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

The Isle lies empty and desolate. A people of the Gaulish Main, chosen out, by lot, overfare to Britain. Samoth is duke and father of the new Island-nation. Sarron, the Star, succeeds him. Marriage of father Sarron's daughters; and that sire's death. After him his ten sons-in-law rule the Britons. After their time, and being now strife among the island tribes, Dunwallon is chosen royal warden of the nation, as Samoth, erewhile, was. Dunwallon gives his people laws. That great and good king is slain. Belinus then and Brennus, his twin sons, contend for the sovereignty.

Brennus, passed the seas, is received by his uncle Correus, king of Sénones Gauls. Brennus, in Arden forest, fights with ethling Heremod, duke of an inroad of neighbour Almains; wherein they both, in a manner, being conquerors, Brennus and Heremod make covenant together, and swear oathbrotherhood.

King Belinus passes the sea, with an army, to go against Brennus. Their mother Corwen passes over, in another vessel. Reconciliation of those royal brethren. Word, then, is brought, from Britain; that the tribes' princes have banished them from the Isle.

Belinus and Brennus fare forth, with new gathered armies, to Gaulish wars; and joined, to theirs, is an Almain power, with ethling Heremod. After many marches, Gauls, gone forth, in arms, avenge the Aquitainians of their enemies, Iberians. Gauls, thus, conquer, to themselves, new seats in far-off Spain; Celtiberia.

I chant new day-spring, in the Muses' Isles,
Of Christ's eternal Kingdom. Men of the East,
Of hew and raiment strange, and uncouth speech,
Behold, in storm-beat ship, cast nigh our Land!

New Light is risen upon the World, from whence
The dawn doth rise. In Canaan of the East,
These days, was heard, of men, as Voice divine;
Which in Thy mouth, Jesua, our Prince of Peace!

But thou, dear Foster, Britain's Muse, record,
What antique wights dwelled ere in this sweet soil;
Who kings, of sacred seed, bare o'er them rule;
What gods adored then the blue-pictured Britons.
Sith tumults, great war-deeds of Britain's sons;
And erst of glorious Brennus in Mainland.
Who conquered Rome, and Italy did burn;
And arms of his great seed, still turned gainst Rome.

None from dim ruins, in vast deep abysm,
Of buried ages, Muse, save thou alone,
Nurseling of Memory, can revoke again!
Sith Cæsar's wars, in this Far Island Britain;
Where now, behold, yond saints of Christ arrive.

Now, after sundered from the Continent;
This Isle lay empty, a land of cloud and frost,
And forest of wild beasts; till creeping time
Brought man's kin forth. Then Fathers of the World,
Begate the nations. Last few fisher folk,
Passed, driven by tempest, from the Mainland's coast.
They feeble of stature, clad in fells of beasts;
(Whose weapons, in their hands, were sharp flint stones,)
The river strands possessed, and wild salt shores.
To them were holes, delved underground, for bowers:
Trees were and streams and hills and stars, their gods.

Then, from the East, ascends new warlike brood,
In stature like to children of the gods:
Foot-folk and chariot riders, whose stern hands,
Armed with hard bronze, and great their flocks and herds.
Nephews of these, in long succeeding ages,
Filled all that fair wide soil, which we Main Gaul
Now name, to gates even of vast Ocean Stream.

Were gathered then, to marches of the North,
Kindreds and tribes, before their kings; to choose,
A people which, to new seats, should fare forth.
In every five, is one man taken, by lot.
Lords chosen are of their thousands, in like sort.
Those called before North Gaul's assembled kings;
When now, new sacred lots were, mongst them cast,
One taken is, Samoth, to be supreme duke,
Of royal kin; and strengthen him the gods.
At full moon should be this new nation's voyage.

But come the day, when gathered to great plain,
Of Belges' Gaul, this people should remove,
Priests join, to Samoth's wain, two young white steers,
Whose wide-horned fronts, lo, guirlanded with flowers!
And are their necks unbroken to the yoke.
The people, with their droves, sue where those wend.
Each eve, where halt the sacred beves, they lodge.
Then days, fare this new folk, of many weeks,
In devious paths, until, in fine, far off,
They view that Ocean Stream, which girds the World.

And lo, the sacred heifers, Samoth's wain,
Draw down, at morrow, to sea's barren strand.
In salt waves, then, descended, they begin,

Come to their withers, both forth stately swim.
In the vast desert tide: and their face set
Is, to dim-shining cliffs of yond White Isle.
Gaul's stand then all confused, on that wide shore.
Duke Samoth, leapt down from the sacred wain,
Him many, through strange billows, bear to land.
Dripping salt humour, he in view of all,
Sea's pebble-banks ascends. Soon beckons then,
The duke, from cliff; and shout his word loud heralds,
That lodge they all, to-day, at these sea brinks.

Whilst Gauls long gaze, were lost, to view, those beves.
At eve, fleet back their guirlands, to this strand,
Then whispered was; And there would some man vow
His soul, for Gauls' great voyage, now to high gods,
His name should spring among the endless stars,
Where gods and heroes old. Start three young lords,
That to priests' turven altars, hold in course;
Each greedy of glory; and one, above the rest,
(Youth of divine aspect,) with glittering glaive,
Running, it thrust, ah! down, in his own bowels!
Might hardly his germains, druids then refrain,
(Were all those sons of one old noble man,)
But weeping, they, with generous great desire,

Would likewise slay themselves, with the self brand.
To honour him that dead is, mourn the Gauls,
All night, whilst fire consumes his sacred corse:
Whose ashes priests, at dawn, strew to sea waves.

Sent Samoth word, to yet assembled kings,
That bade, to-night, in dream of sleep, his god,
Him ride on vast salt-water's plain, to land:
Whence Samoth makes request, they one year's space,
Might tarry at these sea-brinks, to build them ships;
Wherein they follow should their sacred steers.

Unto him, is brought back word, enquired Gaul's kings,
Done sacrifice, of this thing, of their gods;
And they, consenting, grant, moreo'er, them tithe
Of the land's corn; which those, in harvest season,
May reap down, for their peoples' sustenance.

With stroke on stroke, of thousand strong right arms,
That sea-bent rings; and falls the antique forest.
Taught of poor fishers, Samoth's folk wrought barks,
Of boards, with spikes, conjoined, to crooked knees,
Of oaks; and caulked with tallow and hair of beasts.
Other, them weaved, of osier, basket boats,
Which they with fells o'erdight of sacrifices.

When twelve moons now have waned, in Gaul's cold skies,
Descends that green wood, a loose-timbered navy;
And rides on wild sea-billows' face, at strand.
Is fashioned the duke Samoth's barge, like chariot,
Which mongst them fleets, wherein their sacred things.

Full shines the thirteenth moon, on Gaul's bleak seas,
When now flood-tide springs, under their fraught keels.
Then standing by their prows, with guirlands, dight,
This fearful people wait some heavenly sign.
Eftsoon, the wind veers lightly from Gaul's land.

Then sounds out Samoth's trumpet, priests hurl brands,
From altars to sea waves. Gauls climbed aboard,
Plash forth, with oars; and loud chant to their gods.
Nor had that fleeting nation lost the shore,
Whereon now burning left they thousand fires,
When, in sea's watery paths, gin dread their hearts.
Soon in this moonshine, sounds much confused voice,
Of men embarked, with multitude of stived beasts.

When last that weary night's long shadow past,

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.

When gone, sith that king's death, were certain years,
Wasted the isle a grievous pestilence.
Perish unnumbered Britons' multitude.
And who survived, so feeble were and low,
They might uneath their garments' weight sustain:
Whence custom grew, that Island Britain's Gauls,
Muchwhat their valiant members leave unclad;
And stain, in war, which counted healing was,

Their flesh with woad. Cause of this death, deemed druids,
Some unappeased ire of the blue sea-gods.
Wherefore, when Britons gathered were to cliff
Of Kent, in the moot-month, each lord his steed
Cast to sea waves. Which done, divining druids,
At new day-spring, beheld three high-necked steeds,
Before the precinct of their sacred grove,
Divine of semblant. Whilst they marvelling stood,
Those steeds brake, with loud neighing, to sea shore;
Whence seemed they to draw forth, in full career,
Swart chariot running o'er the hoary billows:
And ceased, even from that hour, the island plagues.

Twain only rest of all those royal spouses,
Cingorix, who deaf, oblivious now with age,
Cedes to King Peredur, his brother peer,
(Yet fresh, like one of the long-living gods,)
His monthly sovereignty: in whose day, erst was
A maintenance assigned to Britain's druids;
And public seats, where might the ingenuous youth,
Learn Sarron's discipline, lifting up men's souls,
From dust of that rude age. Oft were their schools,
Then, cowslip lawns and glades of leafy woods,
And banks of bubbling streams. Then first set bornes;
And common ways were measured of league stones.

In this king's time, erst Belges from the Main,
By German arms oppressed, sought Britain's Isle.
Those lately arrived, from a vast region,
Beyond the mighty currents of the Rhine,
Led by their god of war. And Peredur,
Divided land, to all, by equal lot.

And to that Brittany, which The Less or Erinn,
Is named, wherein stand altars of the sun,
And priests a daily-dying god adore;
Iberian stranger nation, the same year,
In wicker keels came, fugitive, from afar;
Whereof part, in waves wilderness, had perished;
Part driven were, peradventure, to those coasts;
Of whom the sons, to Britain, called the More,
Excelling all that shoot in crooked bows,
Silures named, o'erfared in the next age.

The people of Samoth, now to nation grown,
Were in their borders, tumults. Ploughmen strive,
With ploughmen; herdfolk for hill-pastures wild:
Then kings gan threaten arms. Sith king Dunwallon
Arose, one surnamed the Just Lord; whom all
In the truce-month, Britons' assembled tribes,
Choose warden of the nation, as ere was
Sarron the Star. Before the people then
Sate down on the doom-hill, he redressed wrongs;

And in the next year, published equal laws.
But as good thing, even when at best it is,
Wont fail; so by await of wicked men,
Was midst his days, great king Dunwallon slain.

Unto him young Belinus succeeds, his son;
But god-like Brennus grudging, younger born,
His brother twin; hath passed, these days, the seas,
In secret ship, unto his mother's kin:
For had Dunwallon, as in troublous time,
In a king's court been nurtured on the Main;
And namely amongst the Sénones, Belges Gauls,
Where to the dear Corwenna, was he joined,
In his first manhood, child of Gaulish kings.
There by his uncle Correus, as became
His high estate, is Brennus entertained;
Whose valour, gentle person, and fair speech,
Gifts of the gods, accepted are of all;
Whence gather noble Gauls to Brennus' part.

Come summer season, he an hunting leads,
To Arden woods; who ride with him, bear bows.
Being entered in that wold of stony hills,
First thrilled prince Brennus' shaft, a great tyned hart.
All light, to sup, now eve, then, in that place.
Sith Main and Island Gauls sleep round their fires.

When wakes them early chiddering of small birds,
They start desirous from their leafy beds,
The tuskéd swine and fierce ureox to hunt,
Follow them britain sleuth-hounds, in wild forest.

A league those were not ridden, whenas they gleam,
In yonder hills, discern, of stranger arms;
Great-statured horsemen, under whom there run
Little rough steeds; so that the men's shanks seemed
Touch nigh the grass. An hundred on their beasts'
Bare chines sit, Almain riders, by their guise,
Such as were wont to vex, with oft inroads,
The lands of neighbour Gauls. In days of peace,
Is this most honour of their warlike youth.
Contemners of the cold, the wind and the rain;
Short pilches clothe them, broached with brazen pin,
Or thorn, at the large breast; and long rough braies.
Come mingled with them runners, fleet of foot,
And all are armed with javelins and broad shields.

Now those, which passed in hazardry have and feast,
(Casting, for dice, the huckle-bones of sheep,
Which yester they had reaved, and sith did eat,)
Much night; being risen tardy, when the sun
Already soars, whilst in cold-running stream,
Some wash them; lifting night-mist from the plain,

Their watch espy some riding of armed Gauls.
Those then, shrill-fluting in their fist, call in
Their men; that hastily running, steeds and arms
Take: mongst whom, stern young lord, their duke, up-spake;
That show they should their manhood; and what vaunts
Some, last night, made they now, by deeds, approve.
They call on Woden, god, then, as they ride,
Father-of-Victory, mighty Lord-of-Spears.

Rides Brennus only as on hunting, armed,
With bow and shafts, and bear his Gauls no shields.
Almains approach then, with hoarse chant, to augment
Whose horrid sound, like buzzing of East wind,
They press broad bucklers to their scornful lips.
To-side, some little, draws then martial Brennus;
For slanting sunbeams in Gauls' faces smite.
Lifting his hand, few words that prince then spake;
Though ride yond Almain bands, to warfare armed,
And more than we; should those now make amends,
For many ancient wrongs. As they come on,
With shout, bend your stiff bows, and naming each
His god; your levelled shafts let fly, at once.
The gods may will we fall, but not die basely.

Gauls lost from view, the Almains ride forthright;
And would have passed that thick and cragged place;

But at loud neighing of a Gaulish steed,
Wends the Almain duke, that sits high on white horse.

Twang then of bows! and sped, like swallows, forth,
That Gauls have sudden loost, as six score shafts!
Which ravisht of the wind, pierce men and steeds.
Shrink the enemy's troops; a bow-shot they draw off.
Not many are fallen, on Arden's leafy moss.
In glade those halt. An Almain youth returns,
Towards Gauls; whose shaven beard and his polled locks
Witness, that yet none enemy slain, he hath
But this, of stature huge; with goodly targe,
And raiment, seems some noble personage.
With thick speech, Sigfried, insolent, cries to Gauls,
Ha, Welshmen, archers of small fowl in wood,
Too vile your shafts were to drink heroes' souls!
Body to body, and durst ye now contend,
With men in the open, know that Heremod,
Aelling, (was Aella son to Sigegaar,
Which of the blood divine derives of Woden,)
This day, your duke defies to mortal fight.
We plight us, and our Almain say is sooth,
Were Heremod overcomen, to serve Gauls;
But, and he overcome, ye shall serve us.

To lead them forth, Gauls loud, impatient, shout!
But Brennus careful for his people's good,
Seeing they came not, as on warfare, armed,
Them beckons peace. Then he, the enemies' proffer,
Accepts. So turns that earl to Heremod.

Six heralds now, three Gauls, with three of Almains,
Measure there lists, in a green glade; and fence,
With cords and hazel rods. Gauls, hunters, halt,
With spended bows. Halt Almains, with round shields,
Of linden light, before their warlike breasts.
Shine twybills in their belts; and lean their hands,
On grounded spears. When now all ready is,
Prince Brennus, on tall steed, pricks to midspace.
Sallies duke Heremod, straight, on a white horse,
Nourished by fountain, in dim sacred grove;
Gift of his sister, virgin prophetess,
And ensign of these Almains in their wars;
And of whose neighing wont divine the prince.

On Brennus' bridle waits a Briton page:
Young Sigfried, with broad shield, on Heremod.
But that great-hearted, when he marks outride
Brennus, to meet him, without fence of targe;
Bade Sigfried bear his own, wrought like the moon,
Whose circuits tin and bronze, (by hand o'erlaid,

Of Weyland, Saxon smith,) to the Welsh prince.
Heremod embraced then buckler of his squire.

Now heralds in bright helm of Heremod,
Shake battle lots: and, lo, have given the gods,
The onset and first stroke to Briton Brennus.
Then hurled the Briton prince his hunting lance:
That flaw of wind, or hand of hostile god,
Makes swerve; for it o'erflies the stoopéd neck,
Of Heremod, who, lo, cometh on, with bright dart,
And bloody intent, to reave his foeman's life.
He it casts; but midst of his own well-wrought targe,
The violent bitter head is stayed, of bronze.
Yet partly, eager to drink blood, it pierced,
Through beaten hide and brass: and razed beneath,
The hero's flesh. Trembles the javelin's heel,
As wicker wand, that whips in river's stream.
They closed together, on uprearing steeds,
Wrestles duke Heremod, with stiff mighty brawns,
Recure his weapon, pluck his foemen down.
Sits like tall cedar, rocking in fell blast,
The Briton prince; with glaive then, smote the Almain.
It glancing from bright helm of Heremod,
Rasheth hard border of his hollow targe;
And severed sinews hath of the duke's arm.
So huge the stroke, astonished, would have fallen

Duke Heremod, from his sell, but, generous, Brennus,
By the belt, upholds him, now in his tough arms,
Him mainly heaves, on his tall Gaulish horse.
And the Almain duke, upstaied, before him bears!
Then, by the bridle, wrought with gingling rings,
A goodly broidered work, of thongs, embossed,
He caught that courser white of Heremod.
Gauls, Britons, shout to heaven, at this brave sight.
Returns, unto his part, prince Brennus thus:
When, ah, that burdened steed, whereon they ride,
Founders, pierced in the belly, from a bush.

Rose Brennus light; and gently him uprearing,
Who swoons, with his stout other arm embraced,
And shields the Almain duke! This wrong hath wrought
Carle which lies bleeding, by shaft's shot, on grass;
That trained him, hither, crippling, like to snake;
While fastened were all eyes on the dukes' fight.

Now when this fell deed saw the prince's page,
He loost two Britain hounds out from the leash.
Those leap forth baying deep; but gainst them cast,
From either hand, that earl of Heremod, dart;
For Sigfried hath, in both hands, equal force.
An hound one smote to earth; but the other shot,
Razed foot of Brennus; whence the angry Gauls,

Their threatful bows, whereon ben arrows crossed,
Gan draw up to their breasts: but noble Brennus,
Unto his Gauls and Britons, beckons peace;
Dreading some retchless hand, might loose a shaft,
Gainst Heremod's life; and minish his high praise.
Lay the Almain heralds, on that felon, hands;
And spits earl Sigfried in his hilding face!

Softly then Brennus lifts, on his white steed,
Hurt Heremod: and him, lo, the prince embraced,
In his strong arms, afoot, now faring leads.
Ere silent in fierce scorn, then Almain throats
Shout, praising Brennus! Sigfried now and heralds,
They send to knit, with martial Gauls, right hands;
Asking they might not serve, as vanquished thralls,
But follow aye prince Brennus, in his wars.

Prince Brennus comely grants; and quoth to Almains,
How was he put unjustly from his right,
In land, beyond sea waves, White Island Britain;
Wherefore, in Gaul, he gathers armament:
And they, in arms, should follow him as friends.
Those further ask, to take up now, in Arden,
Their slain, to make them solemn funerals,
As custom is: which, likewise, grants prince Brennus.

