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

Gauls coast. Mnason's carrack fleeting in Liger's mouth. They come to a dune; and there see Roman soldiers. Priscus, Roman governor, with much kindness, receives the ship-wrecked Syrians. Priscus' tale. Tiding brought of the loss of a great Roman ship, with soldiers. Among the Roman dead, is found the body of Lepidus; who is son to Priscus. The journey and sudden death of the good quæstor. Pistos, Galatian. Tumult among the superstitious Gauls. The saints are compelled to sea, again, in their broken vessel. Isle Sena. Being driven thence, to Vectis; they are carried over to Britain. They fleet, other days, Westward forth: then they are cast beyond the land, and driven over to Erinn. Albion shapes again their course in, to the main of Britain.

Fair morrow in Britain. The carrack strands in a rivermouth. Certain brethren see a vision of John. Dylan, Dumnonian herdsman, first receives the strangers on soil o Britain. Amathon, his lord, sends for them, to be his guests. Another day, they journey, thence, unto king Duneda, in Caer Isca.

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Christ sails, with them, upon the Celtic deep.
The saints uprise, from sleep, as Lazarus;
Revived their flesh, with new peace in their hearts;
And wish for land. Next morrow after, was;
When the mist lifting, looms Italic vessel,
Nigh, labouring in great billows; and from whose
Split mast, her tackling burst, rent mainsail blows!
Buffet immane wind-driven waves; and smite,
Over the ship. Ah, dimly, her castles, view,
The brethren, full of rangéd legionaries!
Romans, that stretch, to their victorious ensigns,
As gods! right hands. Whelms immane chacing billow,
Huge on the poop; and breaks their banks of oars:
Ah! covers all those marshalled legionaries,
Waves rush together, o'er the drowning vessel!
They go down quick, to violent gates of death;
And hell, doth now, those gentile souls enclose,

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For whom Christ died! The saints, in Mnason's carrack,
Which rides in calm, long pray and taste no bread.

Climbed, by the shrouds, sees Phelles, when late eve;
Low coast and breaking waves, on craigs, beneath.
All watch, till shine, on loft, the stars of God.
Then sets them, landward-in, slow sliding tide.

New day, wide-springing, now; behold, they fleet,
Embayed, their ship swims in large river-mouth!
Which seeing, record their hearts of Egypt's flood.
Them bears in, Liger's salt in-flowing tide.
By dunes, eftsoon; by meadows, hanging woods:
They upland drive. At length, on river-hill,
Lo, halm-thatched cabans, blackened of the rain.
Is this some Gaulish town, whose uncouth keels
Ride, yonder, under holt; whose hawsers chains,
Their leathern sails hang flagging in the wind.

From that dune shore, lo, manned-forth barks, with rowers,
Girt in frieze coats. Those lay their boats aboard:
And mounting now, tall yellow-bearded Gauls,
The stranger ship; bid, proffering hard right hands,
To guests and sea-folk, welcome, in dumb show.

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Other made towlines fast, of wreathed whale's-hide,
To blue-eyed stem of bruised Phœnician vessel,
Toll-on, by force of oars, now, to their staithe.

Is this their hythe, where tawny nets outspread;
And smells of fish. A thronging people wait
Them, on the quay; where gang-board thrust to ship,
Many stout arms. Step, holpen of kind hands,
Forth, sea-beat saints; and say, The Peace of God,
And of His Christ, be on this heathen strand!

Then they, astonished, one on other, looked;
Saying, Even here is Rome! for Roman soldiers,
They see; and sentinels, leaning on their spears.
He, who their officer is, with friendly countenance,
The saints salutes: Salvete! in tongue, he saith,
Of gentile Rome. Totter their feeble knees,
When he the brethren, thronging on them Gauls,
By cobbled street, to the prætorium, leads:
There Roman gate and house of guard, they pass.
He brings them in, to high-built hall of audience.

There Priscus, on his bed, sits, Roman quæstor;
Who goodly greets those shipwrecked, them perceiving
To be some strangers of a Roman Province.
He marks, in Syrian wise, them to be clad.
They see, is sick, this Roman magistrate:

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Who speaks now word, remembered from his youth;
What time he warred, under great Cneius Sextus,
(Reigning Tiberius,) Shalom, peace! His steward,
Good Priscus charged prepare them bath; and give
The strangers change of raiment; and make ready,
That might those shipwrecked, also, dine, anon.
Livia, his wife, sends for the shipwrecked women.
And named this town is Corbelo, the saints hear.

Called, after supper, in, the saints; the quæstor
Gins commune, with them, of their perilous voyage;
First, asking, in Greeks' speech, of their estate.
Interprets Alexander: And likes Priscus,
Well, of their words; as who wont daily read,
In Greeks' philosophy; and namely of One God,
Who Father of all breath, both men and gods.

Sith, to his officers, sitting him around,
Good Priscus gan relate; how, child, sometime,
He dwelled in Petra, city of Nabatæans;
Convallis deep, cleft in those mountains waste:
In whose cliffs, have men hewed them, of great cost,
Like Tuscans, stately mansions of the dead;
(Even as the martins delve their sandy nests!)
Howbeit of builded clay and rubble stone,
Save their god's temple is the merchant town.

Centurion, fared, with that Egyptian army,

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His father to the war, which, (Aelius duke,)
Augustus sent, to reave the far-famed wealth,
Of lean Arabia, which vast wilderness is,
Of thorns and tamarisks; where, in the baked earth,
And sand, few waterpits are; and tawny wights,
That in poor hair-cloth booths, sun-blackened, lodge,
And satyrs seem; and, every day, they fast,
And, every day, with their few beasts, remove.

Led by false guides, six months, through desolate wastes,
Marched Aelius' army; where none water was:
And seemed that soil, for heat, the sun-god's hearth!
The wasted cohorts hardly nighed, at length,
To certain hills; where incense they, and gold,
And water, found: whose barbarous people armed,
With lances, slings, short swords, and two-edged bills,
Great multitude, but inexpert, in arms,
Assembled, fought, at a brook side, with Aelius.
Of whom then, battle joined, Romans slew thousands!
Of our part, fell two soldiers. There were taken,
With prey of cattle, many enemies, captives;
Of whom, being some compelled to be their guides,
That highway of Sabæan merchandise,
Which Nabatæans, in any wise, would hide,
Revealed to Romans; who ascending thence,

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Therein now marched, weak remnant of proud legions,
Wasted by misery and thirst, to a third part!

Those took some open towns, by the way-side:
Sith, the two Hejras; where, midst palms, they passed,
By many wells. But, angry, o'erthrew Romans,
To wreak them of the king of Nabatæans,
For his false guides, his merchant-city there;
Crowned with sharp cliffs; such as, at Petra, are,
And chambered, with like stately sepulchres.
Hid-treasure they, in that deep sand, of gold,
And frankincense also, found; her citizens, thence,
They carried away, captive. Westward forth,
Marched Romans, o'er waste mountains' craggéd coast;
Whose stones are sounding iron, to Hejra-port;
Where they inshipped, for Egypt: but being sent
To Hierosolyma, sith, his father's cohort;
Was captain, there, his father, in the tower,
Antonia; and namely of the temple-guard:
Which temple, for Jews' nation, lately, Herod
Had edified, (he who Magnus sith surnamed;)
Unto whom Augustus gave the diadem.

