpled cheer;
In that she, prophetess, stretched forth her white arms,
Transfigured Nertha her, widow of Brennus,
To a sea-mew! and without change of death:
And, in that likeness, flitted Fridia forth!
But what of her became, there no wight wist.

Yet makers chant, in halls of lords in Almaigne;
How, wing-borne, Fridia, spouse to glorious Brennus,
Came unto mansions of the godlike dead,
Islands of Peace, where heroes naméd dead,
Eternally survive; which aye their age
Renew to youth. And there, with Hildegond,
And Aella and Brennus and loved Heremod,
She ever dwells; and her eldfathers dead.
Yet other sing, how seen was holy mew,
Stoop, on high craig, in Nertha's sacred grove,
Under a cedar sweet; in whose wide arms,
Had Brennus, yore, uphanged, and Heremod,
Forgotten spoil of Lippe-land's enemies.

There made she soft complaint, as mourning dove;
Till time twain other fowl, with eager cries,
Came to her flying, souls of like aspect!

But grown to glorious manhood, Arthemail:
And chosen duke of the outfaring youth;
Him warriors lift on shield, above their heads.
Then valiant Ambones he conducts, in arms,
(Thus named the sons of Gauls and wedded Almains,)
And conquered Cimbers' soil, past Elbe's grey flood.

But here thy golden leaves ben rent, O Muse!
(Thy sacred golden leaves, which I ne'er stained:)
And, in the next, another hero named
Is, Second Brennus, king of Ambones,
Inheriting that famed brand which conquered Rome:
And whose last progeny, after length of days,
Shall heritage of land obtain, in Britain.

Looks sun's allseeing eye on a New World;
When this, who nephew of old Arthemail,
(Son to his grandson Arth,) to the king's seat,
Succeeding, and enflamed, with godlike heat;
The glory of his old sires would emulate.
With Britomart, son to a Cantion king,
His kinsman, in Isle Britain, and to Deva,

His sister, spoused, then marched that Second Brennus;
Leading much martial youth of Gauls and Almains,
Gainst nations, which most warlike of the earth,
Are named; whose coats are bronze, whose battle-front,
An iron thicket hedge of matchless spears.

To Celtic Noricum, they approached, at length,
Purchase them adamant bronds, forged in that coast;
And span-long brazen heads, to their ash spears.
By cragged paths, descends, from thence, this host:
And sith, with often bloody strife, they pass,
Gainst Thracian tribes, and warlike Mœsians.
Part of those Gauls, in Rhodope's high mount,
(Which, cumbered in much mist, in cliffs, miswent,)
There light on temple of some drunken god:
And they, with scorn, it spoil of uphanged gold.

In Macedon, sith arrived; at the first brunt,
Gauls, that Greeks' world-famed phalanx of long spears,
Beat down, which overthrew, before, the world;
And nations conquered, unto furthest Ind.
There took they, captive, treacherous Ptolemy,
The Macedonians' king; and slew him Brennus;
Who passing thence, departed, in two armies,
His mingled host. Stout Britomart, lo, with his,

Fair Thessaly invades; land wherein Greeks
Fable dwelled yore their everliving gods.

Brennus, like tempest, in his rattling chariot,
Leads on his power, to the hill-gates of Hellas:
Upon whose lukewarm plain, Gauls pitch their tents!
Renowned Thermopylæ, which, again, doth fence,
Lo, phalanxed army of Hellenes champions.

There wounded and sick Gauls, come to king Brennus:
Which seen they needs must die, crowned with oak-leaves,
Would force that port, and end by glorious death.
This, at sun's new uprising, he appoints.
Moreo'er king Brennus chose out valiant men,
Great-statured, in his host, wont to o'erswim
Cold, mighty-streaming, currents of the North:
Were those three hundred spears. Ere night, from cliff,
Hemmed of long glittering sea, them shows king Brennus,
Yond marish plain, ships, harnessed enemies!

Twixt mid of night, neath Hellas' hoary stars,
And day, he sends them forth. Through reedy fen,
And much salt ooze; where, wading on long spears,
Those stay, to the sea waves, their doubtful steps.

Come nigh, where ride Greeks' sleeping galley-ships,
They silent swim; and stupor casts some god,
On those, among Hellenes, which should keep watch.
They, in such sort, that fenny foreland passed,
Them shroud, till dayspring, in the whispeling reeds.

Issues, from leathern booth, gainst morning-red,
The king of Gauls: and, lo, a raven, lights,
Omen of his war-god, (his father Woden,)
On Brennus' shield. (That war-bird sign is given,
To all his sons, of Brennus-Heremod's house.)
Then to hill's cragged brink, that king ascends;
To watch first onset of those vowéd ones.
Already, are they marched forth. Is Maelgawn, Briton,
That band's stout duke, a lord of Troynovant.

Hellenes, like crayfish, closed in hammered plate;
Hurl Gauls against them stones, that burst their harness.
Strait is, as were a street, the battle place.
Stagger these Greeks; and fall in their steep ranks.
Gauls thrust-on, with their bodies, like wild bulls;
Careless of wounds, thrust, dying, on to death.
Yet might they not break through that brazen gate,
Whose living bars are Hellas' champions!
Till Mavor, captain of a second band,
Of vowéd men, to horse, came, three score spears.