Bearing seven bounden corses, on their steeds,

Almains, with Sigfried, ride: hurt Heremod leave
They, with Gaul's prince. Brennus cures Heremod's wound.
And were, of Gauls, that night their lych-fires seen,
In far-off hill, where they the bodies burn.
At dawn, the dead men's weapons those divide,
From mile to mile, for plays of running steeds,
In heaps. Who heap attains, that fee is his.
Only the ornaments of all fallen men,
Shall to their widowed households, be borne home.
Nathless none run that heat of freeborn Almains;
Since, pierced by shafts, those died inglorious:
Wherefore, who servants, gather their bright arms.

Returned, they Heremod find refreshed, with Brennus,
And Brennus makes them feast, in the wild forest,
Of chines of the wood-boar and swans' fat roast,
Venison of light-foot roes and the dun deer.
And when they all, in wood, have supped their fill,
And drunk, instead of ale, of the clear well,
Mingled with the wild sweet of honey combs,
Almains and valorous Gauls, plighting right hands,
Swear brotherhood; and duke Heremod with prince Brennus.
Hath each one conquered, even thus they hold,

In deeds magnanimous; whence appeased their hearts,
They in fast friendship, will contend henceforth.

At morrow's dawn, duke Heremod, with his Almains,
Mounts homeward. He, ere long, will turn again;
Thus made is their accord, with all who will
Partake the adventure of the prince of Britain.
They slowly march; earl Sigfried Heremod's steed
Leads: is his uncle's son, that salvage groom.

Lo, as covenant was, this last day of the moon,
All new assembled in the wilds of Arden,
Brennus with Gauls; and Heremod with tall Almains,
At grove which hallowed to the woody god,
(Arduina named,) is in the forest side.
Terrible of aspect, armed forth to the wars,
Behold those Almain youth, five hundred spears.
They to the plain descend, at day, with Brennus.
Who tiding sent before, where he should pass;
Wherefore Gauls daily gather in green paths,
With steeds and arms, unto the Britain prince.

But warned of this new stir, hath prudent Correus
Tiding sent to his sister, beyond seas:
Which passed, his messengers find, the queen, Corwen,
At Troynovant, with Belin Britons' king.
King Belinus and his lords, with their armed servants,

Uprose anon. To Kent's sea, those march forth;
From Dover port, to pass. There, gathered ships,
They hastily loose from shore. They then, next morn,
With prosperous sail, arrive in Belges' Gaul;
Where, lo, (with Briton-cries!) out of their keels,
Descend, three thousand spears, to the fast land.

Also in a tall hoy, Corwenna embarked,
(So dreads her mother's heart,) at Troynovant.
Her ship much buffeted then, in billows, was
Two days. Next rising sun, come under Gaul,
They draw down sail; and row inshore with oars:
Where ride already keels of Britain fashion,
And tents are seen, of Belin, pitched beyond!
Nor she waits, mother, ladder from the board;
But leapt down, in her woman's garments, wades
The queen, in running surges, to white sand:
For, from her masthead, was, like glittering cloud,
Seen as a mighty army; and it divines
Her mother's heart, is power of her son Brennus.
Impatient, towards King Belin's camp, she hies.
Her seemeth some nightmare which withholds, so cloys,
Her hasting feet. She runs, of all unwist;
For look those only inward to the land;
And hides her tall ship's mast much dunéd sand.

Even now had Belin sent his horse-folk out,
Descry that marching of armed Gauls, heard Brennus
Descends, to meet him, at the very coast;
Whence he, in arms, would overfare to Britain.
Much moved was Belin, in his tent-door, seeing
(Nor wist he she had sailed,) his mother Corwen!
His scouts, returned, bring word of nation strange,
Great-statured wights, not Gauls, that march with Brennus.
Is dread, to hear the songs of whose rude throats,
In tongue uncouth. Now they, as who rest out
This mid-day's heat, lodge yonder, on green grass,
By a flood side: which heard, issues King Belin,
With shining arms, amidst the Britons' camp;
Where, marshalled all his power, he mounts tall steed.

Then, like as falcon compasseth wide skies,
With aery skritches, when her birds she sees
Lie in some peril; so this careful queen,
In making shrill lament, anew hies forth,
All on her feeble feet. And she outrunning
Her damsels' train, and even the armed young men,
Beyond deep sand, came to that hollow stream,
Where her heart pants, as wanting living breath.
But turned to her again her weary spirits,
She wakes the further shore and slumbering men,

With her shrill shrieks, calling on her son Brennus,
Beyond that twin-banked river streaming wide.
Upstart Gauls, Almains, then, confused from sleep.
A woman cries. Son, cease from impious wars,
So shall thy brother cease: cease, my son Brennus!
And I will send to call thine uncle Correus,
That he be arbiter, betwixt your griefs.
Then all Gauls knew, it is the Britain queen.

Britons, from Belin's camp, in this, approach,
With spended bows; and clad in glittering mails,
Went down, before them, to the river's brink,
Belin, who lights from steed. The mother queen
Beckons, that all keep silence. She calls then,
Her sons to parley, each standing on his strand,
And she, in the cold tide, somewhat, descended.
That royal mother spread abroad her hands,
Twixt both hosts, cries, What wicked hap, alas!
Arms brother's hand against a brother's life?
Why trouble ye these bowels, again; my sons?
Could Britain not contain what this one womb?
Would I had carried you, till now, therein!
Were such, my sons, more tolerable case,
Than bear this heart, which swells up in my chest,
With immense grief. So saying, rent Corwen queen

Her upper weed and aged paps displaied,
Fountains, whereat both sons had sucked, at once;
For were they twins. She, furious, beats, alas!
Her royal breast; strait stooping, took she up
That river's ooze, and strewed her reverend hairs.

Then, as beside her mind, in the cold tide,
Forgate her eld, she goes. On the twin brinks,
Still gazing, negligent of warlike arms;
Stand opposed hosts. Queen Corwen shrilly cries,
If evil you, were I, O, my loved sons,
Of one . . .! no more, (for immense dool so chokes
A mother's throat,) queen Corwen couth say forth.
Like then to heifer, whom hath stung the brese,
She headlong rushing, plasheth to mid-stream.
Where currents deep. There fail her feeble knees:
She, ah, drenching! Lady of Britain, is borne down!

Straight, in their ranks, uprisen, have cast strong men,
On every hand, their arms: leapt, from both brinks,
Hundred, as frogs, lo, sudden down, at once!
Then truce, in all hearts, was of enmities,
Whilst hurl they and wade; some, like to otters, swim;
That thresh, with furious force, the sliding stream.
Before them all, like scaley water-snake,
Rusheth King Belin, in a shining harness.

Brennus comes, mainly staying on stiff lance,
In his bright mails, whereon the sunbeams break;
And seems in tumult of that water's race,
As flame. But outwent all their valiant men,
Belin in shole, Brennus in hollow stream.
Each to mid-current wins. Each prince's arms,
His mother strongly uplifts and girds. They bear,
Unto small eyot, twixt them both, now her;
With comfrey and watermints and loosestrife, deckt;
And willow-herb, and hemmed with lilies white;
Whereon have timbered swans their shield-broad nest.
They her softly all-drooping set, and do outwring
Her upper weed. Each brother looked then, erst,
On brother, as looks hound on felon wolf.
She vomiting, dismaied, much water, faints!
But come again her spirits, her feeble arms
Them both constrain, in fervent long embrace,
Each to each pap: then melt their frozen hearts.

Each germain marvels, in his secret breast,
They lately variance had, for glory base!
Then both, laid their right hands, twixt her cold palms,
Swear by All-seeing Sun, and this stream's god;
And by all-nourishing bosom of the ground;
Peace, without guile, and to abide, henceforth,
By the arbitrage of king Correus. Men muse viewing

Those twin strong boars weep on their mother's breast.
Whilst yet all on her gaze, and on her sons;
And read her venerable mother-looks,
Creeps inward sweetness in their warlike hearts.

King Belin bade, proclaim, a loud-voiced herald,
Unto all then, Gauls of Britain and the Main;
Is peace established, twixt Dunwallon's sons.
Lo, upbear the princes both, the queen Corwen,
From chilling flood, then to the Britons' bank!
There certain gentlewomen, which the seas,
With her, have passed, receiving, lead the queen,
Apart, to covert-bowering alders, where,
With fire they her recomfort and dry cloth.

Brennus takes horse, the flood again to pass.
Is cry then heard, mongst Britons, shout to arms!
For strangers issue yonder, from dark grove;
Are Almain warmen of Duke Heremod.
Horsemen, have these, (to whom Welsh tongue uncouth,)
Ridden unperceived, the stream, above, to pass;
And fall unwares, on Brennus' enemies' backs.
Britons stand hastily then, in ordinance,
With spended bows, ready to loose; but Brennus,
Spurred forth, by signs, by shout, warns Heremod.
Loud, Belin cries to Britons, Hold your hands!

Each brother, twixt the hosts, his brother shields;
Each greedy give, for germain's life, his life.

Eftsoons cometh Heremod. Seven noble youths,
Lo, on his bridle wait; of whom chief is
That Sigfried earl. And help him these to light:
Nor yet his wound is whole, under his harness.
Of them all Heremod saved the lives in fight:
Wherefore they vowed their lives, to keep his life.
Belin, with ethling Heremod, joins right hands,
Whilst heralds truce proclaim; in both the tongues,
To Gauls and Almains. Those of Brennus, part,
To Belin pass. Sith lodged in neighbour camps,
At the sea side; they tarry still for Correus.

After few days, that king renowned, arrives,
With flower of Gauls and chief estates and druids.
And joys the noble king, heard this accord,
Made twixt his sister's sons; and them embraced.
They bring him on, with worship, through their camps
Where royal Correus, salute thousand throats.
Much of the welfare of the queen Corwen,
The sire asks of her sons, as they forthride.
Corwenna's tent, stretcht yonder, on a dune,
Lo, stands apart; who issues is the queen!
Nor yet discerns she, is Correus to her rides.

Hath each not seen, since when, in their first youth,

They playferes were, in Moel's court, their sire,
The other's face. And what day led Dunwallon,
Briton, her virgin bride, who noble was,
And valorous most, mongst princes which her sought;
She, maiden, goddess, seemed in beauty and grace,
(Now old are both;) and tamer of fierce steeds,
Was comely, as a god, young Correus.
Once more, he lights before her, from war-steed.
The same fresh looks, now rugged-browed and hoary!
Once more, their lips together meet and kiss.
And whilst they gaze, with infinite affect,
One upon other; each gan, as whilere,
The other's infant-name to murmur dear.
Long, hand, those germains stand, in hand, as when,
With linkéd palms, they gathered flowers, in fere,
In the spring mead: and Corwen smiles and weeps.
Sith her two sons, to Correus, she commends.
But when again, with Correus, as behoves,
The princes mount, to Council-tent, to ride;
Them bids return to sup the queen Corwen:
And bring, friend of her sons, duke Heremod.

Three days, in fellowship, dwell then forth and feast,
Almains and Gauls; and who are come with Correus.
The fourth morn, keel arrives, from Island Britain,

With embassage. Lo, who mount, much people suing,
From wide sea-strand, be messengers, public heralds.
Those led before the kings, done reverence,
With solemn cheer, make declaration thus:
Lords gathered, this moot-month, to Cantion cliff,
Two days, at the truce hill, held parliament;
Whereafter, reason heard of all would speak,
They caused it be proclaimed and published thus:
Deceased Dunwallon, chosen of the gods,
All lordships should revert to former state.
And, for now war Dunwallon's sons abroad,
And threaten bring in Britain foreign harms;
Be banned those princes from the Isle, henceforth.
All lords, of common read then and accord,
Did swear, on burning altars of the gods,
This to maintain, with all their arméd powers.

Fierce ire flames in the germain princes' hearts;
And kindles, even in breast of prudent Correus,
Disdain: loud clamour Gauls; shout Heremod's Almains!
And drawn that mingled host out thousand glaives,
And shaking spears, would in their furious mood,
Straight ship for Britain: but, sith, pious voice
Prevails of Corwen, widow of Dunwallon.
She, mongst the princes, counsels, mother queen;

They send enquire of certain oracle,
Which not far off, on this sea-coast, of name.
Horsemen of Correus leap anon to steeds,
As birds in flight. And they already, at eve,
Before an isle, lies nigh to land, arrive;
Whereto durst none, but he bear in his hand,
With devout heart, some sacred gift, approach:
Which cast to waves, he long, loud, shouts from strand!

But sea-gods, the same night, whence lately set
The sun, unchained so great tempestuous blast;
That broken were, in rage of storm, the most,
Not drawn up, on the shore, of Brennus' ships.
Dunwallon's sons see their repair cut off;
And darkened, on the morrow, were their looks,
Which sit, in council, with king Correus.

Returned Corwenna's messengers, those record,
They heard a sea-god's voice, from billows, roaring,
Should brothers strive, within their mother's womb?
Dark saying; and which might, yet, no tongue unfold:
Till quoth the queen, perceiving the hid sense;
Should not their Foster Land her sons invade.
New ferment grows: loud Main and Island Gauls
Call on their captains, lead them to far wars!

Now fortuned, this year, came to court of Correus,

Where Brennus sojourned, men, outlandish wights,
Being merchants lading foreign wares on mules,
Which strangers were of speech and hew and fashion.
And lately those had overpassed vast Alps.
Brennus had, oft time, through interpreters,
Heard them the penury of Gaul's soil reproach;
Boasting in theirs more rich and happier life,
Where men a mingled juice, blood of the earth,
Wont drink, which gift is of the blesséd gods.
Low-statured men, those did, and of loose life,
Defraud the people, in their merchandise.
He smally accounts their valour in the wars.
Whence whispered had prince Brennus, in men's ears,
Might not he Britain win; that soil of theirs,
Called Summer Land, he would attempt in arms.

New spirit invades, of warfare, all men's hearts,
They think it long, till they the sons of Corwen,
Follow with blowing war-horns. Prudent Correus
Permits, to his young men, that enterprise.
And ready is Heremod, duke, to march with Brennus.
Him pricks forth noble impotent desire,
Of glory, and after death high-mounded tomb,
Guerdon of great war-deeds and deathless song.
Their moot-place, Correus sets, in forest Arden.

To gather greater power, wends Heremod home.

The Briton princes bring him on his journey.
Three ravens flying, lo, then, from dark grove,
Great flock of skritching daws before them drive;
And fell their bloody beaks many, to ground.
One of those ravens also wounded is.
Much did dispute thereof then augurers;
And more, when this sun set, and now they lodge,
Under thick boughs; and supper being dight,
On the three princes' heads, were seen to rest
As flickering flames; which read divining druids,
Unto each, portend great glory, in time to come.

Sith Corwen widow-queen; and royal Correus,
Part from each other; but with presage sad,
They should again not meet. He to Lutece
Rides forth, his royal city; and her white sails
Soon lifted to the wind, lo, under land!
To governance of Dunwallon's royal house,
(Wherein she daughters left,) this noble queen
Repairs again, by ship, to island Britain.

Wide springs, in Belges' Gaul, that name of Brennus!
Youth rise up, which would prove their warlike worth,
In all Gauls' Sénones' marches, from their hearths.
Soon full of armed men marching, are all paths.

Now, at the appointed time, to Arden forest,
Approach, lo, warlike thousands of the Gauls.
Careless of idle words of banishment,
Come from Isle Britain, triple bands of horse,
Called the trimarch. But Almain Heremod
Not yet arrives. Pass the meanwhile, in Arden,
Britons and Gauls, in martial exercises;
And kindle battle chants of bards their hearts.

But Corwen, sick, these days, might not return,
To Gaul, to take farewell of her loved sons.
She harness sends them, shields and glaives and helms,
Of all the best, which hanged had on the walls,
Or deckt high roof-tree, of Dunwallon's hall,
With loving message. She them both commends,
To Gauls' and Britons' gods, with daily breath.
Moreover, she sends their father's silver cup,
The lip of gold; Govannon's divine work,
Whence might they pour libations to the gods;
And make them merry, in land of enemies.
To Heremod, Corwen sends, (whom, with her sons,
She numbers,) targe, whereon, for nombril, formed,
Which might sustain his life, a mother's breast.

Now in midst of the third month, as forward was,
Nighs to Gauls' camps, in Arden, Heremod,

With power of Almains; such as, ere, not seen,
In warlike Gaul. Him stayed uncertain omens;
And swelled against them currents of the Rhine:
Wherefore had Almains marched about to place,
Where they his giddy flood might safely pass;
Casting in pious Heremod a white steed,
Their sacrifice, unto that river's god.

In Aella's marches, king of seven tribes,
Duke chosen was lately ethling Heremod,
Namely of that year's outfaring Saxon youth:
Whence he, to the great warfare now of Brennus,
Leads army of foot, twelve thousand and light horse.
Gauls hail, then, with loud throats, their Almain guests;
As they, in the green wood, pass by to lodge.
Kills hundred beves, at even, royal Correus,
And without number sheep. Then called are Almains,
To meat; and soon those sit, by hundred hearths,
Mingled with warlike Gauls; and drink the best,
And merry make. Chant, lacking common speech,
Then, Gauls and Almains loud hymns of their gods.
Sith risen, some wrestle; other vie, in dance,
Other in race. Not seld leaps, mongst sharp swords,
His mastery for to show, some naked Almain.
Gauls beckon them to drink. And bards endite
Their measures sweet, at the lords' evening fires.

When springs new morrow's sacred light, king Correus,
Amongst the princes, offers sacrifices;
And priests look in the bowels. Then they declare,
Will of the gods, the mingled hosts remove.
Returned, the dukes, in haste, mount their war-steeds;
And put the army in ordinance to march.
With Gauls, in every troop, fare mingled Almains.

Now Paris.

Tri, three; march, horse.

Govannon, divine smith.

Loud blasts of warhorns rouse men's panting hearts!
With shrilling merry note of hundred pipes,
The hosts fare forth. And quakes the foster earth,
Neath thick tread of warfaring multitude.
Riding apart, the forward hold the dukes:
Each to be known, both by his goodly steed,
His garments sheen and noble personage.
Three men, with them, be seen, of stranger nation;
Whose foreheads girt with guirlands of field flowers,
To horse; but bounden backward be their hands:
Ausonians those, which from far Summer Land,
Came to king Correus. Now they captives ride;
And should those be the Gauls' interpreters.