One day, to fetch, from Petra, home, his house,
With certain Idumeans and merchant Jews,
Of sheep and corn; he rode, unwarlike train,

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Of camels and of mules, to the Peræa.
With weary march, they compassed the salt plain,
From whose deep coast, where they ascended forth;
Fell men out, on them, of waste wilderness,
Baked in the sun, where grows nor corn nor grass.

Some pierced were, by the salvage people's shafts:
The rest fled scattered, left their beasts to loss.
Only his father, (Roman!) would not flee;
But done-on helm, drawn glaive, his shield embraced,
The first wild men he slew, which them advanced.
Then, running, many drew him, from his horse;
And smote, with claves, to ground, and stripped of weed.
Sore bruised and wounded; they him left, for dead:
Yet some him laid, under a thornbush shade;
Being so commanded of their desert god,
Mankindness show, to every dying wight.
Those left a water-bottle, at his head!

A merchant Jew, of Hebron, chanced that way,
With loaded camel-train, to fare, at morrow.
But his hired servants, carrion eagles, white,
Marked yonder tire, as on unburied corse;
Gan, (Jews,) to drive, from that defilement, forth,
Their laded beasts; and would have shunned the place,
And fearing robbers, in that valley of rocks.

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Howbeit the chapman, Jew of mean estate,
But pious, of right bountiful good heart,
Fearing his God, aye hoping to see good,
Drew nigh to weet, if, there, did any live;
Whom, peradventure, he, (were righteous deed,)
Might save. Much languishing, he my father found:
And spake that Jew, What man be'st thou? that liest
Thus, wounded, in thy life-blood, here, alas!
He to his camels ran then; and him brought,
To drink of water, mixt with wine; and washed
My father's wounds: sith, with new tunic, clothed;
So, gently, him rearing, set on his own ass;
And tracing him beside, to Rabba, brought.

Oft, had he heard his father tell this story:
And to requite that goodness of the Jew,
Would he the rather, kindly, deal with these,
That be of the Jews' nation, shipwrecked guests.
With pleasant taling, thus, the evening hours,
That Roman drives. So, with new word of Peace,
Priscus, went forth, them bidding well to rest.

But envious spirits, which sleep not, from that place,
Drive night's sweet rest. Men cry out, in their dreams:

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Hounds howl; and three times, ran to arms, the watch.
Priscus lay, all this night, appalled by visions,
Of Roman cohort, drenching in salt billows.
Now when new day is risen, upon the earth,
The quæstor, called those children of the East,
And questions with them; Could they dreams interpret?
Who answer; They but soothfastness, might speak.
Weary, then, Priscus calls, for cup of wine.
But when now somewhat soared, the morning sun;
In Corbelo street, approaching to these gates,
Hark concourse, and much voice. An officer, soon,
Brings in this hall some Gaulish horseman soldier;
Who, roll of an epistle, takes to Priscus.
With trembling hand, good Priscus it received:
The seal upbreaks, and reads; Sempronius,
Sends greeting, warden of this Roman shore.
And be it known, to thee, most excellent Priscus,
According to what certain word we heard;
From mouth of Sequana, lately sailed great vessel,

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Called the Bucefalus; which was ship of charge,
With victual, and the year's relief of soldiers.
Dread is; they, in ere-yester's tempest, perished.
Timbers and tables drifted up, all night,
Under my station. Then, at dawning light,
Were weltering carcases seen of legionaries,
In billows heaving: which be drawn to shore,
At my commandment. And I gather wood,
To make drowned soldiers seemly funerals.
Even as I write, is found the body of Faustus,
Captain of soldiers, of the second cohort.
Given at this Roman tower, Pictonia.

Avert the immortal gods, from us, all evil!
Know, after I had sealed the former scroll,
I sent out barks. Then many, upon sharp skerries,
Left by the ebbing tide, were corses found.
These drawn to shore, bade I then lay, on rows;

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Mongst whom, as many doubt, forbid it gods!
A young man lies, like thy son Lepidus,
Who sailed, in that great vessel, the same tide.
Lo, I thee send his ring, for a sure token.
Strengthen thee, in this sorrow, I pray the gods!

So Priscus trembles, with an ashen face,
That seemed all radical moisture him forsake;
And burst a great sob forth, from his sick chest.
Then Roman sufferance, lo, in his fixt looks!
He puts on humour of philosophy.
Priscus commands anon; that were made ready,
An expedition, which should, with him, march.

Tread armed bands, eftsoons, forth, of legionaries;
That, in the paved court, ground their rattling spears.
Livia, to whom hath Priscus sent that ring;
Behold, much weeping, after them, comes in,
The quæstor's spouse; whom, veiled, sustain her women.
She, Lepidus! sobs; our loved son, Lepidus!
Shall, thy dead limbs, thy mother's hands compose,
Upon thy timeless bier; ah, cruel gods!

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She enters, in her litter; and now march
Those Roman soldiers, forth, with drooping spears.
Parts, in another, Priscus, leaving word,
With his freedman, well entertain those strangers.

When, sith, to midday, draws, the saints outwend,
To pray; and seeking pure aparted place,
They hold their way down to the river's brinks.
All kneeling now, at Liger's tiding shore,
Make mention of good Priscus, in their prayer.

The R. Loire.

Behold then, gather fishers, to them, there;
Which mend their nets, in the sun, children and wives:
That view, with wondering eyes these strangers' guise;
Lean-visaged men, as any agate, red;
Long wounden linen cloths, on their pilled heads!
Those shipwrecked women, wimpled, hollow-eyed!
Gauls' wives feel, thronging on them, their strange weed.

Is Corbelo, in main Gaul, Armoric haven,
And now a Roman shore. Yearned the saints' hearts,
Then in their breasts: to save, their lips ask Christ,
Save, these dead children, of yond heathen graves!
Fervent, meek-voiced, hark, lifting his two hands,
In tongue which Jesus spake, then Joseph prays;
Saying, Heavenly Father! rue, Lord, for Christ's sake,

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On this poor gentile folk, which dwell far-off,
In darkness; that us, (saved, from Thy great Deep,)
Have now received, with kindness, to their shore.

They marked, then, certain man, with thronging Gauls,
Stand, like some soldier of a Roman Province;
Who seems interpret words of Joseph's mouth.
This makes now known himself, unto the saints,
(He freedman also is of worthy Priscus;)
Pistos, Galatian. Sometime, in his youth,
He, in Pamphylia, learned the Syrians' speech:
But are his nation of like tongue with Gauls;
Nephews of them which followed Second Brennus;
And passed o'er Hellespont, with stout Britomart.
Just man is Pistos; and, oftwhiles, in woods,
If haply, he might find healing of some god,
He kneels; and spreads, towards heaven, his groping palms!

In honour Pistos is, mongst Gauls and Romans;
As who hath, not few, Roman citizens saved,
By valour of his only arm, in wars.
When they return, now, to the Roman castrum;
Throngs follow, with the saints, of blue-eyed Gauls.

