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

Them fails now, in mid course, the morning wind.
Then herdmen Gauls, outlaying their rude oars,
To win yond White Isle's cliffs, long vainly strive.
For aye them backward sets a sliding tide.
Loud all that day, rockt in their idle ships,
(And oft each other, as in so thick fleet,
They fall aboard,) call Gauls on their land-gods;
And faint their cattle, tossed in long unrest.
Then Samoth's mind is rent, twixt two dread thoughts;
Whether, to saviour gods, he offer up,
To-day, his son, for passage of that deep,
Or die himself, amidst his people's ships.

Senotigern, in Samoth's barge, who sails,
Chief druid, sees divine statures, in sea mist,
Of woody gods; whose lofty antique groves,
This people have hewed down, to build them ships;
Wherefore they, angry, sea-bound hold their navy.
Proclaims then loud-voiced herald, that all men make,
Devoutly, to those wood-gods vows and prayers;
And Noden, sovereign lord, named of sea deep.
Behold, at setting sun, now sign divine!
Green-grown the timbers of the royal barge,
That shoot out branches then and golden buds.
Anon, new springing East wind wafts their keels.
Nigh middle night they touch, under white cliffs,

In a fair bay. Was first there to take land,
A widow's bark, rowed of her valiant sons,
Portending, in that soil, should women reign.

At morrow, founden were, on those white cliffs,
Their sacred steers. Gauls then, to joyous feast,
Them give, till eve; when kindled beacon fires,
At Samoth's word, in sign they salute Gaul.
Soon shout this folk, when answering flames are seen!
Far over seas, from their own Gaulish Main.
Those sacred heifers Druids, at new dawn,
Yoke unto Samoth's barge. By laund, those then
Draw, towards hill-grove: whereas, betwixt two oaks,
It priests set up, under green wattled lodge,
Of the trees' boughs. Therein, of Samoth's god,
An image is, which brought his fathers old,
From Land of the Sunrising, soil far off;
Wherein, (is fame,) aforetime, Gauls abode.
That here, the narrow sea beyond; in view
Of Gaul's great Main, should be his dwelling-place.

Then king, in the New Isle, is Samoth named,
His people's father, of Gaul's o'erfared druids.
In his white mantle, sith cast sacred lots
Senotigern, the old: and this, to wot,
Unto which part, appoint the holy gods,
Should every kindred tread up from this shore;

And it possess. Behold then, on green hill,
The same whereat were found the sacred steers;
Standing before his folk, the righteous King
Ordains that all, in summer moon, each year,
Assemble to this place; and judges sit
With him, this people's causes to enquire:
Which month should aye be void of warlike fear.
Is this that antique Samoth named The Star,
For sacred skill, was in him, of star-read,
Founder of kingdoms, and our nation's laws;
Whom after ages worshipped as a god.

When now have dwelled in Britain, many years,
His Gauls, deceased King Samoth, in ripe age;
Succeeded, in whose room, his nephew Sarron.
For Samoth's son, vowed, in that passing o'er,
To a sea god, might not long live on ground.
Men his disciples name Sarronides.

Much then increased this nation of the Gauls,
In the Isle. Last grown King Sarron blind and old,
Not having sons, the people are his heirs;
Though ten his daughters, born of one chaste womb.
And died in the last birth of their sweet babes,
Their mother Bronwen of most perfect feature;
Whose sovereign beauty, in every one diverse,
Is seen and infused wisdom of their sire.

Then princes many asked those royal maids,
And without dower, for their beloved sons.
For he, who nourished all young lords, that sought
To him, for doctrine, as the poor for bread,
Had well-nigh, now, his once large substance spent.
Howbe just gods, which love the bounteous soul,
As their own image, blessed his herds and flocks.

In sacred moon of the revolving year,
Was day uprising from his purple throne,
When lords and elders, Gauls' new nation's heads,
Reverent, convey the blind sire in his charret.
To moot-hill, all that day, he softly rides:
Where come; behold, green camps and wattled bowers,
Of leafy boughs; and Britons lodge around.
Was then Senotigern, old royal druid,
Revealed his people's will, at length, to Sarron;
And namely, that should wed the royal maids:
Brought gifts have Britons also, in their hands,
They to the judges' seat, will none approach,
This year, to trouble feast in Samoth's house.

Answered the pious King, touching this thing,
He would enquire, of heaven, by sacrifice;
More favourable he had oft-time, found, his gods,
By night-time. For this people, whose infinite voice,
I hear, slay, druid, a white bull; and slay

Me, (see thou,) a perfect wether for my soul:
And for each of my children, an ewe lamb.
So might my prayer receive thrice-holy gods.
That druid went forth; and when he came again,
Bright messenger of sacred dawn, is risen,
The morning star. Then to the Briton sire,
He spake, how severally the bowels renounce,
Propitious is the mind of Gauls' great gods.
On turven altars, dight the victims' flesh;
Them, suddenly, a three-forked flame of lightning smote,
Which every one consumed, to the green sods.

Now day, an herald, from moot-hill, proclaims,
Sarron the King, admonished of high gods,
The people's asking grants. Stand forth who covet,
Of noble youth, be sons in Samoth's house.
Three score, lo, wooers of those royal maids,
Excelling all their fellows, in men's sight,
Of hew full pale, (so love drinks up their spirits!)
Rise: and seen now they all were to be sons,
Of whoso noblest are of o'erfared Gauls.
Bundles Senotigern then, of little rods,
Prepares; whereon each wooer his several token,
Sets: and these being all together cast,
In priest's white saie; behold that reverend druid
Calls two purblind old wights, out of the press.