But forasmuch as were in Gaul, all strangers
Accounted guests, much doubted noble Correus
Attach the men, though many them accused;

Till, in a drunken fray, those Tuscans slew
Some of his Gauls; then he them judged to bonds.
Nathless the princes, freedom both and gold
Them promise; and those well in their war-voyage,
Them serve. With the forthfaring army, outride
King Correus, lo, and Sénones lords. But risen,
When fourth sun is in heaven, the Belges' king,
With father's hands, on those three princes' heads,
Did warlike morions of hard bronze impose,
Labour of cunning smith; is each helm's crest
A raven and a star. Sith Correus kissed
His sister's sons; and takes, in both of his,
Their valiant hands and Almain Heremod's.
So wisheth them, that fare to war, godspeed.

This mighty host, through Belges Gaul, descends,
From camp to camp. But when the winter gods,
Now rain incessantly, upon earth's large face,
The armies halt, under wide-sheltering woods;
Where build the Gauls them bowers, for many a league.

Ride the three princes thence, before the hosts,
Forth; and to river dune, of the Sun's face,
(Lug's-town, ) arrive; where altars of that god,
Twixt meeting of great Rhone and Sargon floods.
Those royal germains, with duke Heremod,

There, after the day's sun, do vigil keep;
Slumbering on fleeces of their sacrifices.
The princes, of the sun-god, would enquire,
Concerning their great warlike enterprise:
Whose wont is answer in prophetic vision.

They leave, without the holy precinct, there,
Shields, hauberks, brazen helms and shining arms.
Those captives also, which they hither led,
They therein now have loosed. Sith offering made
Three wethers; when they of the victim's flesh,
Have supped, the princes laid them down to rest;
Expecting should rise on their dreaming sense,
Some heavenly vision of the time to come.

But soon those captives, whispering in the dark,
From temple brake; and they, even where most swift
Run eddies deep, in the cold waves of Rhone;
On Gauls, invoking dreadful curse, all leap
Did down, from cliff; and drench for country's health!
Lifting his head, smooth-streaming Sargon rose;
Then, with great tumult, headlong Rhodanus:
And soon their whirling floods that field invade;
Yet raught not the degrees, where the dukes sleep,
Before the altar of their sacrifices.

Now is the hour, when deepest sound the streams,
Before the dawn; and sleep weighs on men's sense.

Unto each alike then of her dreaming sons.
Corwenna, in heavenly radiance, lo, appears!
Full pale she is; and spake, even now, from earth,
I passed and borne is, towards the stars, my spirit;
But love to you me, yet, detains a moment.
For nothing, be, my sons, dismaied, the heavens
Favour your arms. You, conquerors from far wars,
Shall bring again, Gaul's high safe-guarding gods.
Ah! I may not you embosom, in these arms,
Once more! so sadly faded she. Each starts,
From sleep; each, to the other, tells his vision.
Each germain takes his brother's hands, and weeps.

Now Lyons.

Flock to Lug's dune, Gaul's Southern tribes, in arms;
Come, with much foot, in; companies, lo, of horse,
To join them to tall Sénones of the North,
Whose army already arrives. Yet certain days,
The princes mourn, by Rhone, their mother dead.
Polled his long yellow locks, duke Heremod;
And, Britons, three days, taste no cookéd food.

Come the sixth dawn, loud-sounding iron-throat war-horns,
The three kings' hosts remove, with a vast noise.
Wayfaring thence, they march, a month of days:

Till by lake Atax, nigh to blue sea waves,
Arrived; the Gauls and Heremod pitch: and loose
To pasture, forth, their lean wayfaren beasts.

Whilst thus they tarry, out of Aquitaine,
With gore-stained rusty garments rent, come men;
Which plain them of a crude Iberian nation,
Have burned their fields, and people slain with sword.
Like angry bees, the army of Sénones' Gauls
Loud murmurs: tumult then is in their camps.
A fury upon them breathe avenging gods;
So that Gauls, risen from meat, smite shields and shout.
Nor more them might refrain their dukes: they march,
By the moon's lamp; and Gauls, vast woody mount,
Blue Pyrene, see, at dawn, with snowy crest.
But sickness feigns king Belin, in Gauls' camps,
In the next days; and to dig many graves:
Sith, semblant makes of flight. The king's mind is,
From yond hill-forts, entice his enemies.

Sith Brennus, taking part of his light horse,
Departs, by covert night, with Heremod.
By day, they shroud them, in some thicket place.
They steal thus forth: their guides, the third night, lead,
By pools, by quaking moors and alders rough,

Where startle fowl before them, with shrill cries:
And sith, by whispeling canes, much sand and rocks;
Where mighty Pyrene stoops to blue sea waves,
His cragged knees, with much ado, they passed.

Now, this same night, as covenanted was,
Belin made semblant of a burning camp.
Iberians, greedy as hawks, descend in haste,
To ravin, from hill-strengths. But ambush laid
Dunwallon's son, in thicket-valley's paths,
Where the enemies running, headlong, with loud cries,
In glittering harness, swart-skinned multitude;
With sudden sleet of darts, Gauls on them rise.
Then long, in vain, the mountain nation fight;
Gainst Gauls as oaks, till few remain alive.

Their scouts above, which look down from hill paths,
Discern, that burn their fields, left without ward,
Beneath, in wide South March. There Brennus drives
Innumerable prey of great horn-beasts,
And bleating flocks. Ere noon, he measures camp,
By summer brook, two steepy meads divides.
With walls, those cattle then, of dry-heaped stones,
They close: and would they wait there the main army,
Which nighing now with Belin. Each king hath;
Through Britain war-hounds, taught to run by night,

And turn upon the sleuth, from host to host,
Tidings, in these days, of each other's speed:
Being tokens limned and bound on the hounds' necks
With images of war, in birchen rind,
Camps, battles, and who hurt known by their crests;
Preys, burning steads, with days shown of the moon:
And he who sends, by like sign, is made known.
In this wise, word is now received, from Brennus,
The next day early, should that king arrive.

But this night bold Asturians, Cantabers,
Ansigones, assail that wall of Brennus.
Led by voice of their own penned beasts, they creep,
Unshod, o'er rampire of now slumbering Gauls;
And javelins cast, and bitter sleet of shafts,
They shoot, in what part, lodged, sleep valorous Almains.
Those leapt up, from armed slumber, at the fires;
And rushing, now in gloom, with long iron swords,
And twybills, slay forth their first enemies.
Shines out the covert moon, when fierce Iberians,
Now yelling throngs, the cattle-camps invade!
Defends King Brennus, with his flower of Britons,
And Gauls; which bucklers joined above their head
Them shelter make, from hail of sharp sling stones.

Loud shout the dukes. Resounds the lofty night,

With smitten shields, and cries of mortal wights.
Brunt upon brunt, and new and new alarms:
Now Brennus; now, uneath, stout Heremod,
The poise of war sustain. Like sudden wind,
In that, come scour to them of Britain warhounds;
Whereby they know, that Belin's army approach.
Hark a far-sounding of iron-throated warhorns!
Amazed, the battle press of enemies,
Convert their warlike face. Gauls, whom leads Belin,
Have fired yond harvest fields. Before them, goes
Red flame, as billows wide, in wild night wind.
Of feeble corn stalks, is that fearful light;
Whereby yet-shimmering night of stars, is quenched.
Day springs: like to swift storm, comes the trimarch!
With levelled spears, they smite a confused press.
Then shrink, twixt double army of the Gauls,
Iberians. And when now the dawn unfolds,
Is seen that hostile nation of the hills,
Well-nigh consumed; strewn with their carcases,
Strange blackened field and trampled shields and arms!

Being thus the Aquitanian Gauls avenged;
In the next days, divide the island kings,
To them much cattle, and more, to store their farms,
Than ere had crude Iberians from them reaved.

Yet whilst Gauls rest in camps, to cure their wounds,
Marched forth duke Heremod, with light armed and horse;
Which harry and burn, even to far sea's wide coast.
Tiding of good success, Dunwallon's sons
Send to their uncle, royal Correus.
Then Gauls, Spain's plenteous conquered glebe possess;
With cattle and corn and captives of these wars.
Sith autumn come, they eat, to them unwont,
The clustered grapes, which gather in their thralls;
That stive, in mighty fats, and tread the must.

Was then, when those see drunken their new lords,
In their own fields, with new wine; they conspire,
Rise in one night, to kill all Gauls and Almains!
Of whom being some forewarned, of their wife-thralls,
(Which they, not few, have wedded since the war;)
Made angry Gauls sheep-slaughter of their servants:
And everywhere is fear, and watch in arms;
Till time when the sweet Spring renews the year.
Then first those spouses, travailling, unto Gauls,
Bring forth Iberian sons; and founded is,
In this far soil, new Nation of mixed blood.

BOOK II

ARGUMENT

Belinus succeeds unto the kingdom of his uncle Correus, in Sénones' Gaul.

Brennus journeys, with his oath-fast brother, Heremod, to forest Almaigne. An inroad of Finns. Brennus, sojourning, that winter, there; weds Fridia, sister to ethling Heremod, virgin prophetess.

Come spring season, the great mingled armies of Brennus, and of Heremod, pass the high Alps.

But heard that new supply of warlike youth
Gathers, from parts of Gaul, to fords of Rhone,
Belin returns with ethling Heremod.

And being to Lugdunum now arrived,
Belin finds messengers, wearing mourning gowns,
From Sens, (which also Agendicum is named,)
Which him await. They tell, rejoiced King Correus,
What time he heard his nephews' great conquest;
And made, three days, with all his lords, high feast.
But twixt that joy, and sorrow for the death
Of his loved sister, Corwen, Lady of Britain,
A fever took him. And not many days,
Tarried had Sénones king. The dying sire
Bequeathed the kingdom, to his nephew Belin.
Of all then Belges' tribes, the chief estates;
Being come, at Rhone, to Belinus; him, of grace,
They pray, return with them, to rule their nation.
Belin ten thousand then, this year's armed youth,
(Which here they find,) commits to Heremod,
His Almain brother, lead to Spain and Brennus;
That he, to further Gaul, himself mote ride;

So takes farewell. Sith Heremod, passed o'er Rhone,
Leading those young men's bands, in warlike arms.
They, after many marches; now arrived,
Being, to sea-borders and long cragged coast,
Some kins, there dwelling, of Ligurian nation,
Trouble his journeys. When, to parley, invites
Them Heremod; those, through their interpreters,
Him ask, they might partake in Brennus' wars.

When three years, Brennus, Spain's wide conquered glebe,
Has ruled, long homeward many Gauls and Almains.
Then Heremod's heart is straitened in his breast,
Till he see Aella's garth, in forest Almaigne.
Will Brennus with his brother Heremod ride.
And cause is, Brennus, more than his own life,
Beholding, in oft telling of the duke,
Her blissful image, as in crystal glass,
Loves Heremod's sister, maiden prophetess.

They taking order, erst, for Spain subdued,
It part in three: and o'er each Riding set
A Briton, Gaul and Almain magistrate.
With these, the people chose three hundred men,
Elders, to sit in sacred oaken grove.
Stablished these things, part Heremod and king Brennus.

To meet the dukes, come out of Aquitaine,
Much folk, with mead and slaughter-beasts and corn:
And chaplet-crowned, all dance, with merry note.
Sith, towards the seven-starred plough, Gauls, Almains, march,
Yet many days; till them again receive,
With public joy, Gauls Sénones; o'er whom rules
Now, after Correus, Briton Belinus.
Belin, with Gaul's great lords, from Sens, outrides,
His brother to embrace and Heremod.
Last at Sens' royal court, lo, all arrive.

They, with King Belinus, then a month, in feast,
Dwell. Drawing now those days, in Gaul, to end;
Clad in white lawn, comes to Dunwallon's sons,
From Island Britain, solemn embassage:
And they declare, being in their sacred month,
The tribes assembled to moot-hill, in Kent;
The Kings that former ban, with public shout,
Repealed: So only shall Dunwallon's sons,
Not turn, victorious princes, home, in arms.

On swift steeds, part then Heremod forth and Brennus.
They come, in few armed journeys, down to Rhine,
Behold that mighty river flagged with frost.
Sore now the cold; and o'er his marble streams,

As on a bridge, those Almains, dryfoot, pass;
To where, like silver fretwork, shines much forest.
But dwellers, which beyond Rhine's bordering flood;
When they see Briton Gauls with Brennus, pass;
Blowing their horns, together leap to arms;
Till ethling Heremod, in their speech, them hails.
Then shout hoarse throats, Well-comen home from wars!
Victorious high-born dukes: they, to their garths,
Them lead and slaughter sheep and larded swine.
And Woden! all they chant, and pour out fats
Of mighty ale: and welcome! still they shout.
Then messengers running forth, through fen and wood,
In all that mark, cry, Heremod is come home!

Now to the river Lippé the dukes ride;
Beyond which lies the mark of royal Aella.
He by forerunners, heard his son's approach,
Uprose; and fares, with train of freeborn men,
To meet the ethling, glorious Heremod.
Heremod, now passed that river, paved with ice,
Spread forth his pious hands, gives his gods thanks!

Soon voice of his own people, through thick woods,
He hears; with yonder many an answering shout,
Of them that come, with rushing teams and sleds.
And those now halt, some little from that place.

Where they will Heremod wait, at a path's head.
See, like to guileful hunter, the ethling creeps,
From stem to stem! the hero nighs, unseen,
Where had he marked to sit his father Aella,
Beside a great, new-kindled fire of pine;
Among his elders, witan and armed men.
He, eftsoons, stands, before his hoar-head sire:
And Heremod kisseth him, upon both his cheeks!

Would Aella rise, but fail his aged knees,
His son embrace; seeing, by help of Woden,
The duke, from so great foreign wars, come home.
Beholds then Brennus, comely as a god,
The Gaulish prince, that fought with Heremod:
And welcomes him the sire, with rugged hand.

Now early at afternoon, they sit at meat.
Almains and Britons, under snowy woods.
But sith uprisen, the ethling Heremod,
Impatient, all this shining night, will ride,
To embrace his mother dear and sister Fridia.
Lo, Brennus follows with him; and light sleds,
They mount, which draw forth little-statured steeds.
Their path now sounding Lippé's stony ice,
Where howling wolves they hear, the steeds of Woden,
Omen of battles, in dark forest side.

And now springs the late dawn; sun's glistering beams
Clipping the hoary boughs, like golden hairs.
Then wont, in each third year, of Almains, was
Burned their old garths, forsake the village steads;
And timber other new, in forest mark.
Wherefore now Heremod, from the river's brink,
As he, enquired had, beforehand, his steeds
Guides, where they wainpath find. Before them then,
Clear large-hewn bay, midst forest pines, is seen;
Wherein, compiled of beams, stands foursquare garth,
Deckt with much snow, whence silent, a blue reek,
Gainst winter hills, ascends, of early hearths.
The royal hall stands yonder, in wide court,
And Aella's bowers; known by this boar's head token,
Lo, on the gate-posts, graven, of the earth goddess.

Upholding warlike Heremod there, his steeds,
Gazing, long blissful moment, feeds his spirit,
With this glad sight, and shows his brother Brennus.
And, in that, opened is the gable porch.
And like to day-star, Fridia looks, the bright,
Clad in white stole forth, sacred prophetess.
She seems some blissful vision, with white hand,
Shadowing her eyelids, gainst sun's garish beams;
Expecting see her brother now approach.

She Heremod sees; and heard her blissful crying,
Issues her mother royal Hildegond!

Down leaps the hero, arrived, in sounding harness:
And soon his mother's arms, duke Heremod strain,
In long embrace, to love-long-hungered breast!
And oft he kisseth her venerable face;
And melts his mighty heart: and Fridia, sith,
His sister dear, that maiden bright, he kissed.

Then all bring in, with worship, noble Brennus,
Through the fore-room, into King Aella's hall,
That smells of sweet-strewn sprays of fir-tree green,
And pants the royal Briton's heart, for her,
Whom he esteems far to excel in feature,
All womankind. And when they sit, and drink
Of that ale-horn, which, daughter of the house,
As custom is, bears Fridia to king's guests;
And when him Heremod, brother! names aloud.
And when now her chaste lips, their Almains' wont,
To press, he feels, to open, on his front,
Her white hand then the hero, trembling, kissed.

Fridia their coming, through divine insight,
Foreknew; and o'ernight all things ready made;
And chaldrons set on for them, at the hearth.
Wherefore the heroes, having soon then washt,
From dust and sweat of the long way, now sit

Down both, at board, in garments new and clean:
And bids her son and guest the Almain queen,
After long voyage, they comfort them with food.
Come children in then of that royal house;
(Were some unborn when fared forth Heremod!)
And joying, to the ethling's knees, they played.

From her high settle, fretted all the boards,
With carvéd work, descended Hildegond:
She coffer opens of sweet-smelling pine,
O'erlaid with bronze, bordered with runes; wherein,
High antique gest of Woden, graved, is seen;
When of giant Suptung's daughter, (whom beguiled,
The one-eyed god,) he won that dearworth mead.
Thence she outtakes two precious broidered saies,
With royal ermine, dight and needle-work;
So puts on Heremod's neck and Briton Brennus.
And yet she a little grimly looked, on Brennus!
Was not this he, with whom her son did fight?

When, after meat, they sit, and drink warm mead,
Duke Heremod tells of many adventures strange,
Which in Hesperian wars; and that revolt,
When bondsmen rose in days of the new wine,
How pants the mother's heart of Hildegond!
And golden-haired bright Fridia listens, pale.
He tells how, in some stronghold, with few spears,

Him slumbering, heaped Iberians round, unwares,
Much oil-tree wood, and halm of the new corn,
Which kindled, they were like, in their first sleep,
In bitter reek and crackling flames, to perish.
Then cry of Britons, noise of rushing chariots!
Thrust Brennus in, through withering flames and smoke,
(That treachery had revealed, Iberian wife,
Of one of his.) In valour all contending,
Britons brake soon that burning hold, wherein,
As blind, they grope, to save forth smothered Almains.
Him bare, scorched by wild flames, out noble Brennus,
To the air, in his tough arms. Sith saved his men,
The prince's hardy Britons. Heremod then,
Tells how in battle-night, under the Pyrene,
Went, like to reaper, through the foes, prince Brennus,
Leaving wide swathe of bloody carcases.

Nigh whom, he Heremod, tempting to make head,
His warriors, which had foughten the long night,
Were borne aback. Then did his own feet slide,
In gore; and stumbling, he was overrun,
By great onrushing weight of enemies;
And in that murk, down-trodden with the slain.
Nor might break through Iberians, his few Almains,

To save his body: but from mouth to mouth,
Being heard their cry soon of his brother Brennus;
He, left pursuing, straight resistless waded,
Through thickest press, in the uncertain gloom,
(Like forest bull which tramples men and hounds,)
Of enemies: so rushed on the prince, and saved
Him Heremod; and from Brennus' whirling brand,
Began Iberians' flight and overthrow.