And like as mountain-crag, loost down, by frost,
The root-fast pines and oaks, before it bears;
So they, with heart-amazing sound, o'erride
That living port; and die the most beyond.

Were now those swimmers risen from the reeds;
Whose fierce yells, rushing from the fenny brakes,
Hear Hellenes, at their backs, and faint their hearts;
Gauls, which all men exceed, in furious force!
Then Greeks, o'erwhelmed, consumed, are on both parts;
Till their last champion, a long hoar-haired duke,
Of silver-shielded men, fell, like felled oak,
Under iron brond of that strong battle-smith,
Dewfin, lord of a people at the Elbe.

Puffed up with 'sdainful insolence, drave king Brennus,
In three-horse chariot, over dying Greeks;
Albe, without the gods, enters he Hellas.
Wherefore, and when, next day, he sends enquire,
At the Dodonian tree, a lying spirit,
Shaking the leafy oracle, him persuades,
Unto his death; the treasury of Hellas,
To break in temple of that archer god,
Great Phœbus, who casts sickness now on Gauls.

Journey, in raging heat of the dogstar,

In Hellas' cragged coasts, Gauls' warriors faint.
They eat then jocund clusters of the grape.
At end of many marches, those look down,
Now, in infinite starry night, from Parnasse cliffs,
On Delphos, fane; where, burning, thousand lamps,
Round Pythius' temple, like stars' glittering house.

As pirate keel descends, on some far coast;
Come Gauls unwist. After short rest, king Brennus;
What hour most bound, by sleep's delicious weight,
Is mortal sense, with certain fugitive thralls,
Of Thrace, for guides, old enemies of proud Greeks,
Leading two thousand chosen men, dismounts,
To parting of two ways, from the cliff-steeps;
Where, of some antique hero, shines white tomb.

The old moon now in point to set, they pass
The sacred bornes. At length, ere crow of cock,
Or bark of hound startle the temple-watch,
Enters the unwalled holy street king Brennus,
Where thousand statuas make their pathway light.
Is this the agora, and yonder Pythius' fane!
Vast porch, which upholds ordered pillars white.
Gauls statuas here discern of men and steeds.
Deposed his arms, it compassed thrice king Brennus,
Running. He parted then his thousand warriors,

In two like bands. Whilst these the temple watch,
Shall those, towards Phœbus city, keep the street.

Caused Brennus, in Gaul's tongue, then, be proclaimed,
By Catwald, herald's mouth, to Greeks' sun-god;
He carry will away his hallowed things;
To hang in groves, under the seven beves;
And part, in island fane of the god Belin;
That choir renowned of stones, of his sire Brennus.
But wealth, which should be found therein, profane,
Being common substance of the vanquished Greeks;
He will, to his victorious Gauls, divide;
Which followed him in arms! Hearken loud clarions,
That sound now out of Delphians, in the night.
Come running harnessed Hellenes, from the town.

Hoarse, through his helm, spoil of slaim Ptolemy, king,
Of gilded bronze, long-maned, with dragon crest;
Shouts Brennus, to his martial Gauls, Hold fast!
But vain tumultuous onset is of Greeks,

Though phalanxed, gainst Gaul's warriors' matchless force,
That, like to giants, them hew down, in their blood.
The remnant flee aghast; nor pursues Brennus
Those Phœbus' citizens. Gauls then entering in
The cloister; even before the holy fire,
Slew Pythius' priests; and sprent his marble floor,
With purple blood. Advancing him, Gauls' king
Smote on the gilded image of the god,
With scornful plat of his gore-dropping blade;
Whereat rang the immense temple, with a loud
Dread din, and trembled to the sacred vaults;
And on his pillars, rockt that marble house!
And quaked all hearts, save only of king Brennus.

A cry seemed echo round, divine. Like bats,
Flit forth the temple-servants, with rapt steps.
Gauls on them seize; and Brennus them requires,
Return: and bring forth all that hoarded wealth,
Which thousand years' religion of vain Greeks,
Had vowed; and golden treasuries of all states,
Of many-citied Hellas. But when Brennus,
The god reproaching evil which he wrought,
To Gauls, by shafts of sickness, he had shot;
Beard of red gold, in that dim temple-light,
Discerned to hang, on Phœbus' stony face,

(Which graven had master-hand of antique Phidias,
Of some bleak rock of barren, cindered, Hellas;)
He smote the idol's image, with his fist,
And snatcht that bearded gold: and Pythius,
Greeks' archer god, tall Gauls' king mocked aloud!

But when one shows him, with a trembling hand,
That navel-stone, which middest of all the world,
Greeks read; and rent in adyt floor arcane,
With laurel, crowned, from whence grave reek ascends;
And heard immortal voice; with laughter, brake
Unseemly utterance, from the Gauls' king's lips.