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But clamour, after meat, is heard without.
Much gathered folk make hubbub, at these gates.
Mongst whom, some in white saies; whom Gauls call druids,
Priests of their immane gods! and young men, armed;
Which threaten, with fierce spears, the ward of soldiers.
Is this their market-day; when to the dune,
Come in, from upland, men with arms and targe.
Yell furious Gauls, mongst whom, are frantic women;
Yield them, those strangers, come from Bourne-of-Night!
To sacrifice unto Ana, mighty goddess.
(Is this, Great-mother named, of all Gauls' gods.)

Blew Roman clarion forth, then, a stern note!
The garrison, run, in harness, man the walls.
Lucius, centurion, reads, from their tower-gate,
Late edict of the Roman emperor;
Forbidding Gauls, in Roman town, bear arms:
Prohibiting stain altars of the gods,
With human gore, in all the world of Rome!
Spake Lucius, standing forth, in Latin tongue,
Some sea-god saved those shipwrecked guests, to land;
Men that are strangers of a Roman Province;
Which province, to the emperor's self, pertains.

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To clamour thus, before a guard of soldiers,
Were perilous. He to many, among the Gauls,
Calling by name, then warns them, to turn home.

Those him again saluting, gin persuade
The rest disperse. Hark, when this day far-spent,
Thick sounding hooves, in the now silent street!
An horseman soldier lights, at castrum port:
He entered, an epistle takes to Lucius;
Who brake the seal, and reads, with heavy cheer:
Sempronius, to the trusty captain Lucius,
Wisheth much health. Arrived the quæstor Priscus,
This afternoon, with soldiers, to our shore.
Yet naught would rest, what though he weary were;
But bade men follow, with him, to sea-strand.
When, there, he saw the body of young Lepidus,
His son, already laid upon a pyre,
Brake from him, moaning cry; and in his litter,
He turned his face. But Livia abandoned her,
Beating her breast, with shrieks, upon the bier.

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Then I, returning to his litter, found
The quæstor dead; wherein, he stirred no more.
This write I, hastily; and that the public weal,
Might take none hurt; and, in this hope, farewell.
I make to-night, for Priscus, funerals.

Recounts that soldier, how the Roman dead,
He, on the chesil banks, beheld, row-laid.
Himself, he saw, young Lepidus' cold corse;
That comely lapped, when he was taken up,
Wild tangles of the sea, from head to feet,
Like fair prætexta. In shole tide he lay;
Where lifting, every billow, his bright locks,
Seemed kiss his cheeks. Men say, did Nereids rise,
Beating their bosoms, from the guilty waves,
On him to gaze; and that the sea-maids sought,
Clipping, in their white arms, his clay-cold corse,
How him to chaufe, with their delicious breasts.
Closed his quencht eyes, they plaited his bright locks.
Bearing him, in their horny hands, to land,
Out of the brown-pitcht bark, rude fishers wept.

Lucius, centurion, deemed then, march this night,
By the moon's lamp; bearing forth urn and bays,

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To bring back Priscus' ashes: yet he fears,
Alway, some new stir of inconstant Gauls.
Even now, men wait speech of him, at the gates.
He went forth to them; and they tell, is tumult,
Again, in Corbelo street. And that, for cause
Of those swart strangers, come from Bourne-of-Night;
Lest they bring pestilence, blast the growing fields,
And fray their fish: Wherefore, they cry, yield Romans
Those uncouth ones; or, else, durst angry Gauls,
At new day-red, assail this Roman castrum!

Lucius mislikes the men's both words and looks;
Who hath, with him, for long defence, few soldiers.
Lifting his hands, then, to immortal stars;
Before the Gauls, gan Lucius, by his gods,
Protest, and Fortune of imperial Rome;
Those strangers, whom they fear, should part, this night,
Out of their coasts; so should that peril pass.
Return, quoth now that captain; and shut fast
Their doors, and kindle great fires, on all hearths,
And beet all night; and come, at morrow's break,
Again; when he, in reverence of the dead,
Must offer a swart ewe. With him, all, then,

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To Tower Pictonia, a great mourning train,
Descend; to follow Priscus' exequies.
So they, appeased, by Lucius' words, went home.

Now the dim night; and only sounds strange chant,
Of Gauls' mad druids. But when is changed the watch,
Lucius commands, waken those shipwrecked strangers;
And bid them ready make, anon, to part!

Then called those Lucius in, before him, spake;
How foolish Gauls had damned them, to their gods;
And would, in tumult, put to bloody death!
And, o'er all this, do thicken on him troubles,
Since Priscus' death. That God, in so great tempest,
Which ere them saved; should still preserve them forth.

Now when the saints; that, sudden, roused from sleep,
And kindly rest, tremble in the night's cold,
Hear, they must, newly, forth, to sea, this night;
They feel, as cold glaive, through their trembling loins,
Smote! Yet they meekly do submit them, (Christ
So bade,) to Lucius' ordinance. The holy women,
That faint again, with sickness of the deep,
Wimpling their eyes, gan weep, for sore constraint.

Fain, would they rest; but Christ, not yet, appoints
To them, abiding place. At Lucius' word,

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To them, is measured corn and bread, so much,
As their lapped Syrian mantles might contain.
Come ready to convoy them, guard of soldiers:
They issue to night stars, and unknown voyage.

Far ways about, by fields, wet with night dew,
Them bring the soldiers down, to Liger's side;
Where lies, their sea-beat hull, yet, bound in staithe:
And them compel aboard: so hew her cords,
With their impatient glaives; and those fall off.
Last shout the soldiers, Give them prosperous voyage,
The gods, and have good-night! Sets Mnason's carrack,
The ebb, out, to mid-stream. A chill night-wind,
Them seaward drives; and weary are their hearts.

Was then, them thought, one swimming from the land,
They hear; and they, eftsoons, know Pistos' voice;
Whose valiant arms buffet, the chilling water:
For he, to come to them, from shore, would take,
Unrightfully, no man's bark. Pistos, the soldier,
Lo, mongst them, dripping, stands, on their ship's board.

He, yester, issued was, from Corbelo, forth,
For some affairs of merchandise of his.

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But home returned; whilst this Galatian sleeps,
He an Heavenly One, beheld, in shining vision!
Bidding him follow Joseph, in ship-voyage;
With whom is word of the Eternal Life.
He rose then; and ran forth: nor stayed, take aught,
Out of the house; but speeding, on his feet,
He met with those returning legionaries.
Of whom he heard, had Lucius sent them forth;
And how, in their bruised vessel, fleeting were,
Those shipwrecked strangers, from the river's shore.

The saints receive; and bring dry weed to Pistos.
And marks that Roman soldier, Syrian Joseph,
To be the same he, in his dream, to-night,
Beheld. Last fishers' fires, nigh Liger's mouth,
They lose; then slumber steeps their weary sense.
When morrow breaks, at sea, with stormy signs;
They view main-Gaul's Armoric coast, far off!