Sits Brennus prince, as one who knows not yet,
Their speeches' sense; and on the hearthstone stares.
Came in then, man, which can the tongue of Gauls,
Bordering his people's mark the flood of Rhine.
Interprets this; and by his mouth, prince Brennus
Recounts, how he the ethling Heremod risen,
Found, on his knees; and thus he still contended,
Like sullen rock, gainst surging enemies.
And, yet, though all now broken was his shield;
And many were his hurts, he, with great strokes,
Did them affray, and with his dreadful looks.

Sith foot to foot, together, they fought forth,
Morion to morion, presséd shield to shield;
And gods renewed their strength. In that, quoth Brennus,
Fainted his arm, his shoulder had gored shaft.
Then Heremod on Iberians, like wild bull,

Running, them hurled, that not sustained his force,
Aback, and thence returned in the dim night,
Protending the immense hollow of his targe,
He cut the bitter fork-head from his flesh,
And staunched the blood, under his mailéd harness.
Thus then the heroes spake their noble hearts.

Rose Hildegond, encumbered her blue eyes,
Of acrid mist, which in her nosthrils, pricks;
And son she calls, with Heremod, Briton Brennus.
She took the red wreathed gold, from off her neck,
Pound-weight; and dight the Britain prince, therewith.
Fridia, being likewise moved of the Earth-goddess;
Though flush the maiden blood up in her cheeks,
Of many golden spires, lo, her bright bracelet,
Undoeth; and on the strong forearm of Brennus,
It knits: thrice-happy Brennus! Heremod sith,
Of Corwen, peerless mother of the prince,
Tells forth: and though deceased, Fridia discerns
Her form divine, in her prophetic vision;
And sees her face and personage in Prince Brennus!
His mother hearing named, the heart of Brennus
Leapt: then, with such few words, as he might frame,
Of halting Almain speech, but sounding sweet,
Upon his Gaulish tongue, two precious rings,
(Of virtue holden, to preserve from harms.)

Were of his mother dear; (which out of Britain,
After her death, he had received,) from purse,
Of Spain, takes forth. And that one doth prince Brennus,
On venerable hand of Hildegond:
This other shining bright, with a clear stone;
Under the sacred looking of her eyes,
On the white priestess hand of lovéd Fridia.

Then erst he durst consider, and behold,
Her looks; whom he, as banquet of the gods,
Desires to spouse. Is such her heavenly feature,
In maiden kind, as noble Heremod,
Her rud as apple blossoms, vermeil-white,
Her locks, long broidered in a virgin tress,
Like sunny rays; and like to song, at dawn,
Him seems, of the small birds in foster Britain;
Which doth unearth his soul, her heavenly voice!
Her eyes are holy wells of arcane love.

And much yet Heremod tells, of Gaul so wide;
And things, which he hath heard, of Island Britain,
Land full of men and steeds and battle chariots.
So brought forth, from that ark, queen Hildegond,
And shows to Brennus, of child Heremod,
The plaything-arms, his javelins, bow and shafts:
And murmurs; he, in all, excelled his peers!

Now eve; and turns king Aella home to house,
With his high kindred and great train of guests,
All freeborn men, that salute Heremod;
Till, in those wooden halls, is no more room.
Men sit without, on green sweet sprays of pine,
In Aella's garth; where kindled be long fires:
And maidens serve them of the royal house,
In silver-lipped deep horns of the wild ox,
To drink, of the hot ale, at many hearths.
All sit, with spear and shield, the Almains armed,
As is their guise, far forth into the night;
Drinking, long-haired, great-limbed men, of high looks.
But the ethling, when to him seemed good, arose.
Hushed then was this folkmote and parliament;
And turned to him is many an hardy face!

Heremod, with manly countenance and stern voice,
That great conquest records of Spain far off;
Wherein in brotherhood fought both Gauls and Almains.
All loud applaud; and crash, to shields, their arms!
For seemed to speak a god, by Heremod's mouth.
But uprose some old wight of crabbéd looks;
And blood, with comfortless fell brows, requires
His huskéd voice; for that was slain, by shaft,
Of ambushed Gauls his son, in Arden forest.

He said; and suddenly a dart poised, and cast,
It, midst this parliament, gainst the Gauls' king Brennus

Lynx-like, leapt Heremod; and he his broad targe,
Thwarting, repressed the weapon impotent.
Laid the ethling, on his broad manslaying sword,
Then warlike hand; and terribly Heremod cries,
That madman seize, doth outrage to king's guests,
Against the reverence of this royal house!
Almains, which fell in Gaul, were few; and Brennus,
His brother, many more saved in the wars.
Gainst him first, Heremod, who would make, for this,
Pursuit, must fight; and sith gainst all his warriors,
Which turn from thence. Upon himself, he takes,
To quit, of Spain's great booty, all bloodwite.
Men signify, to the duke's speech, assent;
With loud and long applause, as one great voice.

King Aella charged, them, who that felon sit,
Next, break his arms; and hurl him from the gate.
The king bade further, poll his beard and locks:
That every wight, who meets him in the path,
Him Nithing call, one who, though stepped in years,
Nor wisdom learned, nor reverence towards the gods.

That armed folk risen, take all their warlike hands,
The hand, and touch the sword of Heremod.
And sith the noble guest they hail, great Brennus.

So all these lodge, till morrow's day, and rest.
The sun uprising, to the winter hearths,
Bring bondsmen, from their bakehouse, in, new loaves;
And roast, great plenty, and seethed boar and sheep's flesh.

Men eat their fills, and pour out to the gods;
And drink of the hot ale, till noon; when called
A noble maker ethling Heremod,
Leofwin, who now from wars returned of Brennus;
One wont, in halls of heroes, the high deeds
Chant of the wordwise god, the Lord-of-spears.
Leofwin, upstanding, sings that great conquest
Of the three dukes; and praise of Briton Brennus.
How wait upon the turning of each verse,
To take up the refrain, hoarse Almain throats!
As seemeth were tempest roaring in thick woods.
He sings then the gods' wars, birth of the earth,
And glorious deeds of Aella's divine sires:
That dwell in starry house, after their deaths.

Then, come, to hearth, where king and witan sit,
In their high stools; and Heremod with prince Brennus,
Men, thralls; which show that that old wight deceased,
Which from the assembly, yesternight, was cast.
Shamed, spoiled of arms, he would no more to house;

But went by way up of the forest lake,
Whereo'er hangs giddy darksome precipice.
There, reached forth his two hands, he leapt to Woden!
And they have drawn now out, with quonts and hooks,
From under sharded ice, his frozen corse.
King Aella grants, they lay him in a mound;
As sacred unto Woden, in his death.

Yet sit the Almains that day out, in feast;
And songs hear of far wars, in Spain, which made
The ethling Heremod and great Briton Brennus.
They sup; and sith men of their kindred ask,
In far South Land, of them which are come home.
Heremod, hark, answers, Well, and please high gods!
But many went home to the Hall-of-spears.
So bids each one, which turned with him, make known
Their fallen friends, and neighbours, by their names.
At Aella's royal garth, begins then wailing,
Of women: which, three days, through all Lippe's mark,
Shall sound. With firebrands, groaning multitude,
Gin wend then, to grave-ales, by forest paths;
Where the moonshine, behowl, the steeds of Woden.

Thenceforth with Aella and with Hildegond,
And with his oathfast brother, Heremod, dwells,
The noble Briton prince in forest Almaigne:

And the two happy eyes see, daily, of Brennus,
Her, for whose dear sake, he content to learn
Is Almains' tongue. Short now these winter days;
Them pass the dukes, in woodland wild, to hunt,
Brennus and Heremod chace, with bow and shafts,
The flying hart; or, roused in the rough brakes,
Slay wood-boars their sharp darts, and the ureox,
In thickest wold, most dreadful of all beasts,
Seen the man-hating fury of his red eyes;
And from his nosethrils fire and smoke breathe forth;
And yet, with Britain hounds, them kill, the dukes,
Hurling iron javelins. Are their gold-lipped horns,
For drinking-cups of heroes, in king's halls.
In snow-time, running upon long foot-skids,
Of supple boards, the palm-tyned mighty elk,
They course; or bear unharbour, in deep forest.
Thus joyous time they pass, till winter feast:
Thus, daily, breathe them, making war on beasts.
And well is loved of all, that Gaulish prince:
None gainsay Brennus, and none bear him envy.

Come yule-tide, all by day, they sit at feast;
And Brennus, with the king, at tables, plays.
Then strangers enter, which, o'er the white snow,
Running on skids, did now, at Aella's garth,
Arrive. Powdered with frost, and stiff their joints,

All weary, come those in, clad in beasts' pelts,
From the fore-room. Standing before king Aella,
Done off their hoods, uncover, reverent,
The men. In the guest-place, then, they sit down,
Silent. Bond-maidens set before them, soon,
The royal hospitable board, whereon
Is brawn of swine and venison of wild wood,
And barley cakes and ale. Whilst all gaze on,
Those eat and drink; but yet no word they spake.
And sith, wherein of men of neighbour mark,
Their speech is couth; those say, how swarming Finns,
Came in long yawls, with warlike Esterlings,
To shore; which have the Chaucan people slain.
And they beseech king Aella, of his young men,
To send some hasty aid. The comely king,
Hoar-browed, like Woden, father of his folk,
Consents, with nod. Bright Fridia, horn of mead,
Bears to those guests; and gives them, Heremod,
His warlike hand. He, ethling, risen, sends men,
Then, kindle warflames on their frozen hills.

Those seen! before the winter's sun, arrive
Six score, behold, armed youth, to Aella's garth;
Warriors, till noon flock in. Five hundred spears,
Lo, ready, then, to march, with Heremod.

Duke Heremod, when sun's mid height passed; and Brennus,
Sally to warfare, clad in glittering harness!
Led by those messengers, hasting, they make forth,
Till early eve; when now in cleft of rocks,
They halt; where might be kindled unseen fires.

Thence fared, before the dawn, was afternoon,
When erst war-wasted smouldering thrope they pass;
Where, snow-o'erstrewn, lie many carcases.
Their sleuth they follow; and now in the path,
Find fallen-down outraged wives and little ones.
After short pause, to eat, Heremod leads forth,
All night. He cast prevent his enemies thus:
And certain place beset, in forest mark,
Of crags; whereas those needs must homeward pass.
Cold shine the stars, and give them little light.

In falling snow, lo, the ethling lights, unwares,
On Finns, in their night camps; which gainst the dawn,
Deeming themselves secure, now kindle fires.
As storm, with Woden-shouts, then furious Almains,
Them overrun, and long earth-shadowing, spears.
Finns, flying, win to covert of nigh cliff;
Where, without hope, yet thought they on a wile:
They swords set to some captive children's throats,
In Heremod's sight; who sent then, granting truce,

His herald. After parley, those them yield,
And promise hostages, having their lives saved.
Then those strange Finns, to Almains' duke, descend,
And Esterlings; and hanging their shock heads,
They cast their arms. Howbeit must custom hold,
Of stern Cheruscan nation; for each Almain
Is fallen, a foe, lot-chosen, shall be given,
To kinsmen of the slain, to thrall or kill.
Moreo'er shall ravisher of an Almain wife,
Without redemption, sufter drowning death.

Sith, the ethling caused those enemies, twixt two rows
Of wives; whom they had with them, captives, led,
To pass. Who guilty found towards wife or maid;
On him arrest, of warriors' hands, is laid;
And such, to die, is bound. With scorn and stripes:
Being stripped of upper weed and shorn their heads,
The rest begin, like drove then of lean beasts,
Towards strand, where they their painted yawls had left,
Stem-dight with ivory of the whale's tooth, to trace.
Heremod returns; but enemies damned to death,
Drenched, in deep fen, were, in the homeward path;
Being trodden down under hurdles on them cast.

And come the war-dukes home, with their young men:
One day, with mead and ale, in Aella's hall;

And roast of slaughtered sheep and larded swine.
And Woden songs, they all make mirth and feast.
And, after this, they uphanged arms of Finns,
In hoar-swart pines of Nertha's sacred grove;
Where midst to heaven, with great sweet-smelling arms,
Tall cedar tree aspires, that image is,
Of the High Godhead, in vast forest Almaigne.

Wolves draw the chariot of that god.

Record, O Muse, in the next month, how feast
Was mongst long-living gods, in their abodes:
And wherein drink a mead those blesséd ones,
Divine, which source is of eternal youth.
Debate then grew, Who mongst all, on the earth,
In force, and manly beauty excelléd most:
And gave the more their voice for Briton Brennus.
Then who, of women wights, most peerless was:
And straightway all, for Fridia, gave their voice.
Then called they, on Freyia, her who goddess named,
Mongst Almain kin, of love's delicious bands.
And her they ask, were those dear mortals joined.
She nothing loth did promise: and consults
With Nertha, who consenting, shows, in dream,
Will of the gods to noble Hildegond.

And now betrothed are Fridia and noble Brennus,
Thereto consenting ethling Heremod.
King Aella and all the march and Hildegond;
So that them bless, who meet them in the path;
Saying, She, as Nertha, is fair; and white-browed Balder
Returned, them seems, into the world, in Brennus.

Nigh is the day, when great Dunwallon's son,
To maiden daughter of Cheruscan king,
Priestess of mother Nertha, the earth-goddess,
Shall joinéd be, with great solemnity,
And feast and joy of all this Almain mark:
And gifts send even the ever-blesséd gods.
Come to this spousal lords, crowned with oak leaves,
And druids clad in white lawn, of Island Britain.
Come, from Lutetia, noblest Sénones Gauls,
Albe the winter snows yet hard to pass,
Whom Belin sends. And these bring warlike word;
That great armed multitude, both of this land's youth,
And Briton Gauls, shall thither soon arrive.
That would, to this year's warfare, with great Brennus.
Come messengers also out of Aquitaine;
And from the army of Gauls, in conquered Spain,
All bearing bridal gifts. A Britain chariot,
Is that which royal Belin sends to Fridia,

Rest for her sacred feet, enamelled white;
Whereon a shining sun is blazoned seen,
And whose swift fellies tyred with glittering tin,
And silver nails. But Hermione, who wife
To noble Belin; with true loving words,
Unto her sister, sends a gracious lace,
Down-reaching to her feet, of pearls of price,
Of Island Britain. Daughters of nigh kings,
Bring maiden gifts, clear carcanets and rings:
And on the morrow, shall their happy hands,
Comb the gold locks and the bright beauty deck,
Of her shall bride be of that glorious youth,
Who nephew is, men ween, of the day's god.

Now is the eve, when they, with songs, arrive,
Of that thrice-blissful morn of men and gods,
Wherein shall Fridia and Brennus be made one.
And lo, from strand, ascend a whimpled train,
In garments green, of sacred priestesses.
Unto whom all ethlings, kings and Aella's folk,
Enranged, in tall long rows, to see them pass,
Unhooded their proud heads, do reverence!
Those which wend up, with sacred caroling;
Are virgin ministers of the great Earth-goddess.

In keel, which fleeted without oar or sail,
Were they on Lippé's streaming flood come in.

Who first incedes, her person half divine,
Blue-veiled, is Holda of the lake, men deem:
She, lady, bears bright sceptre of the goddess!
Fridia them leads to Nertha's sacred grove,
Whose boughs, of themselves bending, make them bowers.

There fleets an isle, in vast grey ocean's stream,
Which people the religious Englen, pure
From crimes, wherein a lake and holy grove,
Abode of Nertha, great earth-mother. None
May enter, save her virgin-priests alone;
Where stands her wagon, deckt with precious veil,
Beneath broad eaves of oaks. It, once a year,
Her sacred kine draw through the island paths;
Bearing her nodding image. In each place,
Where they arrive, all day, is joy and feast.
And whereas Lady Nertha deigns to pass,
Their arms must all men, even their ploughshares, hide;
Till, goddess, when last weary to converse,
With wights, she to her hallowed grove reverts.
Her covert image, then, and holy cart,
Shall her rune-maiden ministers, in the lake,
Wash; namely they on whom is fallen the lot.

Whereafter ben those no more seen, with eye.
Is fame, that might be hid so arcane thing,
Joined hands, they frantic, chanting, leap therein;
Leap in dark sacred wave, whereas they drown.

Come of the divine blood of Friothgar,
Made Fridia, in that sea-isle, abode, one year,
Clothed in white lawn, among the holy nuns;
And was the maiden loved of the earth-goddess.
Wherefore that great Earth-mother pleased is send
Her priestess, Holda, to this marriage.
And gave the Mother, Nertha, charge to Holda,
Bear from her vestiary, fair embroidered stole,
Of lambs' fine wool, to deck the bride of Brennus:
And from her sacred boughs, that sunbright shield,
Made of some metal clear as crystal glass,
Which, to her godhead, Woden there uphanged,
What day, for blameless Balder, to enquire,
Of Hel; to bourne of endless night he passed.

Through valleys, murk and low, amidst sharp rocks,
As spears, his journey holds upon his horse,
Far in North Land and cold, the waywont god;
And girt to him, for chill, his hunter's cloak.
A land, where giveth sun's burning wheel no light;
But is there twilight, as of fiery mist.
Then o'er black waters of twelve roaring floods,

And by the Bridge-of-dread, he, shrouded, rode,
That seemed like hanging hair of gold or glass,
Over the river Bale. It safely passed
His eight-hooved steed, and much swart-leaved dank forest;
Where griesly spirits wonne by infernal fen.

Faring time of twelve suns, of upper earth,
The High One came to Hel's vast dwelling-place;
Dread gates, wherethrough, an host, at once, may pass.
There never-ending trains, late unbound ghosts,
(The most lamenting,) still arrive. In that,
Approached veiled goddess of the lofty night;
Whose head all diademed is with frosty stars:
Seemed tempest-cloud, which from her neck, outblows,
Her weed. She fleeing new light on the earth,
In her iron charret hither daily rides;
Where with her son, Sleep, she wont rest: cold Death,
(Her other son,) lies slumbering in her arms.
She loost then her swart team, in baleful mead,
Of asphodel, to pasture forth, till eve,
Of upper world; beside a darksome grove.

He at Hel's threshold lights, great murk-faced goddess:
Who all she daily gets, in her dire walls,

For evermore, implacable, withholds;
But not Hoarbeard, all-witty Woden, god!