Yet breathed he forth proud words! when, from beneath,
Apollo's house is shaken, like a ship,
And crake the beams and imposts. Brennus hastes,
Lest ruin, on his neck, the marble roof,
To get him forth. Then shut-to, with loud noise,
The brazen temple-doors, behind the Gauls,
And without hands; and terribly echoes voice,
Within; where closed, alone, the Pythic maid,
Lean, frenzied, crooked wight, now in great age;
Voice from the crypt, of the dark oracles,
Which she expounds to Hellas. Her dire cries,
Destruction imprecate, on Gauls' king Brennus!

Pythius disdains him, from his sanctuary,
Whose violent hands have reft his hallowed gifts;
And his thrice-sacred image durst deface;
And with man's blood, profaned this holy place.

But passed again the cloisters' sounding court,
Gathers, with warhorns' blast, his Gauls, king Brennus;
Who from the fane, and who turn from the town;
That many Greeks, in Delphi's streets have slain.
Heavy with preys, them, in the market-place,
He marshals; whence, soon ready, they march forth.

Then, on the now sun-smitten fane, erst Brennus
Looks, whose high architrave behanged with shields;
That golden shine, spoils of old Medic host.
The pediment seems some battle, turned to stone.

Gauls' king leads up, before them, with swift feet;
Fearing lest should descend that god to fight.
Then eftsoon darkened day's new cheerful light.
Zeus, great cloud-gathering demon of the Greeks,
With sceptre, smote the vaulted firmament;
And flings swift lightnings down, his other hand.
And fall Greeks' foremost warriors, stricken rife;
And rattling, seemed the riven skies to burn.

Stoop the dark heavens; and seems the earth to sink
Again, in roaring jaws of infinite night.

Out of swart clouds, hurl hailstones, angry gods,
Pound-weight; whose like, from world's beginning, was
Not seen. From wrath divine, then flee the Gauls:
Who cumbered were, with temple-preys, them cast.
(Talents, men say, three thousand, were the spoils,
Of Pythius' temple, taken of the Gauls!)
Gauls fly, for shelter, to Castalian springs,
Where loom vast cliffs, the bald Phœdriades;
That roar aloft, with storm, whence tumbling craigs,
And rushing pines, beat many Gauls to ground.

The day is turned to night, vast tempest dures;
Nor more heard voice of dukes, nor trumpet's throat.
They wander spersedly, which remained alive,
(Nor few, neath ruin dead, of toppled rocks,
Lie Gauls, and trunks, which split the storm-wind's force;)
Seeking, aye, little bands, king Brennus forth!
Yet, wade they, staggering, hardly, the fell blast.
Were some even hurled, in madding rage of wind,
From fearful brinks! Men desperate now of health,
Were seen, with lifted spears, threaten the gods!
Seemed go this world to wrack; and sea and stars,
Revert to former state. Long-shielded Gauls,
Are beat, for all their force, on their stern face.

Labour the demons of those Delphic rocks,
To bring the Gauls to naught. That hideous blast,
Out of the Pontic Gate, at evening, falls:
Droops on their deadly limbs, then misty frost.

Brennus, and few lords with him, founden, hath
Uncertain shelter, the wild eaves of craigs;
Whereunder, hunger-starved, when fallen this night,
And without fire, they daze, with stiffened joints.

Issues, like to lean beast, towards morning-red,
The Gauls' king Brennus; and, in ghastful mood,
Yonder, that temple-city, far-off, views;
Whence Phœbus' wrath pursues him to his fall!
He casts his eyes, sith, to Amphissa's shore.
Then, as some shepherd, after winter tempest,
Which raged all night; looks forth at dawning ray,
And sees his voiceless flock, dead, round him; lie,
All under shrouding snow, and waxeth mad!
So Brennus, in wreathed drifts, his glittering warriors,
Part-covered sees: yet holding, some, bright spears,
In their dead hands. But they, the forms of Gauls,
Are frozen trunks and dreary icicles!
Then he, duke of this warfare of tall Gauls,
Reputing his own guilt, the army lost;
And that, presumptuous, he himself hath wrought,

Fighting with stranger nation's mightier gods:
Him seems now all Greeks' world his dying place!

Travails, implacable, Pythius, Brennus' breast;
And with fell grip, that god his gorge oppressed;
And caused the hero's mails to burn his flesh,
With fiery frost. His harness on his chest,
He makes as hill's insupportable weight.
Wherefore the king, as one in battle pierced,
Fallen on his knees, him leans, on his left hand;
And groans his soul, unto his nation's gods.
But hear not those his voice, that dwell, far off,
Neath high plough-stars; nor Ister flood had passed,
From North-lands, any god with Second Brennus!

Kindling, wild flames leap in his great heart, irked
With the extreme malice, then, of hostile gods;
And run through all his veins, as molten brass:
They mount up, blinding, in his noble front.
Then he, invoked Gauls' antique heroes' spirits,
And blaming gods, for that his timeless death;
Bowed him, on his sword's point, unto the North!
And loost, with burning pang; his ghost, derived,
From stars above, from fleshly bands, fled forth.

Phœbus Apollo, the Pythic god.

Stonehenge.