But when the third day's morning-star is risen;
Sea-currents set them over, towards an isle:
Where, twixt two rocks, past noon, midst water's race;
And shoaling now salt tide, their keel sits fast.

They heard soon, from steep cliffs, above, as voice
Of women's chant. Lo, black-stoled women wights!
Yelling, those beat, with crooked hands, their dugs.

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Their long white hairs ben all, to the wild gusts,
Uncomely loost. Anon, lo, with linked hands,
They tread together, round, in their mad fit.
Some, then, would cast her down, of the weird women;
But of her distraught sisters, is withholden.
Those rend their cheeks to blood: the cliff, the woods,
As it the flitting Air's fond daughter were,
Which druids feign, a wind-born Nymph, unseen;
(As spark of flint, she wakes; and then laments,
Like one love-pined; nor tarrieth to die!)
Or rock-indwelling Spirit, as Pistos saith;
Make answer, to their shrieks, and outcries shrill.

Pistos then, standing on ship's poop, in speech
Of Gaul, shouts; Noble virgins of the Isle,
Hearken God's message, which in these men's mouths!
But they fling backward, wailing, and were hid.

Tells Pistos, This is Sena's sacred isle,
Wherein have priestess-virgins, nine, abode,
Till death: and ships of Gaul, wont hither sail,
With offerings, and to pray for prosperous voyage.
Strangers, shipwrecked, are holy to their god.
The priestess maids, which may, in sundry shapes,
Transfigure them, (that, from their women's breasts,

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They might all pity chace,) of some fell beasts,
As hounds or wolves; when first decays their strength,
On them wont seize! and those, for fear, nigh dead,
Hale the weird sisters to dire altar stones;
Whereas, at set of sun, they slit their gorge;
And lap, with furious tongues, their lukewarm blood.
Each year is, there, high tide; when, from the Main,
Come Gauls, Armoricans, and come Venetan Gauls,
In many barks, with captives, taken in wars;
Which wont they, for good seasons, sacrifice!

These only, other none, may Sena's shore,
Tread. Shipmen cast, from sea, towards strand, their gifts.
Both men and women, victims, there, are slain,
In all the people's viewing. Dread custom is,
The same day, that, those virgins nine rend down,
Their temple house: poor halm-thatcht cote it is;
But wherein burns a never-dying hearth.
Sith, to some sacred holt, for boughs and reeds,
They wend; whereof being burdened, (faint with fast,)
Their knees; if happen any one to slide,
To fall, (which seen most years!) with ghastful shrieks,
Ah, horrid to be told, like haggard hawks,
The rest, her virgin members rend; and smirched,
With blood, hurl forth, from cliff, her murdered corse.

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When any, of these sisters, is deceased,
The rest, from Sena, yell to the fast shore.
Assemble princes, then, of Gaul, and druids,
To hill of the mainland, thereo'er; which choose,
By sacred lot, with hymns and sacrifices,
One of Gauls' noblest virgins in her room.
And Gauls ween, sovereign spells have those weird women,
To tempests bind, and loose out boisterous winds;
Aye, and even the wandering stars wrest from their courses!
And leeches' skill of herbs, to heal or hurt.

Salads, and berries wild, ben their most meat.
Sequestered dwells each priestess, in a grot,
Which, in her death, her tomb; to the cave's mouth,
Rolled a great stone. Is Sena's oracle,
A certain pool, whose well flows from the gods;
Wherein aught done in heaven, or in the earth,
Or to come on the earth, as in a glass,
Men say, is seen. Whilst Pistos communed, thus,
Is come the hour of evening sacrifice.

Bowing their knees, those lowly friends, of Christ;
Deliverance ask. In a great silence, Albion,
With sceptre, toucht to Sena's steepling cliff;
That nods, parts forth, then, ruins to sea-shore!

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Whence risen great billow, lifts, to large, their vessel.
Hoised sail, steers Ithobal from that horrid coast;
Whence dreadful yells sound, that agrise their hearts:
And now the sun sets, on wide glooming waves.
But long gleam Sena's firebrands in the night.

They drive then, forth, three days; when, from ship's board,
They see new loom of coast, on their right hand.
But when begins fourth morrow, now, to break,
Twixt Gaulish isles, which named in Ithobal's card,
The Säides, they fleet: but set them currents,
Soon, o'er, to greater isles; which Sarnia hight,
And Cæsarea; where surging eddies run,
Like cataracts, round about sharp ribs of whinstone.
There many are huge pight stones seen, on green mounds,
The monuments of some antique salvage nation.

Long, sea-streams waft their carrack, to and fro,
Till even, when a strong South wind outblew;
Which bears them all night o'er high-running billows.
Now dayspring, Ithobal sees certain white cliffs,
Vectis; whereon, sheep-flocks and herdsmen's cotes.
Then Bur-et-Tanac, that vast island coast:
Tin-land, Brettanik sounds, in mouths of Greeks.

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Britain looks, silent, from the morning mist,
Expecting the redemption of her children!

All day their hearts, in prayer, to Christ, are knit.
In calm, they fleet, and gaze on that wide shore;
Which Inis-wen, White-island, of the Gauls.
Them bears now in, under that greater Land,
An evening wind. But, when night glooms, they hear,
With hearts' dismay, (for opened ben their ears,)
Sound griesly shrieks, of rushing fiends, in shore,
That Christ goes by their cliffs! and cannot sleep.

Was Bur-et-Tanac, Ithobal tells, of old
Time, land of giants. Come day, their wind-borne carrack,
By cliffs, fleets Westward forth, and covert woods.
Oft plotted fields they see, cotes and plough beasts:
Then some, 'lone fisher, in his bascad boat;
(Like sea-fowl's nest, which swims on wide salt flood,)
That, with his spear, strikes fish. The brethren mark,
They ben themselves unseen, whereas they pass!

By many a foreland, and by many a ness;
By many a bay, they fleet, and river's mouth.
The fifth day, driving, nigh Britannic coast;
They fall, at ebb, mongst holms, where dies the wind.
Eftsoon made fast their ship to wrack-swart rocks,

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Men leap to land: where Cypriots gather eggs,
Of fowl, whence ring these skerries, with wild cries;
And salads pluck the saints, in sappy grass.

These isles, deems Ithobal, are Œstrymnides,
Or Sigdeles; where pilots of tin ships,
Have seen a people dwelling, without use
Of money; but wont trade to nigh mainland:
Where men of stature, giants, with mighty arms,
Have delved deep pits, and mountains overthrown.
Go clad those islanders, in swart solemn stoles,
Of lawn, aye bearing long wands in their hands;
And is, of goats' milk, their most sustenance:
And booths, of their beasts' fells, have those for bowers;
Who winter-long, whenas no shipfare, sleep.
Is, also, fame, strange custom mongst them, holds;
(Those hating eld,) when man's first age is spent;
In hope of some new birth, to happier life,
Taking each other's hands, many, from cliff,
Hangs o'er wild waves, with cry to saviour gods,
Down-leap! so die they, drenched, in salt sea-deep.