Or Nerthus, fem. in Tacitus; where some read Erthus: compare nevertheless the form Niorth, of the Scandinavian pagan age.

Or Angles.

Fair rising Dawn hath harnessed her white steeds;
And drives, with Morning-red, in swift cart, forth;
And after them, that smiles o'er wood and mark,
The happy day now cometh up apace.

And who is this, like poplar, mongst broad oaks,
Midst Britons, whose white raiment, of their Isle's
Fine wool, o'erdight with gentle needlework,
And Balder seems, draws nigh to Aella's garth?
Illustrious Brennus is! All rise; goes forth
Aella, the king, to meet him in the path.
Follow chief Almains, in fresh garments trim,
Long-belted wadmel coats, breeks, buskinned shoon.
Stand wives, of fair aspect, on either part.

Wide, then, gan sound, with voice, the Almaigne forest;
Of a great multitude that do now arrive,
All in their best array. Sith, when were husht
Their joyous throngs, before the royal garth;
First to the midst, his spouse-gift Brennus leads,
An easy-paced Asturian peerless steed,
That knows not weariness in mountain paths;
And barded all with gingling little chains,

Of silver. Leap in Brennus' other hand,
A leash, well taught to war, of Britain hounds;
Each one, a chariot-worth and team of steeds.

Tall young men bear, (are sons of Briton lords,)
Spoil of the wars in Spain, after great Brennus,
On their white folded cloaks; bright morion ceiled,
Lo, glittering, silver gilt, for her fair head.
Then hauberk of clear steel; wherein the sun,
And moon and seven stars, that look from heaven,
On this wide forest mark, are limned of gold.
Where seen to run, tyned harts, bulls and wood-boars:
And palm-great golden broach, where cunning smith
Hath wrought two plough-beves; that, under one yoke,
Gin break the stubborn glebe. And they bring gifts,
Of needle and of loom, to Hildegond.

Pass by, then, six tall young men, comely clad;
Whose nutbrown visages and their swart-ringed locks,
Witness that were they captives, in far wars.
They treasure bear of Spain, in a bright coffer,
Of bronze; and gift it is of Briton Brennus,
To Aella. Aella, sire of Heremod,
To Briton Brennus, gives most renowned brand.
Hight Lean-devourer, that, from sire to son,

Of Aella's house, in many a valiant hand,
Hath fed grey wolves and made swart ravens feast.
It sledged brown dwarves, and Almains say, a god
It gave to his sire's grandsire Friothgar,
Who Woden's warlike seed. Then Heremod,
To his dear sister, maiden captive, gives.
The duke, in burning city, saved the child
Had, from dim temple of Asturian god.
And well she, (who of perfect feature,) is
Expert, in women's arts, and skill of herbs.
And smiles the maiden Osset, glad in heart,
That lady Fridia she shall serve henceforth.

Gives noble Heremod, to his brother Brennus,
A matchless helm, of fine Iberian steel,
And hauberk of hard bronze, inlaid with gold;
Chiefest of all his spoils in the late wars.
And it, with hard assay, had won his hand;
Which slew, that long withstood him at a ford,
Cantabrian king and spoiled him of his harness.

But Fridia, her most pure and sacred self,
Gives to her Briton spouse, bove all worlds' good,
See, where she comes, in vesture of the goddess,
Mongst maidens bright. And whilst all, on her, look,
She, from her forehead, takes the priestess band;

And girds, therewith, the brows of noble Brennus!
And all that see rejoice. Long were relate,
What several gifts the army sends of Spain;
And what the lords of grateful Aquitaine,
And of Ligurians; and of island Britain.
Behold, on silver boughs of young ash trees,
Where these be hanged before the Court of Aella.
The young men gaze on spoils of Southern wars,
And in their hearts creeps eager thirst of arms.

Went, early, bond-folk forth, with sliding wains:
And now they draw home goodly beams of pines.
Then whoso freeborn men, of Aella's mark,
Have skill in timber work, build of notched frame,
The bridal bower; and helping many hands,
This work goeth up apace, till afternoon.
Beat wives, with mauls, a floor of clay, wherein,
Have some, already, framed the sacred hearth:
Stop othersome, with ling, the chinks, and moss.

Stoops now this winter's sun, to the world's brink,
And ready thatched, beside King Aella's garth,
With eaves of birchen rind and the green sods,
Stands the spouse-house; whose floor with spoils is deckt,
Of the ureox and bear, and the great hart;
On thick-strewed parfumed evergreen of pine.

Full-ended all, last sprinkle priests the place;
With chanted spell, gainst elves and wicked wights.

Then Fridia clothed, in stole of the Earth-goddess;
And girt, with Aella's brand, great Briton Brennus,
And Woden, Almain god's bright shield embraced.
Before the people all, in the king's porch,
Standing; in the joined hands of Hildegond,
And Aella and glorious ethling Heremod,
They, spouses, lay their pious happy hands;
And plight their troth, which makes true marriage bond.
All shout then this glad folk, Long be their lives!
Thrice blesséd be they of the mighty gods!
And all bewonder Woden's sunbright targe,
Saying, that who it bears should win the world.

Swept forth the snow; on boughs, in the king's garth;
Now eve, sit multitude, lo, of freeborn guests:
For makes them a great supper Heremod,
Of hundred fatling sheep, thrice told, and swine.
All sit at feast: men eat, at many hearths;
And drink great fats, in horns of the ureox,
Of mighty ale. They last, come new day-red,
By forest paths, wend homeward to their steads;
Chanting loud praise of Fridia and prince Brennus.

But white-browed Holda's sacred fellowship;

Which yesterday, in Nertha's hallowed grove,
Lodged; to whom Aliruna came, by night,
(Soothsaying priestess she, of neighbour mark,)
Parted, ere day, with her, of all unwist:
And on dim Lippé's falling stream embarked.

But come that month, when hastes the day to rise,
And sound the floods, unchained from winter frost,
And budding, snowtime past, is the new green;
When open gin long furrows, the plough kine,
And cast now husband-thralls in, the seed grain,
Assembled all the mark, in Aella's court;
Where called them Heremod, to new parliament.

He, ethling, duke of the outfaring youth,
Rose, and rose Brennus prince of the Gauls' powers;
And joining hand in hand, erst, each one, oath
Renews, to other, by their fathers' gods;
And mounded graves. Sets Heremod then, for time,
Convenient, the last week of the new moon;
Wherein, in Axiberg forest, fast by Rhine,
The Almain youth shall meet, to march with Brennus.
To Fridia appeared, that nightime, Nertha goddess,
Clad in bright light, and armed like battle god.
Commands the great Earth-mother, Heremod,
March forth, nor doubt to conquer a new world.

Then, on loved Fridia, her prophetic spirit,
She breathed, and promised glorious motherhood.

Lo, from all marches of vast forest Almaigne,
Whose nation always ready unto wars;
There issue great armed trains, to foot and horse.
By wold, by moorish fen and craggéd path,
Towards Axiberg, on the Rhine, those daily pass.
And to all Almains, sacred is that place.
Fame is, of ash-tree, there, created was,
The Almain nation, in days of the gods.

Freyia, winsome goddess, and alwitty Woden,
Went, spouses, down, at eve, for their disport;
To play and bathe them, long Rhine's streaming brinks;
Those gods beheld, lodged under an ash root,
Two hollow trunks, there on an oozy strand.
They looked; and bare those form, in trëen mould,
Of both kinds, like to children of the gods?
Whose playthings they, on Rhine, were fleeted forth,
From Asgarth, where then blesséd gods abode.

And laughed the Lord-of-spears: and named that one,
Ash: but his goddess spouse that other, Embla,
The elm. Yet lay they empty and void of breath,
Then Woden made them living; and endued,

With sense and mind, and motion gave and spirit.
But Freyia gave fleshly hew and wit and speech;
And beauty unto Embla. And they gave, both,
Them kindly love, that might those twain ben one.
Moreo'er, to Ash, gave Woden strength and arms;
Two spears that shaped themselves, in the god's hands,
Of the wild reeds; lest lacking these defence,
Against sharp teeth of forest beasts, should perish.

Then, as wont parents their young children lead,
So these the divine spouses; and them, speech,
Taught, in the way; and covering from the cold,
Much fleece, in brambles there was caught, them gave:
And brought to blameless Balder, the bright-faced;
Because in mansion of the blesséd gods,
Him plained the golden god of his dark weird;
That without progeny, he, from sweet sun's light,
When come his fated day, should be exiled.
There Nanna, in an hall of shining gold,
And silver, them, that god's true faithful wife,
Received, she which sith, followed, him in death.

Great is the assembling, armed, to Axiberg strand,
Of warlike nation of the Northern gods;
Where every kin known by their painted targe.
Now is the morn, when ethling Heremod,

To his young men, before him marched, should ride.
With him ride, Fridia and his brother, Brennus.
Aella, who old, shall follow them in wains.

Clear is the heaven, when now the sun upmounts.
With fiery steeds and favourable omens.
Tearful leave-taking then of Hildegond;
Deprived, in one day, of her children both.
And when they sever from her lips and breast,
She would she were some little hovering bird;
Then might she overflit their daily march.

To Ashberg all at length arrive; where formed
Had holy gods the first man and first wife.
And, lo, there, ethlings sit in parliament,
Under wide beechen boughs, by Rhine; where stone
Smokes, altar of the god alwitty Woden:
King Aella marvels, who grown old in wars,
Beholding so great host of Mannus' sons!
And how come youth of hostile kins, in arms:
To march with Brennus and duke Heremod.
All kings salute each other; and joined hands,
Swear on that antique altar of the god,
Father-of-battles, truth, at home, abroad,
Keep in these wars. To visit round the camps,
Kings, ethlings, lords, in companies, then, outride.
And ethling Heremod names records of tribes,

In this great weapon-show, known by their shields,
Unto loved Fridia and his brother Brennus.
Here Yscaewonen booths, there Herminones:
Yond, (big with destiny of the Gothic name,)
Lodge Ingawonen, many lignages.
And, daily, other warlike swarms arrive,
Men of like hew and speech and countenance.
Are these then children of the Northern gods.

Brennus and Fridia journey, thence, to Belin.
They passed, on floats, grey currents of the Rhine;
Ride now towards setting sun. With them march Britons,
Those namely which, from Spain, returned with Brennus,
And dwelled in Almaigne. Lo, then, after days,
Lutece; where both of Main and Island Gauls,
Moved by shrill fame of far Hesperian wars,
Is come great multitude in, of tall armed youth;
To follow glorious Brennus, to far wars.

Behold, in meadows large, these, on both parts;
Where joined, by wooden bruggs, Seine's fenny shores,
To his isle-city walls. Issues King Belin,
Riding with a great train of Belges lords;
To meet his germain, and the spouse of Brennus,

New-wedded Fridia, Almains' prophetess;
That goddess seems, such is her heavenly feature.
And them, with joy, receiving and high honour;
His sister now leads home; where Hermion queen,
In whom, like beauty and grace, (gift of the gods,
From whence her blood derives,) her gathers, dear,
To her gentle bosom. Fridia shows King Belin,
From his gate's battled tower, wide-glittering field;
Naming the tribes and kins, whose shining arms
Are ordered seen, in many wain-girt camps:
And tells, how some in horses, some in chariots;
And who, firm-foot, to battle with broad glaive,
Excell, or spear, and shield. Other bear bows;
A few been slingers, herdfolk of Gaul's hills.

Lodge yonder warlike youth of island Gauls,
Britons, whose flesh is stained with swart-green woad:
Silures and Dumnonians, are their powers;
Iceni and Cantion men and Trinobants.
Are tribes of greater Gaul which lodge beyond,
Menapii; and they which dwell, where Rhine outflows,
Morini and Ambians, come with stout footbands.
Parisii then, and warlike Suessions.
Innumerable, upon Seine's further brinks,
Are camps and tilted wains, of great Gaul's warriors.
Armorici, shipmen they of boisterous seas,

Whose shields gleam with brass plate. Then Redones;
And Curiosolitans, whose march wide flood
Of Liger hems; where hallowed of all Gauls,
A great wood is, old seat of sacred druids.
Such gathering of armed nations was not seen,
Until this day, in fair Lutetian leas.

But when noised, that arrived was noble Brennus;
Their joyful clamour fills the cup of heaven.
Behold the germain kings, in Britain chariots;
To view the hosts with Fridia, now forthride;
She prophetess and the bright star of Almaigne!
Unto her, their haughty necks, as to a goddess,
Proud Gauls abase. Next day, the Northern powers,
From dawn till even, and tall Britons, pass;
By the long river's bridge, to Seine's left shore.
But much that townsfolk, looking on, admire
So goodly stature of the island youth.
And come what day duke Heremod should forth fare,
From Axiberg, at the Rhine, with Almain host;
Shall march this puissant army of the Gauls.

On mount of Mars Teutates, his tribe's god,
King Belin offers solemn sacrifice.

But seen that martial smoke; Gaul's risen, with shout;
With blowing trumps, pass forth, in thick caterfs.
They, till high noon, with wains, outfare, and flocks.
Who kings then mount, and to their va'ward pass.
And sith in a large plain, lodge all Gauls' army,
Where water is; and daily thus they march.
And now, by Sens-on-Yonne, they pitch fourth camp:
Where Bellovaci and Meldi, and Caleti youth,
Be to them joined. King Belin there takes leave.

Thence to Alesia, Brennus' Gauls arrive,
Whereas great Héracles fought, is common faith;
And town there founded, which betwixt two floods,
Lutosa and Osera. But those rivers' gods,
Envying, whilst in their meads, the hero slumbered
Out the noon heat, herding the ravished beves,
Of the King monster, three-jowled Geryon,
(Whom, in Hesperian island, he had slain,
Erythia; and giant hird Eurytion,
With Orthrus his two-muselled hound,) withheld
Awhile, their crooked currents, and heaped up.
Then they down-loosed their surges, all at once.
Rusheth the flood, with fearful eddies, deep;
And, with great head, the neighbour brinks o'errides.

Alcides starts, in hazel-thicks, from sleep:

Drowned is that field. In vain, his mighty hands
Grope feeble wicker wands, and rowan twigs.
Seed of Saturnian Jove, he, mortal, is
Borne down, in those two god's strong waters' race;
Tough tangle-weeds inextricably wrap,
Round his great limbs, about his divine neck;
And, immense, ruin on him beams of trees,
Poplars and alders. Great Alcides groaned,
To highest Jove, in that abysmal stound;
That might he escape, ah, so unworthy Death!
Straight heard him out of heaven, the Thunder God,
Who poiséd in his palm an hill; it whelmed
Upon those boisterous cataracts, above.

To land, the divine hero leapt; and loosed
A shining river nymph's two gentle hands,
His slimy bonds; when had Alcides sworn,
Her save from vengeance of those watery gods,
And her receive to wife. At dawning red,
With the new spouse, then great Alcides passed,
Over those humbled streams, as on a bridge.

There, on Gaul's host, came impulse of the gods,
So that, ere day, uprisen, with a vast noise,
Of blowing trumps and battle-shout, they march.

Now Montmarte.

Now marching Almains with duke Heremod,

Are come, from Axiberg strand, with favouring gods,
In the self tide, to swart Hercynian wood,
And lodge, where Ister springs, from two clear wells.
Brennus, to Heremod, sends then Sénones lords;
To convey the armed youth of warlike Almains,
And without hostile fear, through parts of Gaul.
Then certain days, he waits, in standing camps,
His brother's coming, oathfast Heremod.

Pass nights and days; and, after this, tall Almains
Arrive; lo, marching, like thick wood of spears.
Conjoin the brethren kings then, their armed powers,
Banner to banner, kindreds with caterfs,
Done sacrifice, at dawn, to battle gods,
They all, with immense warlike voice, remove.
So dust rose to high heaven, and quaked earth's mould,
That wondered, in their rests, the blesséd gods!
In cragged uplands sith, those gin ascend,
By Arar's flood; where wait Allobriges,
The coming of warfaring Sénones Gauls,
Shall their armed youth march with the hero Brennus.
Halt Belges' armies then, in league-wide camps.

There, to the kings, arrived men, embassage,
Of the five lordships of Helvetian Gauls;
Which, to the war, would fare, with glorious Brennus.
These show, come to the council-tent of Brennus,

How soil, of all the Earth, most fruitful fair;
Which gods have, under heaven's wide bent, spread forth,
Italia lies, past yond towered mighty Alps;
Wherethrough, and seem they walled-up to high stars,
Found passages, had, armed youth of Gauls o'erpassed,
In their sires' age; and conquered wealthful seats.
Swart Vara and Caturix, war-dukes, with the Gauls,
In arms, and princes both of stout Ligurians;
Confirm, with many words, Helvetians' read.

Consult, concerning Sénones further march,
The dukes, three days, whilst rain and lightnings cast
Down, on their mingled hosts, some stormy gods.
The goddess Nertha, the third night, vouchsafed,
To Fridia, priestess, show, how destiny is,
Should Brennus, past high Alps, and Heremod,
A soil subdue. When the fourth sun is risen,
And captains wend to council, lo, with Brennus,
Comes Fridia; in whose bright countenance, lords behold,
This morn, new radiance of the Mother goddess.

How rise, at her approach, Gauls' chief estates!
And kings do wait on her prophetic lips;
Perceiving she would speak. Then, with clear voice,
Like to the silver accords of an harp,

Toucht of a master hand, the queen tells forth,
Before the kings, her vision of this night.
The hearts of all, to words of Fridia's mouth,
Consent. Heralds gone forth, of both the armies;
They blaze, in the two tongues, through both the camps,
Queen Fridia's word, as message from their gods.
Immense then, confused, cry of multitude,
Whose voice fills all these shores. The mingled hosts,
Uprisen, then gin remove. Gives licence Brennus,
Unto all who will, towards Spain; this river pass.

Seven thousand are, whom covetise, sickness, or
Faint hearts, persuade to that more easy path,
All day, rife mingled companies overwade.
Sith when now fallen the night, were kindled fires,
To give them light; and horse of the trimarch,
Do station in the stream, to break above,
The water's force. A captain gives them Brennus,
For his old wounds, unapt the Alps to pass,
Valorous Cumael, to lead them into Spain.
Then long farewells, then many a shouted charge,
From the two opposed brinks; when, on each shore,
Are offered bulls, in whose blind bowels, read druids,
Heaven's message; and how in this warfare is
Now manifest the good will of all Gauls' gods.