As these then wave and shake, their lots fall forth:
Till seemeth now only ten ones to remain.
Then cries the priest! and they withhold their hands.

Britons loud hail those happier chosen ones.
Cluster now whoso noblest them around:
So, young men, bring forth, mild of countenance,
But with elated breasts, and lead to Sarron;
Who, under large oak boughs, gives audience.
Britons sing bridal songs, all, with glad voice.
Taking their hands, divines that long-aged sire,
The bodily image of his sons-in-law;
And riddles them, to read their hearts, propounds.
Sarron then bade, to call, from the ox-wains,
His daughters. See, where come those royal maids!
With blushing looks and gracious steps of doves.
All, like to dream, are fair! With heart's amaze,
Each noble youth, each royal virgin sees,
Him, whom least hardly she might love; he her,
Whom he, above a mother's love, doth choose!
Their hearts already have knit holy gods.
With bowed-down heads, each gentle pair plight hands,
Sign of their virgin troth, in the blind palms,
Of their and all this people's father, Sarron.
And they the doom-hill now, with Sarron sire,
Ascend. He, blind, sat down on Samoth's stone,

And all acclaim him. Then, before the Gauls,
The necks girt the king-father's trembling hands,
With royal wreath of gold, of every of those
Young lords shall be his sons. His sceptre rod,
Unto each then gives, in order, in his hand;
Ordaining each were king, after his day,
By monthly course; and Britons loud applaud.
The sire descended, eftsoon, mounts in chariot!
And, three times round, about the moot-hill drives,
In that he supplicates his nation's gods.

But when day's eve, and deckt the bridal bowers;
Now after supper, clad in whitest lawn,
The royal brides, with chaplets on their heads,
Of the May-lilies, like the sister hours,
Lo, led forth, with shrill songs and carolings,
And voice of pipes, midst band of noble maids;
Where stand the bridegrooms, in glad companies,
With thousand torches of the cloven pine.
Ten thousand throats then, loud, the marriage gods
Praising, pray bless those, paired now, royal lives.

Soon after parts the blind sire, in his chariot,
In white moonlight, unto his wonted place;
Which is an hall and bowers, and shepherd's cotes,
Twixt streaming Medway and green forest side.

Sith ten days' long, with song and merry make,

(And each day of a royal pair, is named;)
The Britons, gathered in their open camps,
Those bridals keep, which look toward's Gaul's mainland.
But when fulfilled those days of dance and feast;
Creeps in all hearts desire now to turn home.
Britons, at early morrow, will forsake
Their withered bowers. But hardly well uprisen,
Is this new sun when, lo, in powdered chariot,
With panting steeds, arrives an hoar-head herald.
Belvese, who standing, hollow-voiced, for grief,
Proclaims aloud, amongst the people's press;
That from this fleshes darkness, passed, to-night,
Great Sarron's Spirit, to new light of the gods.
Rose confused murmur, great then wailing voice
Brake from a mourning nation's multitude!

Those sperse them soon, in many companies;
Then wend they all to field, for halm and wood,
Till eve; for burning of the royal dead.
Unto the moot-hill, cometh now slowly on
The funeral wain. All fare, when sets this sun,
To sprinkle meadow-sweet and flower of broom,
Before the bier. Bards blow loud wailing note,
In trumps and reeds; and rue the people's hearts;
And bellow Kent's white hills, as the sea's shore.

Drawn of slow ox-team, shrouded in white lawn,
Behold, which convoy forth, the people's heads,
Singing shrill funeral hymns, the royal corse.
Before them priests, with cressets go and brands:
And each one sighs, as for his father dead.
But come this mourning to their high-strewed pyre,
Princes and druids, crowned with dismal yew,
Reverent, uplifting, bear the royal corse,
Upon the high-banked wood. The Britons all,
Standing in compass round, with veiléd heads;
Those royal spouses, Sarron's sons-in-law,
Slay sheep and beves. When druids the king's corse
Have with the victims' fat, then overlaid,
Priests give, from off the holy altars, brands,
Unto the princes; and those fire the wood,
Whereon loud sighing East wind gins to breathe.

And, lo, uprolling smoke, and climbing flames,
Like roaring waves! whilst a sad people watch,
Sitting, till morning-red, all, on dank grass.
The dying embers, quenched the royal sons,
With mead and milk; then in an ark of bronze,
Gather those few bleached bones, with pious hands.

Britons, in the next days, on rolling beams,
Draw mighty stones, unto that burning-place.
Sith, under-delving, them uprear, on end,

To stand aye round the chamber of the dead:
Which custom is of antique royal Gauls;
Whose father, Gomer, dreamed should drown the world.
A sennight, Britons, banking earth and sods,
Labour to mound high tomb. Lighten their toil
The silver accords of bard's trembling crowth.

Upon the king's grave-mound, Senotigern then,
Standing, loud praised the days of Sarron dead.
Last, thrice, about the royal funeral hill,
All slowly pace; and three times, shout Farewell!
The mourning ended, they, with Sarron's sons,
Which henceforth, in their several months, should rule,
Turn to go home. Those noble brethren dwell,
Sith, without envy or guile, in Sarron's hall.