All turned, with rising tide, again to ship;
Them wafts now misty wind, with rain, all night.
And they, at dawning ray, Belerion leave,

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Last End-of-land. Next day, Ierne's coast,
Christ's little flock see; and salute, with Peace!
Land of green meadows, at world's utmost brink.

From Erinn seas, great Albion shapes their course,
To Britain in. They, night-time, Lundy pass,
Whence, like to stars in heaven; in deep sea-streams,
Ten thousand burning lamps seem light their path:
The angel speeds their ship, the saints sleep fast.
Ere dawn, now, Albion, in a river's mouth,
Them guides: appearing then, in dream, to Joseph,
He signifies the end of their ship-voyage.

The Channel Isles.

Perhaps the Scillies.

Behold, new birth of the long-dying night,
How day, with cheerful face, is springing wide!
Sounds, of small fowl, the mingled sweet consent,
From river-brinks, of Britain's underwoods,
Warbeling God's love, among their leafy bowers.
On trembling, lightsome, wings, blithe lavrock mounts.
With iss-iss! shrill, sheen swallows flit aloft;
And chants, from thicket-grove, 'lone nightingale.
Are golden bees borne-by, on dawn's sweet breath,
To dewy hills. Hark cushots, sobbing soft.
Like unto bride, seems this fair land, adorned.

Beat, once, his mighty wings, their angel-guard;
And mounts, to view, who worthy them receive;

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That bear the words of Life. And he discerned
One Amathon, who a bountiful rich lord,
And upright, in dark places of the druids;
That seemed the man an heavenly providence.

But slumber on the eyelids of the saints,
Yet Albion lays: until this blissful sun,
Warming the field, is climbed now high in heaven.
Then, waked, they come up, in the hatch, amazed,
These river shores to see, on either hand;
Britain's sweet soil! Seals lift their hoary heads,
Like hounds, from this salt flood, on them, to gaze.

The Syrian women might not choose but weep,
To see a land, which seemeth them to receive.
Now ebbs the flood: on shelves, their keel sits fast.
When water no more, under them, appears,
They let down ladders. Then to land grope forth,
The saints, like unto Noah, in a new Earth.
Phelles and Ithobal marvel, viewed their bilge,
With gaping seams, that it could storms outride!
Then all they, kneeling, lowly, on salt strand;
In looking up to heaven, do yield God thanks,
Which hath them saved. And sith an hymn they sing.
And when they Joseph's vision understand,
Who it recounts: how God here gives them rest;

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The saints their needful things bear forth to land;
Till afternoon, when they, on Britain's earth,
Break bread of Christ, and dine, with thankful hearts.

They view, then, the fair aspect of this shore.
Above, yond hazel-brinks and hanging woods;
Where some ones, gone up, under bramble bank,
With ivy o'er-grown and the sweet-smelling briar,
Whereunder primrose blows and the blue flower;
Find wonne, delved, underground, as garner were:
And for none better herberge, in that place,
They make it neat; and fence from wind and wet;
With sailcloths, which had Phelles fetched from ship.
Ended this hasty work, the sun dismounts.

Long now is twilight, in the parts of Britain.
The brethren there remove. Sith, kindled fires,
They sit, their hearths around, in stranger land.
The Levite Barnaby, lifting up glad voice,
Among the saints, then, prophesied; and he spake:

Our eyes, this day, have seen far heathen coast;
Beyond the seven floods. God sent His angel,
Who saved us, hither, out of raging gulf,
(Paths of great waters, in the broken ship,)

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Lord, of Thine untamed greatest creature, Deep:
That infinite Mother, of live's things; which move,
In her salt bosom; untamed as fierce winds,
That o'er her strive! To whom Thou gavest, of old,
The clouds, for garment. Lifted Deep her hands,
Her wrestling stormy hands, gainst Mnason's vessel!

But God, to Whom be praise; for ever and ever,
Who Father is of all, wills this sea-isle,
Wherein He maketh the glory of His Sun,
Also, to shine; through preaching of the Word,
Which in our hearts, were Land of Christ, henceforth:
Sing, Amen, halelu-yah, land of Christ!
O, praise Him, in the Height! our weary hearts.
The brethren-saints, with Barnaby, loud, give thanks.

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God of all Comfort! they, hosanna! chant.
Those pray together, then, in Christ, and sleep.

Labours the moon and wades, in scudding rack;
And soon is swallowed-up, in gloom, the night.
Bellow blind vaulted heavens, with lightnings, rent;
And rock the pillars of the firmament!
Thick rain, abroad, falls, seething, in the grass.
Roar the swart rooted pines, before huge blast;
And nod the stedfast oaks, on the hill's brinks.

Plunges, beneath, on moorlines, Mnason's ship,
In the vext tide. Sudden, a thrilling lightning,
Smote the wind-shaken carrack; that, riven, drives forth:
Her mast is split, her poop; her tackling burst,
Upon the wind-scourged torment of the water.
Toward day, now was, when this strong tempest ceased;
And shine the starry signs, anew, in heaven.

Erst, when fair Dawn, out of her silver gates,
With dewy pitchers, in her hands and crowned,
With vermeil roses, treads forth, in wide East,
And shines, before the sun, gold-glittering path;
The saints awaken. Ithobal then went forth:
And first, that mariner looked, to skies, aloft;
Sith down to river-brink, to see his carrack.

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How amazed stands Ithobal! How? Is there no ship!
Eftsoons he makes, then, count of sore night-tempest!
Whose signs, the bough-strewn hill-side: green rent locks;
Of yond, lo, broken ash! this laid, drowned, grass.
This mould, too, fretted of new watercourses!

Praise-ye Jah.

Save, we pray.

The brethren choose, then, four men out, by lot,
By twos, to wend; and view the land, and look
For Mnason's ship. Phelles, with Aristobulus;
With Shalum, Alexander. Upland, pass
These; seaward those, the shores along to search.
Sought Aristobulus down, by the salt tide,
Till noon; when Phelles, climbed, by thicket rocks,
Their stranded keel, mongst yonder shelves, descries.
Even whilst they gaze, strange thing is come to pass!
Rushing from seaward, tumbling heady billow,
The Eagor! whose long spumy crest o'er-rides,
The ship: and all her frame of beams and boards,
Dissolves. Soon then, upon that race of water,
It rising up, like some vile basket work;
Is carried down, again, on windy flood.

Come to the valley's brow, that other pair,
A land discern, as laurel Gilead!

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Lawns, crofts, eared fields, they view, holts, lofty woods;
Oaks, which had Britain's antique soil brought forth,
Ere Israel was a nation! Till the sun,
To mid-height, draws, they went: under wood-shaw,
Then sit, awhile, to rest, for weariness.

Those wander forth, anew, at afternoon:
Then met with them, in green wood solitude,
One who spake, Peace! in tongue of Canaan:
And they stood, speechless; for his countenance was,
Like unto his, (than whom, of women, born,
Is greater none,) which, erst, baptized in Jordan:
And in whose neck, they saw shine wound of sword!
His visage like the dawn; and seemed as gold,
Which, in a furnace gleams, the prophet's hairs:
And cast his Nazarite raiment parfume forth,
Of heavenly places. And seemed John to stand,
Betwixt two oaks; and whose boughs seemed then burn,
Yet were their leaves not withered. And the son
Of Zechariah, outstretched, (that crystal seemed,)
His hand; and spake to Shalum, Feed Christ's Flock!
And comfort ye my brethren, with this voice.