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To sacred Tolósa, lo, assembled, armed,
Much Tectosages' youth, are of South Gauls;
Where fane, hereafter far-renowned, is seen,
(For therein laid-up spoils of Brennus' wars.)
When now they hear, how Eastward marched King Brennus,
Those warriors, swift-foot noble Vellorix, choose,
Their captain. Journey then those warlike swarms:
And hasting, after many days, arrived;
Cevenna mounts, and swimming with their arms,
Cold currents of swift Rhodanus, they pass.

But when they come up, dripping, from that bank;
There fell out on them, from nigh tamarisk thicks,
Whence soar birds forth, (sign, there, of ambushment!)
Strange helm-clad wights: being Gauls, like Greek men, armed,
Helvians, allies of Greek Massilia.
Being taken thus, at advantage, and unawares,
Lose valorous Tectosages ground; whose arms
Unapt pierce Helvians' hauberks' tempered bronze.
Stooped, angry, Vellorix, on Rhone's streaming brinks;
Gross pebble-stone, the hero's hand up-caught,
At laurer-rose bush root. With immense force,
He it hurled; and smote of foes' tall opposed duke,

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The helméd front: like thunder-felléd oak,
This rushed, upon his face, his brain-pan broke.

Then draw, that treacherous Helvian folk, back foot;
(So quail made Vellorix' shout their craven hearts,)
And sith recoil, before his dreadful looks:
And spoiled, exulting, Tectosages' duke,
The corse: with raging glaive, then battle-path,
Before him hews, up from that river's brink,
Mongst hostile spears. Fast follow his young warriors,
As wolves, in fight; they, likewise, wild crag stones,
Gainst which avails not fence of plated bronze,
Do furious, running, hurl on Helvians!
Whose bones are broken in their bruiséd harness.
And Rhodanus laps blood of the wide wounds,
Of them that fall. Awhile, then battle ceased,
Though won that strand; for fails day's cheerful light,
Already; and path lies forth, thence, by dim forest.
With arms yet in their hands, they rest and eat.
But when the moon gins lift, as lamp, her face;
Hark Tectosages, how on Artemis call
Their Greekish enemies: lo, whose silver horns
Begin eclipse! Straight Helvians flee, with noise:
And Tectosages risen, with dreadful yells,
Pursue their enemies to the dim night woods.

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Those Gauls, at day, with Vellorix, spoiled the dead,
Do take on plate and helms of their slain foes:
So march till noon; when in that brazen rind,
Feeling now sore encumbered their lithe limbs,
They, mocking, cast again the Phocian harness.
Sith by wild paths, they hold and uplands rough;
And after many camps, Isara's flood,
They passed, o'ertake great journeying host of Brennus.

With mighty voice, Gauls' mingled nations march.
Are rocky steeps, as stairs, up from the earth,
Where now they mount: but soon, for the wheeled wains,
There lacketh trode. Then Fridia erst commanded
Her waggoners, hurl from cliff, her painted cart.
Rose much dread din! of tumbling tilted carts,
Then; for do all as Fridia prophetess.
The Gauls, armed travaillous nations, now ascend,
Like to seed-gathering emmots, in long paths.

Now eve, at trumpet's sound, they halt and lodge,
Whereas they stand in many a perilous place;
And dreads their soul to slide, in sleep, to fall,
To rock's deep ground; till day uneasy breaks.
Then cry aloud, in both tongues, the king's heralds,
They set twixt band and band, a furlong's space;

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With a large mile, betwixt their greater hosts;
That they not justle in the mountain-paths.

The cold Rhipæan hills, they now ascend.
Beat thick all hearts, as who to battle march.
They scale this day yond brows, yond lifted towers,
That lean to heaven. Poor wights bear all their stuff;
Women their little ones, upon their necks.
Who freeborn men, lay charge upon their thralls,
Of corn and cloth. See where tall Britons march!
Some bearing, on their shoulders, unknit chariots,
Wheels, axetrees, beams. Have men of the trimarch,
Much ado, lead their warlike island steeds.
From ridges of vast Alps, the cloudy gods,
As from some temple-roof, behold the Gauls.

Gauls of the hills, long-haired Caturiges,
At each league's end, have station in the path,
Which they, with beams uphold, and boughs and ropes.
Go up the Gauls in mighty shadows, cold;
Where trembles the air, with drone of waterfalls;
And sinks, upon their sense, crude mizzling reek.
From darksome pines, they mount to snow-fleckt crags,
Whence solemn mountain spires soar, and pierce heaven,

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Land, where is only frost of living blood;
Wherethrough avails not mortal force to pass,
Without the gods. Admonished of the goddess,
Bids Fridia sound then trump, from host to host,
That the trains halt. Hark, eftsoons, lofty sound,
Beyond who foremost march! and fail men's hearts.

Loud rumbling ruin roars from mountain towers;
A flood down-rolls, in aweful smoke, of frost,
Which loost, Caturiges say, the South wind's breath;
O'erwhelming all before the people's face.
The hand it turns aside of Nertha goddess!
Who where piled hills on hills, like mighty erne,
Hovers unseen, o'er Brennus' mingled armies.

Much labour delve new way Caturiges;
Whereby again might Brennus' armies pass;
That follow, like as shipmen their lode star,
The glittering helm, which aye upmounts, of Fridia,
Who rides on that Asturian peerless steed.
Last lifting lowering hoary mists, above;
High valley-plain, untrodden snow appears;
Where, (door of the vast mounts,) lo, temple house,
Upwalled, of mighty stones, thatcht with wild flags,
To stormy godhead of these frozen Alps.
Reverent, approach thereto, kings, priests and druids:

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That enter, shattering spear-long icicles.
Therein found, swept the floor, is altar stone,
Long wanting fire, nor stained with victims' blood:
Whereon, their hands laid, Brennus, Heremod,
Promise the god, that will unto him Gauls,
In Italy, burn the first prey of their arms,
Hundred white bulls. Then great earth-mother Nertha,
Revealed, as whisper in the air, to Fridia,
That save, by ransom blood, of two men's lives,
Gauls, Almains, brother-nations, might not pass!
She, prophetess, changed then hew and countenance,
So faints her heart for Heremod and loved Brennus.

Loud, sudden thunder round about them roars!
Wherein queen Fridia, loved of the earth goddess,
The god's will murmurs, trembling prophetess!
But Runyan, stedfastly, Fridia's lips beholding,
(Priest of Tanfana's fane, in far North Almaigne,)
It reads; with great voice then declares, to Gauls!
Whose words being heard of them that stand without,
Is presently unto door of the god's house,
Of noble young men, a great vehement press,
All greedy of glory; and to give their lives' blood,
For Gauls' great army, to that mountain-god.
Howbeit, with them, their brethren much contended,

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That they do no such thing: hang wailing women,
Upon their necks. Lo, in this midst, white druids
Prepare the sacred lots. Who erst theirs cast,
Were the two dukes, great Heremod and King Brennus.
Then heads of kindreds, captains, lords of tribes.
At end, when cast were all men's lots, till eve,
Are taken two young men; this one Briton Paith,
That Engelfried, son to rich lord in Almaigne.

Now stoops the sun, and dies day's cheerful light.
When stars tread forth, intone this two-tongued folk,
Standing with firebrands, hymns of sacrifice,
Mongst the cold Alps: rebellow whose bleak cliffs'
White flinty bosoms, world's unwonted voice.

Spoiled, the two young men, to their girdle-steads,
(Whose swan-breasts like to ivory images,
Of graven gods!) stand proudly, and do outstretch,
O'er the altar's stone, their necks. Behold then priests,
Carve, with sharp knives of flint, his and his gorge!
Darkened their sense, both loosing blood and breath;
The victims fall; and falling seemed embrace;
Their faces dead, turned towards Italia.

Who princes, for more honour, in their arms,
Bear forth the sacred corses; and appeased

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Being now all storm, and when have supped the Gauls;
They gathering stones devoutly, in bleak moonlight,
Twain narrow bed-coves do upwall around,
Joined, o'er those sacred dead. Sith all the host,
Heaping ten thousand stones, in one great mound,
Them close. Hark, three times then, through Gaul's great army,
Men call, on height, their ever-glorious names!
So last, to their eternal sleep, them leave.
Shall henceforth every passenger heap his stone,
Thereon, for monument, in long age, to come.
Beneath then hoary stars, the army slumbers.

At rising sun, which shines on twain white peaks,
Loud cry out all the army, with one voice,
Naming those two bergs Engelfried and Paith.
When all hearts now impatient to remove,
The captains' hoarse iron trumpets heard are sound,
The sign to march! Rejoice then weary Gauls,
Feeling dismount their feet. Past noon, his scouts
Renounce to Brennus; how, in certain strait,
Before them closed with breastwork, is beset,
Their path. Then he, from troop to troop, blow halt,
Commands. When counsel taken have the dukes,
With Heremod, sallies swiftfoot Vellorix;
Leading out thousand armed, of the most valiant.

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Them guide forth, where most tickle is the tread,
Mongst frosty steeps, hill-wont Caturiges.

Far ways about, till set of sun, those lead.
But rising the low moon, with golden crest;
They suddenly issue, at their enemies' backs!
Then those, upstanding, had confusedly fled,
Were not some called Caturiges, by their names;
Crying, that proffers truce the Gauls' King Brennus.
Then those, which Salassi are, of an hill-tribe,
Heremod receive. Sith all, with plighted hands,
And each, invoked their gods, make fair accord,
Calling the moon to witness of their troth.
Ask Salassi only, that Transalpine Gauls
Not vex their people's coast, by armed inroads.
Now are Salassi, whose eldfathers Alps had passed,
In former age, of kindred with the Gauls.

Then warrior, warrior; duke leads duke, to sup,
At mountain hearths of the sweet-smelling pine,
They sitting down, together, venison eat;
These hills great horned wild buck: and they have baked
Sweet chesten pulse, for bread. Then warlike Gauls,
Italia's ruddy wine, in leathern sacks,
Erst drink, blood of the earth. Salassi admire,
These strangers mighty brawns and their large breasts!

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BOOK III

110

ARGUMENT

Brennus' armies, descending to the Summer Land, are, at first, opposed by tribes of the Cisalpine Gauls. Helvetian Gauls' disastrous passage of the Alps. Brennus' Gauls being come now to the Italic Plain, confirm a league with their kindred the Cisalpine Gauls.

Lay of Ogmius, the Sun-faced.

Brennus' host, with armed allies of Cisalpine Gauls, fare forth to war. They overrun and waste the fields of hostile Umbrians. Arunt, prince of an Etruscan city, Clusium, implores succour of the Gauls' king Brennus. An army of Brennus' Gauls, chosen by lot, march then in Arunt's aid; and passed the hill-country, they come now to walls of Tuscan Clusium.

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Returned then, after supper, Vellorix,
To Brennus, bearing word from Heremod.
Rejoice, as fowls are fain, to see new dawn,
The travailled host of Brennus; sod whose limbs,
With mist, and stiff with frost. At Brennus' tent,
Lo, flickering wisp of halm, borne on spear's point,
The sign to march. Impatient, Gauls make forth;
And recreate, hark! with songs, their weary hearts.
The way, behold, before them, jocund lies!
They see, as birds, which look down from on-loft,
Hill beyond hill, with many, high-tyned mount,
Embayéd wide; that now sun-smitten ranks,
Blossoms, emailled, with hews, as of spring mead.
Far down, they stoop; wherethrough, as silver threads,
Slide glistering streams, to that fair Summer Land;
Which seems these far-marched Gauls a golden world!

King Brennus, with the va'ward, now arrive,
To place where them awaits duke Heremod.
Then, Salassi now their guides, from cragged pines,

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To pleasant chesten groves, tired Gauls descend;
And thence, by hollow coasts, to deeps beneath:
Where Gauls erst eat, of vines' ripe clustered grapes.
They hear strange chirking crickets, in nigh thicks;
So light, thence, down, by strait and cragged paths:
Whence town of Salassi Gauls approach, at length,
Which rivers hem, with double-rushing flood;
Like race of chariot wheels and leaping steeds.

Gauls that do first arrive, prepare to lodge,
Now, on green meadows. In that, sees King Brennus,
Like torrent from the hills, with glittering arms,
Another train descend. His weary Gauls,
At sound of trumpet, stand in ordinance:
He sends scouts out. Soon those return, with word,
Are they Helvetians, by their arms and ensigns.
Gauls Sénones lodge then, on the river-plain.

Come Captains of Helvetians now to Brennus:
Whose cast-down noble looks and tunics rent,
Witness their wayworn people's wretched plight.
Because; those lords, with weary voice, relate,
Of their great multitude, concluded was,
In council of their tribes, to pass the mounts,
By other paths; and meet beyond, King Brennus.
But hindered them had storms, wrath of the gods;
And they, with salvage kins, mote daily fight:

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And erred long, in strange valleys, had the most.
Whence they upmounted, by uncertain paths,
Mongst roaring waters, to last ribs of the earth;
And came to gates of everlasting frost,
And iron spires and lofty fretted ice.

Was there then fell on them a frozen reek,
And did some enemy god their minds confuse;
So that men their own people deemed strange foes,
Which them waylaid: whence unsheathed furious glaives,
And fixt sharp shining heads of violent spears;
Or spendéd bows, men fought as hostile bands:
And each that snow made red with other's blood.
Nor any knew his fellow's face nor voice,
More in shrill blast. The people waxed thus mad,
(Supposing those betrayed them,) slew their guides.
On all fell panic fear. Helvetians fled,
They wist not whither. Sudden, many o'erwhelmed
Much sliding snow and shoots of stones: not few
Sharp cliffs o'erran. But when cold shrouding mists
Again dispersed, beheld the wildered folk,
As city above them of some winter-gods,
Bulwarks and towers; whence lofty rumbling sound,
And forms divine seen shaking threatful spears.
Then failed men's frozen limbs; and faint all hearts.

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That hurtling wind seemed full of icy shafts,
And shrieks of fiends. Then, as beside their minds,
Still seeking paths, the people wandered lost.
Thick cloud uprolling, on the mountain's breast,
Cumbered all eyes; whilst tread their sliding feet,
On perilous shelves, where depths of dread beneath.
Were heard their cries, on every part, uneath,
(For stuns the air a storm-god's immane voice,)
That, in thick reek, fall dasht down to their deaths.

Were mothers, which from off their weary necks,
A moment, had lain down their little ones,
Seeking, path forth, which, when that dim rack lifted,
See sunder now inextricable deeps,
Them, from their babes, that slumber soon in death.
Those blood-stained rocks and snows and icy brinks,
Beholding wretched wights; where men and beasts
Ruined together, they, for woodness, cursed
The very gods; that heedless of our harms,
And careless of our cries, of mortals ask
Still, sacrifices! Who fallen in sharp clefts,
And gulfy deeps, do yet draw living breath;
For cold and hunger, soon, their sore-bruised flesh
Must starve: and howling wolves, on such, await,
And ravens of these Alps, to rend their corse;
But ravisht some, tremendous cataracts.

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When, cruel malice of those mountain powers,
Helvetians, with great overthrow, had slain,
For were not with them marched the nation's gods;
These last arriving, forms of some dead captains,
Taking, a wretched remnant gathered in;
By several paths, where ere was no way seen,
Like folded flocks, to plains and frozen lyn,
Of snow and ice; when the bleak clouds discussed,
Shines a new azured heaven, bove steepling rocks.

Standing upon that bitter bent, rose cry
Of the vext people, which their priests repressed,
Dreading new divine wrath, if, of the gods,
Were heard lament: they bade then all taste meat.
Guides, in that place sith of their further march,
They herdfolk choose, men hunters of the hills,
Which wont, in cragged coasts, discern their path.
Nor longer tarrying, those well-sighted men,
Blowing their cowhorns lead the nation down,
By falling waters, aye, to lower ground.

Those hoped, then, they had scaped the heavens' wrath;
But all they find the straits, beneath, beset;
Where they arriving, with armed salvage wights,
Sore travailled, yet must strive again, till night,
Must fight for weary life; when favouring Gauls,

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Some windy god, of this side of the Alps,
Being their few darts hurled from an higher ground;
They wan, of those crude foes, the upper hand.
Lo, where the foremost, swollen, and some half-blind,
Helvetian Gauls, all bruised and spent, arrive.

The day is glooming, when to Brennus' tent,
Wayworn, great-bearded men, with windblown locks,
That nation's priests; and princes, whose proud weed
All stained and rent, of staggering lofty port,
Approach; the steps upbearing of some man,
A giant of stature, who Ladower is seen,
Aventicum's king; though his high wildered locks,
Deformed are beyond knowledge. Groans this king,
And hanging broken, lo, is his left arm.
He of some succour comes, at Brennus' hearth,
Enquire: Gauls' kings uprise and Heremod.
They cause then softly sit the king Ladower:
Sith, with great honour, him again they greet.
And brings him priestess Fridia, spouse of Brennus,
Horn of sweet mead; but yet no word he spake.

Queen Fridia searched his wound, and washed, and bound,
With healing herbs. Of this stout king, is told,
How, in beginning, when the Alpine powers,
Troubled his people's march; and lost their path,

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In those wild bergs, they, scattered long, miswent;
His spear, presumptuous, lifting and vast targe,
Defied Ladower the hostile mountain god!
Then seen a rime-god, standing from the mist,
Like tower; that great clot, on the royal targe,
Hurled, of hard ice: it burst, and brake beneath,
The hero's arm, who fell upon his face;
And bruised lay king Ladower, and lost his sense.

After that king had tasted mead and meat;
He for his people asked. Send aid then Brennus
Promised, to the high mounts, at morrow's light.
Had drowsy herbs steeped Fridia in the king's mead;
And lay Ladower, in Brennus' tent, and slept.

Come morning ray, behold, all that hill's coast
Is full of sore-bruised wights. Descend their troops,
With fearful steps: but all their beasts were lost.
Hath each wild stream, that leaps from yonder craigs,
Now blood-stained spume; and men, of this, must drink.
Hark; who, Helvetians, wend by Brennus' tent,
With ghastful looks, as who have seen the gods,
Brennus and Sénones hail, with weary throats.

Sith certain heads of these hills' tribes upspake,
Standing before the council of king Brennus;
Accusing who have yester slain their sons,

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Helvetians: yet since treaty Salassi made,
Their brethren; they require release of captives,
And blood-wite also, for their slain young men.
Which granted, they, with mules, will forth and ropes;
And bearing wine and victual, search their Alps:
So that a price were set, for every life,
Which they shall save. Consents Ladower to this;
Who for his people, would give all his wealth.
He promised them, for every life, an ox;
To be redeemed of the Italic preys.

A company came, where uneath footing was,
This dawn, to brow; from whence they looked dismount:
But vast beyond, before, them, yawned deep gulf;
Where, in a moment, through much backward press,
Hurled, with dire yells, whole bands to dreadful death,
At once. Few caught to craigs or pines embraced,
Yet pend, o'er fearful gulf, and whirling flood.

Roysan, who of that Salassan town is king,
Now smitten hath fast league, with Gauls' king Brennus;
He and his people, sith, Sénones Gauls make feast;
With sheep and goats, and gift of cheese and wine.
Three days then Gauls drink drunken, and forget
Late travail: till admonished of the goddess,
The king warns Fridia lead down to the plain,

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Ere winter fall. In order of their lots,
Which have they cast, lo, Heremod and king Brennus
And Gauls' lords march; and all loud joyful shout,
To Italia, ho, the Fair! with infinite throat.

Their way, the snow-cold married streams beside,
Pouring down surges' weight, impetuous,
On tumbling cliffs, descends. Till noon, Gauls march,
In flowery leas: then Salassi's borders passed,
Roysan returns: but his young warriors, Brennus
Shall follow armed. Next-dwelling Libici,
Fear Sénones Gauls innumerable host;
Whence messengers have already sent their senate,
To call all neighbour tribes, to common arms.
On all their hills, lo, kindled warning fires!
Led by their guides, with songs and battle cries,
The two-tongued host dismount, tumultuous.
Twixt cliff and rushing flood, their path, which oft
So strait, a laded beast might hardly pass.

Have Libici now beset their further path.
Behold them leaping yonder, mongst blind craigs!
Then rolled, from height, with a great rushing din,
On Gauls, down pines and stones. Brennus sounds halt.
Silures, that, in order of their march,
To-day, the va'ward hold, the kings send forth,

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Bold archers. Them, behold, climbed through sharp steeps!
Which now those enemies put, after short strife,
To flight, before their shafts. This valley's midst,
Beyond, have Libici barred, with a great mole,
Of thousand hewed-down trunks, whose branches laced:
Whereby should Gauls be stayed, confide their hearts;
Till neighbour nations might convene in arms.

It kindle Gauls: sith rose a wind, and vast
All night ascends, thence, sulphurous flaming smoke!
At day now, through wide heaven, Gauls' cloud-god Taran,
Assembled misty rack, with sceptre, smote.
Till noon, the watery skies rain out, and quench
That burning. Gauls sith Libici's timber hill,
Draw down, with scornful hands; and forward pass
Their mighty host. But in that swift strong stream,
Which flows, as milk, down madding from cold Alps,
(There where twinned Dora and Baltea leap from height,)
As Fridia bade, cast Brennus his white horse!
At length, where spreads this vale down to fair plain,
Like to vast flocks, Gauls' marching hosts arrive.

To Eporedia, now be come the Gauls,

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Towered city of Libici, girt with dykes and pales,
Wherein, of warlike host, seen shining arms.
Night fallen, sends Brennus swift-foot Vellorix,
With thousand spears. Shall, on their hinder part,
Then these loud clamour raise. Heard Vellorix warhorns,
In twilight of the stars, Gauls swiftly approached,
Find all the bourg unfenced of enemies;
And it o'errun. Set strong guard, Heremod went,
Up hastily and Brennus, to their master tower,
Builded of great squared stones, with gates of bronze.
Gauls it assail, beneath their wicker shields,
Then hurt are many, under the enemies' eaves:
And, haply, had they foughten there, all night;
Were not that king Biellan, of this town,
Valiant in arms and skill of speaking well,
Like to his own, had marked Gauls' glittering ensigns,
And their loud war-shouts, like his nation's tongue.

Cried, from tower-head, then, Eporedians' king,
With so main voice, that cease the Gauls to fight;
What-ho! we Libici were of Sénones Gauls,
Beyond vast Alps; whence our eldfathers passed,
In former age. Ye Gauls, which now descended,
From those high mounts, we hear your nation's voice!
As ours; we see, like ours, your arms, your ensigns.

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Now say, and ye be Sénones, by the gods!
And know else, who is he, or prince or duke,
Durst with me fight, him I defy; and may
I slay him, ye shall, warfolk whom leads Brennus,
By Libici pass; but shall not vex our coasts.
But and your champion me, in battle, slay,
The third part of our fields shall ye possess.

Thus he, whose words sound homely, in the ears
Of Brennus' Gauls. Brennus, with shout, commanded,
Men stay the assault. So cries, Illustrious
Lord of this city! Know Sénones were much part
Of our warfaring host, which from Seine marched.
In Gaul, are Sénones Belges seven tribes;
O'er whom to-day rules Briton Belinus,
My germain. Sénones this side of high Alps!
Our fathers' kindred, unto you, accorded,
Is, that were truce, till new light of the gods,
Betwixt us both. I grant, Biellan quoth,
Be this night truce. They cease then on both parts;
That, till new morrow, should their battle rest.

But day uprisen, comes frankly, with an herald,
Biellan king, and manly salutes Brennus.
Then each one, looking on the other's face,
His feature admires. Those kings made now accord,

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They swear together, by their common gods:
Should Libici fare, with Brennus, to his wars.

There, three days, Gauls abide. To all armed bands,
From neighbour states, now marching in their aid;
Biellan sends back word, that they turn home.
But he invites, with the assent of Brennus,
Their kings to Vercellæ, and chief magistrates,
Convene to hear the reason of those Gauls;
Which, of like speech and gods, have passed high Alps.
Then Brennus marched forth, one day, in a plain,
Rich in sweet fruits and full of the sun-god.

Now Ivrea.

At Vercellæ, now arrived, before the Gauls,
Is much contention of Italic lords,
Which question, whence might land, for these new swarms,
Be given: Nor few did chide with king Biellan,
And many Roysan blame. Twain sisters' sons,
(Unseemly strife, and were these princes both,)
With biting words, betwixt them then contend.
Insubrian Salug he, bold, insolent;
This noble Garlescan, the Cenoman,
Who valiant captain; and gave now his voice,
To make, with yond Transalpine Gauls of Brennus,
Peace and accord. Loud, outcrieth, in fierce heat,

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Salug, When were not Cenomans false? and smites,
With his spear's heel, upon his cousin's targe!

To void this quarrel, then to Sesia's strand,
Went forth those twain: and for the two young men
So noble were and peers in force and skill,
Them follow all the people to an holm,
Which midst that river's streams; whence one alone,
Alive, of them, cries Salug, should return.

Like wood-boar, erst rushed Salug, with stiff lance;
But pious Garlescan his warlike hand,
In kindness to his mother's blood, refrains;
Only that furious onset he, to ward,
With heedful eye, advanced his hollow targe;
Where, infixt Salug's spear-head, with broad glaive,
He it sunder-smites. Then, with a murderous knife,
Was Salug closing in, when seen he bleeds,
Hurt by the numbril of Garlescan's shield.
Straight sacred heralds, sceptres interposing;
They victor noble Garlescan proclaim.

Now at Vercellæ, lo, arrives, from camps of Brennus,
Tolosan captain, swift-foot Vellorix;
With whom six lords of those Transalpine Gauls;
And all admire their noble personage.
Heard further their frank speech, Italic Gauls

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Accord, that orators should be sent to Brennus;
With boughs of peaceful olive in their hands.
And shall those answer make. Italic Gauls
Permit, in reverence of their common gods,
Pass, by their marches, the Transalpine Gauls.
Those also shall king Brennus and his lords,
Bid, meet them, in mid-space, betwixt their camps;
Where Sesia two opposing hills divides.

River.

On a set day, kings, lo, and dukes outride,
Of island and the main's Transalpine Gauls.
Who first the brow mounts, this side Sesia strand,
Is huge Ladower, (whose hurt now whole,) with whom,
The Armorican duke Amrigol, and rich Olbin,
Lord of Allobriges. Comes then stout prince Baedan,
Of Trinobants, with Sassiog and tall Alan,
Both Cornewale Britons. Comes then Merovin,
A priest of peoples, at Armoric shore,
Madoc and Berriol, lords of swart Silurians.
Then Carduan, a prince of Belges Britons;
With whom, Dumnonian king, rides warlike Bran.
Comes stern duke Cadivor sith, of Pictones;
With whom, lord of Carnutes' sacred wood,

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Young Centigern: bold Vara and Caturix, then,
With Brennus, wardukes of Ligurians.

Brennus and Heremod, in one Britain war-cart,
To Vercellæ ride; whom follow lords of Almains,
On their war-steeds. Is Cerdix first arrives,
A king of warlike march beside the Elbe;
Whose sire was, (makers read,) the twelfth from Woden.
Stout duke of Englen, Witta, with him rides,
On whose broad shield is pictured a white horse:
Next whom, Cheruscan duke, comes Irminfried,
With Offa, Quadite lord; strong reapers both,
Renowned, in bloody harvest-field of Woden.
Then Heldric, with Sigambrian Ceolin;
Come to this war, for love of Heremod.

Unto that other river-hill, in face,
Are dukes went forth, of the Italic Gauls,
From Vercellæ. Lo, who their lord of war,
Stands on that hill's green bent, king Biandrante,
Next whom Verpolitus, tall Insubrian king,
With the Taurenian hero, Segonar;
And Marmirol of martial Cenomans.

Then certain warlike lord Treviglion,
And noble Garlescan ascend, with whom,
Baladore, bold champion, and strong Oggion, he

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Whose mighty hands, alone, a city won,
Ariminum. Oggion, scaling battled walls,
The watch and midnight porters at the gate,
Surprised and slew. The valves of beaten brass,
Off-hinged. The hero called then, with main voice,
To slumbering camp of his round-leaguering Gauls!
He, sole, then onset of thick-rushing foes,
Longwhile, covered by his vast targe, sustained,
That tilestones hurled down on him, from house heads,
In the angiport, and arrows shot and darts.
Till succour last behind him, of tall Gauls,
He heard arrive, inthronging with long spears.
Then twixt two hosts, his buckler all to-broke,
And helm bruised manifold; now bleeding rife,
From many wounds, the hero fell on ground,
Aswoon; and Gauls o'er Oggion's body passed.
Wherefore, behold, his citizens him have crowned,
With everlasting bays, whose leaves are gold.

With long white hairs, by Biandrante, Tages,
The Tuscan augur, stands. He erewhile banned,
From his own soil, for certain homicide,
A fugitive, came to court of the king's sire;
Who kindly him received, and wife him gave,
Of noble house; and fields and certain beves.

There sits one lower, on that hill's green breast,

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Whom stand round, reverent, lighted from tall steeds,
War-harnessed captains of Italic Gauls.
Man half-divine he is, in whose strong limbs,
Dwelled virtue of many valiant champions;
Blind Cusmon, Crispin's son: and son was Crispin,
To royal Caletas, sire of Mediolane.
But him immortal nymph, Agygia, bare.

Amongst those dukes, which wait on him, are seen
Marvor and Seddiol, Tolsa, duke in war,
Of great Insubrian nation; whose mailed breast
Is like a craig, in battle, whereon, break
The hostile waves, again, in bloody spume.
One hoary and old, who on his pavese leans,
And doffed his helm, for heat, a giant of stature,
Whose front, with battle scars, more glorious shines,
Is Condidan, companion of great Cusmon.
His hauberk's scales ben hundred iron rings;
A ring for every foeman he had slain.

Lo, mounts the gilded glory of this day's sun,
Thwarting the Italic heavens; and the bright harness
Glisters of warriors, which, from each hill's part,
Two eagles watch. This flying, out of the East,
That from West half. These both together meet,
Forth by the river; from whose hollow brinks,
Rise puttocks, owls and flock of chattering choughs;

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Whom having put those royal birds to flight,
Deign not pursue; but lighting both on cliff,
Gan proyne their wings; and sith there build their nest.

Shout, in one tongue, the Gauls then, on both parts;
Each bidding other, from their hills, goodmorrow!
Descends Biandrante, at the voice of Tages,
To Cusmon. And when heard that divine man,
The thing which they have seen, he mounts to horse;
And with great voice, requires men lead his steed.
Some stay him in his sell, to the mid-stream.
There the blind hero, spread his two hands forth,
Hails the Transalpine Gauls and glorious Brennus!
Captains and lords, from both hill-sides, descend.

Brennus and Heremod then, with king Biellan,
Lifting right hands, proceed to the mid-stream.
Where now lights Cusmon down, in a green mead,
There light those all; and they await king Brennus,
Who comes with Heremod. Then, at Tages' word,
Joining right hands, o'er his hoar sacred head,
The kings of this, and yond side of the Alps,
Smite covenant, naming each their nations' gods,
Of lasting peace. Is such the will of heaven,
Revealed, the augurs hold, of both the armies.

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Whereto the well-beloved of the gods,
Blind Cusmon, sire, foretells, Transalpine Gauls,
In Italy should win seats, that march with Brennus.
And levy power shall Biandrante, in aid;
For brethren, spake the sire, ben all the Gauls.

Who wait upon his bridle then, he prays,
They lead, beyond, to certain sacred cave;
Where he attends some vision of the gods.
Till his return, bids Cusmon all the Gauls
Observe that faithful league, which they have made;
So parts. King Biandrante calls great Brennus,
Heremod and lords of those Transalpine Gauls,
To camp, lies yonder, of Cisalpine Gauls;
Twixt Sesia's strand and Vercellæ. Lo, then ride
They on together, lords of all the Gauls,
Towards king's pavilion, thither; which is seen,
Of boughs wide-builded tawny green. Therein,
Them sit behold, now, doffed their glistering helms,
And laid their painted shields, by them, and spears;
Drinking out silver cups of blood-red wine.
Whilst each on other looks, in long discourse;
Were sheep now slain, and fatling calves; whose flesh
Brittled, and roast, on rowan spits, with fat;
Eftsoon Transalpine noble Gauls of Brennus,

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Mingled with Gauls of Biandrante, eat;
And pour out wine to the immortal gods.

But when, in all, desire is quenched of meat:
Gan Brennus ask, king of the Sénones' Gauls,
Concerning that blind sire, of Biandrante.
And he, Were long to tell, O king illustrious,
Methinks, in chant, it better should record,
Wherein is matter of delight, some bard.
Cisalpine Gauls' king beckoned then, to one,
Sigor, in whose heart wont, like a clear well,
To spring the Muses' song. Then many lords
Pledge the old man; who took his ivory harp
Down from his neck; so meditates a moment:
Then strook the warbeling strings, and Sigor quoth.

Prince of the noble youth of Mediolane,
Ere days, was joyous Crispin, the king's son;
Golden ring-haired and ruddy. Rider bold,
Is he, in sweet spring time, an hunting went,
And was, long chace him parted from his peers.
Last weary, in midday heat, in desert place,
Crispin, by a fresh river, bridle draws.
He lights, and loosed his lofty steed, to crop,
The flowery grass; so laid him down the prince,
On the cool brinks, to sleep, some little space.

When Crispin waked, his royal weed he doffed;

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In current clear, to swim, for his disport.
He thither fleets, where most, in willow thicks,
And alder bowers, he hears sweet birds' small voice.
Hark, bove these fowls' shrill note, descant divine,
As Muse's song, which cometh to his ears.
Lifting his eyelids, hunter, he espies,
From outrage of sun's midday heat to hide,
A nymph unclothed, her dainty limbs embayed;
Nor so unclothed but she is chastely clad,
Of long gilt locks, down to her gracious feet,
Which living marble seemed, in that clear brook.

She, nymph, goes gathering fairest laurer-rose,
Forget-me-nots, loved lilies, golden flags,
A chapelet now she plights, with bawmy sedge,
For her immortal brows. The whilst she sings,
Swim swans to her, and lay forth their proud breasts;
Cleaving the crystal flood, with amorous force.

Then, as with venimed inward sting of love,
Surprised, empassioned, with dread shame, oppressed,
Of treachery base, instincted of some god,
Crispin him silent, like to coot, did stoop,
In the deep channel, which him fleeting bears.
Now, in guise of watervole, he nigher draws
That blissful haven. Her startled gaze, in this,
Some uncouth amiable thing, abashed,

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Beholds. His sheen locks, sprinkled are of flowers,
Of cherry and sloe, which hedge those river-borders!

He a goddess sees! whence suddenly aghast;
He strongly dives. Then, in tough tangle weeds,
Is Crispin, wrapped, like, wretchedly, to perish.
Which seen, her woman's heart went forth, to save.
Careless of naked plight, she leaps, divine;
And him, dead-seeming, lifts in the cold stream.
Her tappet casts now on him, drawn to land;
So hastily takes to her her raiment white;
Chafes then his deadly limbs: and breathes the nymph,
Divine, of her own pure ambrosial spirit,
In Crispin's clay-cold corse. And she, from gulf
Of death, his flitting ghost, calls back uneath.

Last Crispin wearily opens his dull eyes;
The nymph him rears! Long drooping then, he sits,
Leaned to her bosom warm, his drizzling locks.
She sees him, like to lily which revives;
Wherein, each moment, hew returns and health:
One seems her of those children of the gods,
Which woman-born, dwell, mortals, on the earth.

Surprised is each, with other's dear aspect!
Bow honeysuckle down your long sweet locks,
Bower over them, hide from unkindly dread,
These, which with kiss, as breath of summer morn,

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Earthling and goddess, lovely wedlock's bond,
Breathe, blissful, in each other's pious arms.
But Crispin, lest her sire divine offended
Were, gave to Nuth, great god of watery deep,
His steed, born of the wind, at his wife's read.

Crispin, returned to city of Mediolane;
So is he changed, in speech and countenance,
Grown in distaste of former things, distract;
That whispered in the town, the king's son hath
Some vision seen. Men mark, forlorn he hath
His steed; the common finger points him out!
Nor he is joyous more, amongst his peers.
All his delight, is lonely forth to ride,
Whither none wist; and that by covert night:
Where with Agygia, he, his divine wife,
By sliding streams consorts; and culvers soft,
On boughs of cedars, murmur of dear love.

She lily-garlands plights, for Crispin's head,
He love-knots wreathes her, of all gentle flowers.
And oft he, with his divine wife, communes;
Of thing have seen her heavenly eyne, high gods:
And if (which druids ween,) after our deaths,
Were other life: and what is that, he asks,
Which should, in time to come, be on the earth:
Moreo'er, and what world, ere man's memory, was?