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And John, being lifted up, before them went;
And, at the border of a grove, this vision
Was parted from them; which they saw no mo.

As dazed, those longwhile linger, by the way.
Nor much, ere setting sun, they come again.
Among the saints, then, sitting, silent, down,
Perceive the brethren, those had seen some vision!
But, after prayer; when they have tasted meat,
And strengthened were their hearts, they, looking up,
To heaven, give thanks: and, sith, they tell the church,
What vision they of John, to-day, have seen.
And was not John declared, to be Elias,
Of the Lord's lips; which was, before the Christ,
To come? When this new thing have heard the saints,
To end; with joy exceeding, they rejoice;
Oft singing hymns, oft praying, on their knees.
And loud Thy name; as they outwatch the night,
Resounds, O Christ, on this far heathen coast!

The same night, Ithobal, Phelles and old Malchus,
With Pistos, lifting up, in one, their voice,
Require to be baptized, unto Christ's death;
And Joseph grants. Clear shine the holy stars,
As they, together, wend down to salt shore;
Where bubbling spring upwells, in the clean sand.
The brethren follow, singing all sweet lauds.

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Then he, whose hands washed Jesus' body, dead,
Poured living waters, on those bowed-down heads.
And the eyes of all were opened; and beheld
They, as a great cloud of witnesses, in heaven,
Angels, like stars, in high ascending ranks;
And that, (which seemeth some musick of the spheres,
As gentiles feign,) o'er them, with harps, rejoice.

When mount they up, from thence, singing sweet lauds,
Are radious Malchus' and his fellows' looks;
That seems a star, on each their fronts, to sit.
And come again, yet trembling, to their lodge;
The saints salute them, with an holy kiss;
And shaken was the floor, beneath their feet.
But they are flesh, and must have timely rest;
So lay them down, when now far-spent the night,
And dew of kindly sleep falls on their hearts.

The silver-paved morn, when they awake,
Shines as vast holy temple, in the East;
And pearling dew lies on each spire of grass.
They kneeling down, in pure aparted place,
Pray, as this sun, might go before them Christ;
With signs, which should bear witness of their troth.

Now drew to afternoon, when living shout,

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Of Briton herdsmen, sounds, from holt to croft!
With bleating voice of sheepy multitude;
That troop down, o'er hill's brow, upon green bent;
And deep-mouthed bark of hounds. Standing on craigs,
Those hirds cast stones, and send, with confused shouts,
Out their loud curs. The brethren, after meat,
Were sitting in their bower; and lay did sing,
Of Galilæan fishers, on the lake:
They cease; but might not, more, the saints be hid.

Eftsoons the shepherds' hounds smell to their lodge;
And crouching howl, now fearful whine and bay;
So that those hirds run-to, with bats and stones;
Looking for some fell beast. How, amazed, they stand,
Mongst thorny craggéd arms of bramble bush;
To see new face of men, in raiment strange!
They chide their curs; and gazing on these strangers,
The herdwights stand, upleaning on their cromes.

The men, are breeched with fells of their sheep's fleece:
On their large shoulders, hang long gabans warm.
How seem those angel-fair, with yellow locks!

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The elder shepherd, called-off his loud curs,
Them chaceth far with stones. He and his sons,
Before their bower, then, sitting, on green grass;
Bewonder still those strangers' reverend looks!

But opened, in Armoric tongue, good Pistos,
His mouth, quoth; Peace! Nor marvel, Friends, these strangers,
Whose keel was cast now on your river's coast,
Be servants of High God, of all wide earth.

The elder herdman, sent a son, for milk;
Which when they had drank out, that Briton hailed
The strangers, guests! and, Dylan, named himself,
Set o'er the flocks of rich lord Amathon,
Who the desire should fulfill of their hearts.
Then Dylan sent his sons, to mind the flocks:
And bring (he shouts,) when they return, gainst eve,
Some yearling lamb, to supper of their guests!
Then Dylan went himself, to gather wood.

The sun was westing, on the strangers' lodge;
When Dylan, herdman, kindles fire, with flint:
Then drive a bleating ram in, his hird-sons.
Their father, drawn, from sheath, broad skene of bronze;
Carves the lamb's gorge, that yields rife, gurgling blood.

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His young men dress the flesh; which dredged, with salt,
And flour, on the live coals, on spits, they roast.
With basket then of bread, they set, the best,
On cleanly burdock leaves, before their guests.

Give thanks the brethren, naming the Lord Christ,
And stretcht their right hands forth, they take and eat.
Dylan brings smooth milk bowls, when they have supped,
Mingled with the sweet labour of wild bees:
Then asks of them, their land and parentage?

Dylan sith watchfires shows them, on nigh hill,
Saying, is dune of his lord Amathon:
So wends, wrapped in his pilch, ere middle night,
To lay him down, amongst his folded flocks.
But ere bright daystar beckons from the East,
That herdman rose, so took his knotty staff;
And sallies the next way, to Amathon's dune;
Tiding, to bring his lord, of shipwrecked wights.

The sun was risen, an hour, o'er hills of Britain.
When three, by the saints' bower, ruddy young men,
Clad in fresh lawn, and leaning on bright spears,
Stand; mighty of limb, and wearing broidered saies.
The men are noble youth of Amathon's dune;
Whom sends that sire, with honour, to convey
Men shipwrecked, from far coasts, to be his guests.

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The saints perceive their words, through mouth of Pistos:
And they it deeming will of Christ, with Joseph,
Them follow forth. But Dylan's sons took up,
And bear, on their strong shoulders, the guests' stuff,
Before them, to hill-brink; where, for them, wait,
Lo, ox-wains, which lord Amathon now hath sent.
Pass on, before them, those young lords, in chariot.

The tardy oxen them, in deep land-way,
Draw forth; and cattle-trodden is their path.
To every thorny thicket, hangs much fleece;
And smells this Britain soil, of herds and flocks!
They wend, amidst their voyage, by altar-stone:
Gore-smeared it is, and heavy were their hearts,
Musing of the dark places of Gauls' druids;
And cleave to Christ, within their straitened breasts.

Sith they mount up, by covert of high hill,
To Amathon's hold, which cattle-camp and dune.
Come, then, to brow, they Britons' rampire pass,
Of gaunt felled trunks, and hoarded on them, earth,
And stones: so enter gate, on whose twin-posts,
See, graven, gore-daubed, grinning, images!
By street of halm-thatcht cabans, high-tressed, round,
Of osier wands, they wend; each set in close

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Of willow studs. Here children run and shout,
With rush-rings on their heads, and daisy chains,
About their necks, blowing loud shawms of grass:
Day is of people's feast, for battle past.

Heard shrieking axe-trees, waggon's rumbling noise,
Come Britons forth: they follow, gathering rife,
The strangers' wain; which halts, soon, in void place;
Where, foursquare, in the midst, stands, framed of boards,
The lord's mead-hall, and common council house.
The beasts, uphold their drivers, at this porch,
Horrid with many horns of salvage beasts,
And jowls of bears and wolves: amongst them, seen,
Hang blackened polls, of this land's enemies!
At door, without, stand many spears upleaned,
Of them that sit therein; and confused sounds,
In the saints' ears, thence, murmur of men's voices.

Lighted the brethren, and veiled holy women;
The door-ward leads them in-forth, by the hand.
Now, when they light discern, in that dim place,
Which hath, to window, louver of the thatch;
They, in the upper hall, see Amathon sit,
On an high stool; lord of this Briton folk:
And chief ones, sit, on benches, round the walls.
Is strewn their floor, with sweet-green juniper;

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Whereon the Britons tread, with shoveling feet;
That turn now all, to make the strangers room.

To this land-ruler, bend the saints their necks;
And, reverent, lay their hands upon their breasts!
On polished stools, then, they before him sit.
Lord Amathon goodly greets them, with mild voice;
And thus his Briton words, interprets Pistos:
Were never unkind, unto shipwrecked wights,
Dumnonian folk, which worship a sea-god.
Benign of aspect, ruddy, is this land's sire.
Whose beard and locks are as the surges hoary:
Is none of all, which here before him sit,
That have seen Amathon's youth. Rich lord, in sheep,
He is; and father, to his Briton folk.

So cometh in lady Bara; who is wife,
Of this long-agéd lord. She comely, yet,
Is, yellow-haired. And Bara, Salema calls,
And Sabra, abroad: so beckons to the rest,
(The brethren); that gin Bara follow forth;
Where, in another hall, which the bed-house,
Ben bowers and hearth, and meat prepared for guests.

But sitting, in their common council-hall,
Britons entreat of war. Some, yet, blue-faced,
(As stained with warlike woad,) returned from fight,

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In foreland, looks towards swart Silures' coast,
O'er wide salt-streaming Hafren. Amathon's son,
Kowain, put to the worse his father's foes:
And thence, brought, home, hath many captives. Amathon,
Would send those, eftsoon, bound, to king Duneda;
His lord, and all Dumnonia's sire, in Isca.

Touching those strangers, had the herdman, Dylan,
To Amathon told already; and how appeased,
The whiles he communed with those shipwrecked wights,
(Which seemed him marvellous thing,) were his old aches!
Now Kowain hath an only beloved child,
Lies very sick; and help none healing herbs,
The babe; nor whispered spells of druids. With Dylan,
Come Kowain, in, then, to the strangers' bowers;
That prince besought, touching the strangers' knees,
In Britons' guise, them, of some healing. Eve
Now was: and rose, admonished of an angel,
Joseph; and Pistos takes with him and Shalum.
Then, in dim street, they go with Kowain, forth.

And, lo, in that they wend, a gusty wind,
Sudden, this young lord's broidered saie outblows,

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From his large shoulders; where appears, wide wound,
Which he hath hid, not closed. Kowain's fresh looks,
Sith days, men marked, discoloured, wan; and cause
Was thrust-down spear of ambushed enemy,
From oak's thick boughs, where he rode-by, in grove.
Took Joseph, who beheld, him, by the hand;
And looking up to heaven, whence cometh our help!
He toucht that rankling sore; and made, it was,
Whole. Kowain, musing, in that they wend forth,
This stranger, in his secret, deemed a god.

From twilight path, they enter Kowain's house.
Is this, where burning torches, at the porch.
And comes to them, anon, prince Kowain's wife;
Who, in her bosom, bears a fainting child.
Then Joseph, full of prayer, Christ's healing hands,
Lays on this sick; and smiles the gentile babe:
And from that moment, she recovers health.
And joy the saints; unto whom reveals the Spirit,
God's name should glorify this little maid!
And she it is; which surnamed Claudia, sith,
Was spouse to Pudens, in great gentile Rome.

To-day, in their moot-hall, concluded was,
Kowain should lead his captives to Duneda.
Bethinks him Amathon, also, with his son,

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To send those shipwrecked strangers; to Caer Isca.
Should some tin-ship them, when occasion serve,
Convey, with gifts, thence to Gaul's Continent.
Kowain would, to those shipwrecked guests, give meed:
But will those naught, save needful sustenance.

Bake Bara and Hirfryd, wife to Kowain, bread;
And they, with their own hands, prepare, to-night,
What else were needful to the strangers' voyage.
Cloth they, good store, (and those have need of cloth,)
And yarn, in wain, bestow; which should to-morrow,
Those shipwrecked, to Caer Isca, convey forth.

The Severn river.

Now Devon.

Now Exeter.

2 Tim. iv. 21.

And now is morning-red of the third day,
When should prince Kowain ride. The saints be risen;
And cometh soon, to his guests, lord Amathon:
So brings abroad, amongst his people's press;
That, for their sick, seek healing to the gate.
Lifts Joseph, in the way, his hands, to bless!

They see then, bounden on long chains, without,
Stand Kowain's captives; ready those to march:
Part-naked wights, yet woad-stained from the war;
That stare derne enmity, on this hostile ground!

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And there, with wains, stand yokes, joined to the beams,
Of tardy beves; ready for Amathon's guests.
They, of Amathon, there, take leave; and they him bless.

Were those not ridden a mile, down, to the plain;
When Dylan, herdman, coming from the folds,
Them hails! and standing by the path, prays Joseph,
Those cheeses, of his ewes' milk, to receive:
And still have memory of Dylan, and his sons;
What time they pray, to that Alfather God.

The lenten sun, uprising, smiles on Britain;
Whose flowery leas, as tappets shine, of Tyre.
The saints chant temple-songs, with a glad voice:
And merrily sing their waggoners, as they wend.
What for spring's early light, and this new warmth;
The sun now waxing daily in his strength;
And that shrill warbeling lavrocks mount aloft,
Is fallen new summer blitheness, in all hearts.
Silures only, in their captive plight,
Wend sad-faced; of whom many bear war-wounds.
Aye, and deadly would those wreak them, and had might
Their bounden hands; that so are they scourged forth,

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And mocked of their impatient adversaries,
Dumnonians armed, that follow them, to-horse.
Knee-deep, tread forth the kine, in golden grass,
The aery butterflies, lo, before their horns,
Disport mongst blissful flowers; which, from the dew,
Lift virgin looks, to heaven's bright warmth aloft.
But being come down, now midday, to steep ford;
They stream, whereon they sailed, in ship, there pass.
Sith, leaving them; with few, rides Kowain forth:
Ere night, should those be come, to king Duneda.

Beyond, they journey, in much twilight wood;
Under whose crooked boughs, uneath is path.
From end to end, men say, of all this forest,
Might squirrel leap, and never light to ground.
From thence, they now, o'er moorland large, ascend,
Till afternoon: when, under crags, they halt;
And waggoners loose, to pasture, out their beasts.
Those, gathered halm and boughs, kindle great fires,
Fence from the midgy swarms, and the night cold;
Which wont be tart in that high solitude.
Partake the Syrians, with those captives sad,
Of such thing as they have. Then wonder was,
Whilst those eat bread, which, in the name of Christ,
Hath Joseph blessed, assuaged were their old wounds!

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Communing Pistos, with the captives' guard,
Hears eremites dwell in Dartmoor; some in holes,
Other in hollow trunks; some even, like birds,
In lofts of wattled boughs. Men, lean with fast,
That not long live; for in that forlorn heath,
Those only, of wilding thing, they find, wont eat;
But run continually on, towards the Sun:
Nor seld is seen, when druid falls dying spent,
Upon earth's mould, and no more may remove;
That fill, seed-gathering ants, with grains, his mouth,
Of the wild grass; and bees still on his lips,
Their sweet. And those (for evil they repute
Our life,) as men already dead, do live!

Opinion, of a certain Eryr, hold
They all: which Eryr, had, strange eagle bird,
With long bright wings, from mountain of the gods,
An infant, brought; and him, on thatch, deposed,
Of the king's house. But Eryr, eagle named,
Deceased of late. Yet say those eremites;
He is not dead. At his behest, they laid
His sacred corse, under a river's bed.

Day breaks, in the Dartmoor, with driving mist.
Nor had they journeyed, slowly, a full league;
When feeble shout, before their creaking wains,
Heard: and a fleshless arm, lo, midst thick reek,

228

Forbids to pass! They view some old pined druid,
In woollen garment white, trembling and pale,
With long hoar hairs; and he, with hollow voice,
Cries, Halt! for, here, is brow of precipice!
Had this run, rumour heard of wains and whips,
To stay and save, men waggoners, from that death.

Bellow, for fear, the oxen looking forth,
From windy cliff. That druid then, somewhile, gazing,
Upon the strangers; spread, as if he prayed,
His two lean hands: and so, not looking back,
Forthpassed. Gainst noon, descended from that path;
They travail, in much sand, which Teign down-rolls,
That river's cragged ford, to overwade.

Soon then, from far, the royal dune, Caer Isca,
The saints behold, with wall and turrets crowned.
Come to Esk river; they are ferried o'er.
Then gladly, afoot, those Syrians gin ascend,
Towards Isca, in sun-shining meadow's path.
Lo, in yond bent, hold Britons warlike games!
Career of shining battle chariots!
And horsemen toss the javelin: mongst whom, Kowain,
Discern the brethren. He unto them rides:
And asked, erst, of their welfare; that prince leads

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Them forth, to gate of king Duneda's town:
Where citizens gather fast, on them to gaze.

They enter Isca street; and, busy, sounds
Iron noise, whereas they mount, of smitten arms.
Come the king's harbingers, soon, unto them there,
In fresh array; men wearing, in their hands,
Long wands, which them saluting; by steep path,
Strangers, uplead, to king Duneda's court;
Which walls, on yonder hilly height, enclose.

In bowers, are they there, lodged, of the king's guests;
Which valley wide surviews, to the sea-side;
And nigh to tower, whereon men stand, which watch,
Far out; for their, returning, river's ships.
Goes low, to golden evening, this day's sun:
Come milky kine home lowing, to their byres,
Driving them maidens, from yond river leas.

Then set, before the saints, are Briton messes,
Corn sod in broth, with flesh of sheep, and milk,
And mead. And they, that hungry are, giving thanks,
Doubt not in Jesus' name, both drink and eat.
Thereafter Kamlan, steward of the house,
Of king Duneda, to an inner hall,
Them leads; where that king sits; and lo, with Kowain,

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(Who them commended hath, in Amathon's name,
Already to Duneda,) at tables, plays.

A prince of ruddy cheerful countenance,
Past his mid age, is this Dumnonian sire;
In council wise, and, from his youth, renowned,
Both for high worth, and valiant deed in arms.
Well is he taught, in sapience of the druids,
And antique chant; a lover of the muse;
Who gives all entertainment at his court,
In whom aught knowledge found, or good desert.
To Isca's royal dune, from Gaul's mainland,
Wont, yearly, many noble youth resort;
To learn there chanted discipline of pale druids.

Duneda rules the Britons' Summer-land,
Which Duffreynt named. The king, who, with mild voice,
Those shipwrecked greets, enquires of their long voyage,
Through Pistos. They continue, here, he saith,
His guests; till time, when he by some tin-ship,
Might send them, homeward, to Gauls' Continent.
With that, the noble king dismissed, to rest,
Sea-weary saints. Those marked, as they went forth,
Led in, those captives, polled now whose long locks;
To be condemnéd of their enemies!

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That night, was Joseph troubled, in his dreams;
Him seems, the captives showed him their gyved hands!
He roused from slumber, Pistos, asks; what deems he,
Of such war-captives, were the punishment?
Who answers, Mongst free Gauls, would some be given,
To kindred of the slain, to thrall or kill;
The rest reserved, for druids' sacrifices,
Which, yearly, offered to their bloody gods:
And, namely, in summer feast of the Sunwend,
When Gauls build tree-high osier-stagéd frame,
Stayed with bronze chains, twixt two sere trunks of oaks;
Which filled with stubble, and smeared with tallow and pitch,
Full-stived of malefactors and fell beasts,
Kindle mad druids; and dance the people round.
Who burn cast dreadful yells, to that war-goddess,
Which named is Andates. Good Joseph waked
The saints. Then all they wrestle, in Christ's name,
In fervent prayer, for those poor heathen souls.

The captives, which lie bounden, in foul ward,
All full of creeping things, low underground,
The same hour, saw, shine, in their prison-pit,

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A marvellous light; and one beheld, like Joseph,
The stranger; calls them, from uneasy rest,
Bidding them rise, go forth. And, in that, loost,
Both bands and chains, fell down, from off their flesh.

Nor they yet fully wake, see their strong doors,
Stand open wide! and see how nod without,
Their warders, on their arms. With stealing foot;
They come up, passed the stairs, into the street,
Of halm-thatcht cotes. Then, drooping, on their bench,
They see the porters sit, by Isca gates:
Those drowse, in heavy sleep, and rout! There lifted
The balk; the fugitives all wend freely forth!

Being come these to themselves; those, erst, take thought,
To scape to some nigh wood. Sith Isca's stream,
They overswimming; on some rotten bark,
Have lighted, which lay mongst thick river-reeds.
Groped all to this, part-swimming on the ebb;
Those, longwhile, fleet down: take then land, where hard
Rock shows none footprint. Sith, on, by sea-brink,
By night, they went: yet shroud them, like wild beasts,
At rising moon, among the crooked cliffs.

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At day, was heard loud outcry of the watch;
Silures scaped from the king's prison-house!
Run hastily archers, then, of the king's guard,
With bandogs, to Esk river, in pursuit.
Those hounds bay, questing, there, mongst thicket reeds!

Sun gleams, uprisen now, on far river's mouth:
Wherein, with stranger sail, seen, enter ship;
Which seems, approaching, of Armoric fashion,
And puts-in, likely, to this hythe, for victual,
Or shelter; whereas shipwrights of good fame.

Bound to the quays, nigh noon, that vessel lies;
Whose master, to the king's mead-hall, ascends.