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Now, all too soon, is this bright summer ended:
Already vintage past, falls in dim days,
The russet leaf: then Crispin's happy hands,
Bring best of harvest fruits, to her clear strand.
But, ah, he finds not her: amongst the nymphs,
Agygia called now was, to yearly feast,
Of father Padus; nor might she refuse,
High Father he of all these rivers' gods.
Yet she, the sign convened, betwixt them both,
At their bower-door, of clambering ivy-twine,
And woodbind pale, which Crispin's loving hands,
Had taught to grow, her wimple left uphanged;
And fastened was the cloth, with curious brooch.
But, ah, some foolish pie, that glittering gaud,
Bare to her nest, on lofty bough, far off!

Long then those forlorn shores, young Crispin fills,
With yelling cries, that her loved name resounded,
Agygia, Agygia! unto his loud lament.
Yet, in dank bowering glade, he sought her forth;
Wherethrough the scattered sunbeams smite, and made
Seeming, (hanged in sweet-smelling tawny woods,)
Of jewels clear, those little rainbow drops.

Sith, on all nymphs, he calls, of wells and wood;
In vain! they elsewhere dance and lightly tread.
Void are their bowers and waste, and silent all

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That river's mead! none answers! Crispin caught,
With lean and desperate hand, his wavering steed:
So mounts the prince, to ride o'er the waste heath.

He, at adventure, fares. His bow he bears,
In hand and shafts. A roe, from brake, leapt forth.
He drew and thrilled her with a roving arrow.
Lo, fallen the bleeding quarry, on her knees;
With teary eyes looks on him, and yields life.
Then, in a sudden darkness of his spirit;
Him seems his retchless hand had slain his wife!
He, in anguish of his frozen heart, alights;
And Crispin runs forth, desperate now of health.
He, yelling, blasphemes heaven! Out of his belt,
Eftsoon, he raught a knife, with fell intent.

Then straightway, cast down hail the Thunder God;
And pitying, pierced the prince, with lightning dart.
And when that stormy wrath of heaven is passed,
But ashes, lo, in Crispin's stead, remain;
And crumpled iron and bronze, that were his arms,
And jewel royal, of quaint dedale work.
So dear, alas, had joyous Crispin bought,
Immortal love and kinship of high gods!

At morn, a shepherd-groom hath tiding brought,
(That sitting, yester, on hill-brow, had seen
This hap,) to Iséon, priest of Mediolane.

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Behold then Caletas, Crispin's royal sire,
Strewed dust on his hoar head, without his house;
(And seemed, like winter's rack, his blowing hairs,)
In winter's cold, all in the wind and the rain,
Crouching before the threshold of his god!
Till him Iséon, uplifting by the hand,
Led to yoked royal chariot. Caletas then,
With mourning citizens, issued to the plain:
Where priests, observing old Etruscan rites,
To the great Thunderer, offer an ewe lamb,
Of two years' old. Then gathered, in an urn,
The prince's sacred ashes, they, in tomb,
Depose. And who came out from Mediolane,
Did mound earth and green sods, till eve, thereon.

Reverts Agygia to the overworld.
She mongst her sister nymphs, as custom is,
To that great lake, whence sacred Padus flows,
Was went in days when yearly sacrifice,
To Nuth, great king of watery gods, is made:
And mortals wont cast in their precious things,
To his clear waves, jewels of the burned gold,
Silver and bronze; whence Goibniu, the gods' smith,
It having purged, draws ornaments and arms.

Then mongst all nymphs, Agygia judged most fair,

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Her sisters asked of Goibniu, crown for her.
Consented he; and it, of hammered gold,
Wrought; wherein well-emailled, the flowery buds,
Of kind, he set, named smaragd of the gods;
Mongst mortals, called forget-me-not, which blows,
Mingled with sedges sweet, by her cool streams;
Gemlike for beauty and brightness; hewed like wing
Of the fowls' fisher-king. When Goibniu girds,
Agygia's crystal brow, with this fair fret,
Gin all her sister-nymphs, with fairy feet,
Her dance around. Run-to the fawns, with pipes;
But she them all outstrips, which would her kiss.

Behold now thus arrayed, Agygia rise,
With an immortal smile; and, for her love,
Lo, banquet bares, from garden of the gods,
A bascad, in her lily hand, of figs;
Whereof who tastes, his youth undying is.
And brings Agygia's other hand, from thence,
Of magic gold, a ring, for joyous Crispin,
Should him immortal make, in warlike world.

But, ah! of nimble fays of the wild field,
Brown elves and satyrs, leaping from nigh wood;
All swift-foot children of the forest god,
Her lovéd mortal's hapless fate, she hears!
Then she the dank leaf-dropping russet groves,

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With long-drawn voice fills of divine lament.
Like cow, she fares, which lately did bring forth,
Whose calf night-wolves have rent; that mad with grief,
Runs hither, thither, headlong, in wide field.

Ran holy Pan, the father of the wood,
To know what means so far resounding voice,
Of divine grief. His pipe he brake, for ruth,
Of oaten reeds; and wept the wavering god,
Neath shagged brows and crown of shining leaves.
He those fair lawns his satyrs bade deface;
And shake all bare the withered boughs in forest.

Then heaven Agygia, which had her bereaved,
Accusing, on that erewhile happy mead,
Poured all her winter currents from their source;
And made it marish doleful fen, henceforth.
Sith, she repaired to lake, whence Padus flows,
Wind-kissed Verbanus; where their hoary wings,
Sprinkle wild mews. To palace there the nymph,
Of Father Nuth, descends, the wave beneath;
Feeling her womb's chaste burden now increase.

Under his throne, her antique watery sire,
Spread living azure billow over her.
Therein he, as in chambered wall of glass,

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Causing his spumy waves to roar above,
His daughter hid, from eyes of men and gods.
But when fulfilled three moons have now their horns,
The heavens her time so hastened, at her prayer,
That, without pangs, Agygia, in house of Nuth,
A living babe, to dear dead mortal bare;
Three months, then, nourished, with ambrosial food;
When Crispin's son, as woman's child, is grown,
At three years' end. Sith come the sweet spring tide,
Her sorrows swage, for she immortal is,
Unto whom all grief unmeet. Agygia rose;
And in her divine arms, lay Crispin's child.

She went up, dryfoot, from her father's lake;
And, bearing him, turns to her river's bed;
So, to that funeral mound, came, in the plain;
Whereon each dainty flower behold, which decks
The pleasant field of Italy-the-Fair;
Already grown, (which gracious hands have set,
Of sister nymphs,) sweet myrtle bush is there,
Men use to plant in reverence of the dead;
With sacred asphodel and the wind-flower,
And breathing cyclamen, which Crispin loved.
She hears there singing, in nigh poplar grove,
With heavenly note, the swooning nightingale,

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Crispin, jug-jug-occhy-occhy, Agygia!
Somewhile that tomb then she beheld, and wept.

Dear fruit of their chaste loves, that babe, she set,
At the mound's head: then gathered she, as round
She paced, of all sad flowers, and guirlands made,
Which thereon grew, for her child's mourning brows.
She, goddess, might not tarry in place of death!
Wherefore, breathed vow to that beloved spirit,
She turns from thence, vow, after their babe's day,
To her unlong, that an immortal is;
She will herself take journey, o'er swart deep,
To the world's brink; whereas, from age, exempt,
Dwell heroes' souls, companions of the gods;
And with them lovéd Crispin now hath rest.

Bearing her babe, through covert hill, thence mounts
The nymph, to marble cliff, where her clear fount.
There sojourns she, remote from human foot,
Till summer wean from her immortal breast,
Her son; who thenceforth needeth mortal food.
Wherefore she sorrowful, and by night time, parts:
And all the way, lies slumbering, in her arms,
The child. She sought again lake Verbanus.

Behold dim night-shut temple of the god!
Nuth's gates, before Agygia's steps, disclose.
Therein, from divine bosom, she sets down

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Her babe, and laid him at the idol's foot.
How seems that father-godhead stretch his arms!
Child of his child, as did he thus receive;
Whom much the nymph to him, in prayer, commends.
Then last, about his neck, Agygia binds
That precious ring, with mother's murmured spell;
So kisseth manifold, from head to feet:
Whence Cusmon he was named, of men and gods.
Withdrawn her foot, then went Agygia forth.

But, to his dreaming priest, appears the god,
Saying Barchan rise! and by this sign, to-night,
That thou shalt open find my temple doors,
Know that babe, playing to mine idol's knees,
Within the fane, is one sprung of my blood,
Seed of the royal line of Mediolane.
Startled the priest from sleep, he open finds
The holy house; wherein a child loud weeps,
And loud his mother calls: yet could he her
Not name. And surely, in the infant's face,
A radiance shines divine. Bare Barchan old,
Much wondering, to his wife, who childless goes,
The godhead's gift; and she received the babe.

Ten years, in sacred wisdom of the stars,
Old Barchan nourished up the temple child,
To interpret dreams, read omens, auguries:

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But most he taught him to eschew all wrongs,
Which wrath draws daily on men, of the just gods,
On men whom infinite miseries oppress.
He taught him arcane vertues of all herbs.
But Cusmon's limbs, already mighty grown,
In his young years; him sent forth Barchan purge
The mountains rough, and forest wild and waste,
Bordering men's eared fields, of noxious beasts.

To manhood grown, he waits, by common ways,
To redress wrongs. Night-robbers, murderers,
Fall pierced, unwares, by his unerring shafts.
None felon might outgone his divine feet.
The fowls bear Cusmon message, all whose tongues
Were to him couth, and voice of beasts; nor found
A man which might withstand his matchless force.
And aye his mother's ring wards Cusmon's life.
And when he comes, to any temple-grove,
He dwells awhile: and nourish him the gods.

Man half-divine, he purged, in many years,
His land of evil doers. Ceased tortuous wrongs,
Mongst all the Gauls; and wide his name resounds.
Led by his mother's crystal hand, unseen,
The hero passed then Padus' mighty stream.
For, hath, the maiden child, Agygia seen,
Of Gorlag king, captived of enemies.

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And now revealed to her the eternal Weird;
How, Cusmon, given maid Verica, have the gods.

Now Cusmon, ranging in a forest side,
Bears spended bow and shaft, in his left hand.
And Padus passed, the hero espies ride,
A company of Umbrians, leading captives bound.
Those, weening they have now outwent pursuit,
Lighted, all weary, in glade down from tall steeds.
Some eat, some that would, thus assured, out sleep
This noonday heat, lie drowsing on fresh grass.

From his green shroud, betwixt the shimmering leaves,
Chained to beech trunk, some noble personage, sees
Then Cusmon; by whom maiden sits, girt both,
Guise of Gauls' priests and kings, in raiment white.
Some sheltering bough, her gracious hand then pluckt;
For to refresh him, fainting, it doth waft.
Leans to her bosom, her sore wounded sire;
And oft her dear lips kiss his dying face,
And silent tears, she weeps, in her distress.

Her father, king, rode, yester, to green wood;
The flying hart to hunt. Umbrians them there,
Surprised. Fell fighting, without fence of harness,
Or shields, then round him all king Gorlag's lords.
Sore hurt, scaped, hardly, Cavaril the king's son;

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When fallen this sire, from horse, mongst foes, on ground,
He now was taken alive, with many wounds.

Hark, soft, the maiden chants, with heavenly voice!
Some spell, to allege her father's bitter smart;
But she herself, by moments, fails and sleeps!
So wayworn, mate she is, for weariness.
For like to furious flight, was the retreat
Of Umbrians; and now Padus, that wide flows,
And cold, with their lives' peril, they had passed;
Bound, with the preys, on steeds. She wakes and hark!
Again, she murmurs low and softly prays;
Would, ah, were divine Cusmon nigh to save!

The hero exults, thus hearing himself named.
On his unerring bowstring, he set shaft,
Fledged with a grey goose wing, from Noden's lake;
So drew up to his breast; and leapt death forth,
From humming nerve. Breathes the Umbrian duke, lo, pierced,
With silent throes, erst, forth in the brown brake,
His ghost. Then loost the hero shaft on shaft,
Nor arrow vainly shot; in baneful juice,
Of forest root, is every fork-head tincted;
Which had a god revealed to him, in vision.
So fast, he shot, that seemeth his foes, at once,

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Lie all on ground, without voice, without life.
And Cusmon's quiver now is well-nigh emptied.

Lie gaping Umbrians, upright, as they slept;
When eftsoon wakes the maiden, mongst slain men:
Her seemeth then to behold some direful dream.
She trembles; sees then one who stands far off,
Man clad in spotted hide of mountain lynx!
Whereof her father knows him, whence he is.
Unto him, the king outstretched his captive palms,
As to a god. And she, fair Verica, seeing
Now, and beside all hope, her father saved;
With fearful joy, revives. The hero toucht
His vertuous ring then, to their bands, of brass;
Which fall from off them, loost. He, to the brook,
Sith ran; and in his knit palms, brought the king,
To drink: and Cusmon sith, with cooling leaves,
Did bind his hurt; such skill him Barchan taught.

Languisheth, for that mortal is his wound,
The sire till eve; when, losing the king speech,
He Cusmon blessed. And in his dying hand,
Cusmon and Verica's conjoined hands, receiving;
He gave them, each to other, to be one:
And so he passed. And Verica weeps, and weeps.
But delving with a spear and his two hands,
Gan pious Cusmon open womb of earth:

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Wherein, borne in his arms, the hero lays
King Gorlag dead, in his white royal weed.

And gentle Verica, weary, weeps, bereaved;
She night-long weeps, beside that open grave.
But come, at length, day's red; heapeth the swart mould
In, Cusmon; and that pit the hero closed,
When sun is risen. His enemies slain he leaves,
To wolves and crows, amongst these canker weeds,
To rot. They sithen wander slowly forth,
In sad and sweet discourse. That day both sad
And happy is: and now the sun is setting,
When, mongst tall beechen sheltering arms, they lodge,
Where the vast night soon shrouded hath the ground.

When new day springing wide, in the green forest,
He, in that place, where she became his wife,
A bower, with leafy boughs, twixt two tall studs,
To shelter her, did frame, of wattle work:
And tappets with that spoil he wont to bear,
Of mountain lynx, the forest's whortle floor:
And Lavrock called, (in border of green grove,
Where rumbling brook down-slides, through open slade,)
He their poor lodge; for there the heavenly lark,
Did erst salute loved Verica's marriage.

But bruited being that tiding soon abroad,

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Mongst Gauls; arrive, before the hero's lodge,
Of Cavaril's kingdom, bowing down their heads,
Three lords, in the dim glade: which thrice besought
Verica, as from her brother, to revert,
And dwell with divine Cusmon, at his Court.
Likewise grave Senators of great Mediolane,
Sent orators over Padus' stream: and these,
His blood divine and royal kin rehearsed,
Declare to Cusmon, how their city made
Decree; to him assigning public gifts,
Vineyard and olives and large fruitful field:
But would he naught, save that him sent the gods,
Of all world's good, besides his blanket cloth:
For aye, like priest of Nuth, went Cusmon girt,
In long white saie, whereon his wont to cast
Was, fell of mountain pard, in winter season.

Him gentle Verica schools, in the wide forest;
Where she, with her loved Cusmon, chose to wonne,
In courtesy, and in skill of speaking well:
That when should age abate his warlike force,
He, yet, might save the land, by his wise read.
There Verica dwelled, with Cusmon, many years.
But gods, because untimely end the Weird,
Presignified, unto unborn babe of theirs,
Denied them offspring, heirs to their joint lives.

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One day, when was, on warfare, Cusmon went,
Hurt Phœbe, with a roving shaft, alas!
Verica. She, lady, wandered, drooping, forth,
Feeling increase her sickness very sore;
If haply, with the hero she might meet.
She fared thus, three days, on her weary feet.
Then on a bank, beside the way, of moss,
She sate her down to rest. She swooned, and last
Long sleep fell on her, of untimely death.

In dream, the hero Cusmon, of that night,
Met his dead wife. In strength then of the gods,
He all day ran, as swift as fowl in flight,
Seeking her dear footprint, from place to place.
Then sent a dove his mother, whose fowl's tongue
The hero couth. She, gently flittering, leads
Cusmon, till eve, when to a dim oak glade,
He raught; where Verica lies, since yester, dead.

Dark was his grief, he delved, he buried her,
In bleak moonlight. He knew not, on a stone,
To token her dead name. Stirred of the wind,
Which all night moaned, then, in the dawning, found
He, bough of holm had limnéd on her tomb.
He groaned, and still sate fasting on the ground,
Three days; when he those signs beholding well,

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Will of the gods; and parting it in staves,
Which Verica spell, and signify should, alone;
Found sacred runes, which sith were letters named.

Cusmon, from dear dead spouse, reverts to wonne,
In converse with the gods, to holy grove:
Where he, now old, uphanged his battailous arms.
But arcane skill, to priests and kings, of runes,
The hero taught; to the end they might persuade
All men, to peace, which draw one vital breath.

When he, his eyes grown dim, again went forth,
Into the land, men Cusmon, as a god,
Reverence; and kings contend his steps to lead.
Led by his mother's hand, he widewhere went,
Mongst women-born; and graved, left, or on stone,
Or beechen rind, some high immortal verse,
Wisdom or healing spell, in every place.
Then border nations heard, that dwelled a god,
Among the Gauls, and feared their land invade.
And like as ere, unerring, Cusmon's shafts,
Words of his lips now reconcile men's hearts.
And wide was in the world his wisdom blessed,
Above his former deeds. Then long surcease
Of strife and wrongs, in all the Gaulish march.

Sith Cusmon's name hath changed, to Ogmius,
An oracle, which sounds, to Gauls, Sun-faced;

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That radious is the hero's countenance.
He old, now hundred winters, at Nuth's lake,
Dwells: and his mother's ring such vertue hath,
Till all fulfilled were his great destiny,
He may not die. And lengthens her son's life,
The nymph Agygia, with ambrosial dew.

There Sigor ceased: and heroes of the Gauls,
Of Biandrante, both, and Brennus' part,
Still silent sit, and staring on the ground;
Nor drunken out the cups, which in their hands,
Of ruddy wine, so were suspent their hearts;
Whilst that Italic bard chants Ogmius;
Nor marked they, how now boughs long shadows cast,
And gins sun's sweaty team draw down in West;
And stand, unfed, their long-maned steeds, without;
Inclined, as did they understand, their heads;
And they forgate to crop the tender grass.

And whilst great Brennus muses a good space,
Captains and lords of the Italic Gauls,
Gan lift their eyes, on him, up from the earth;
And him admire, next after divine Ogmius:
And for a flame had made the mother goddess,
On Brennus' helm, to sit. Sith Brennus quoth,
It was a noble story! and did, from off
His warlike arm, the king a long wreathed bracelet,

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Like dragon, wrought of tried red gold of Britain;
And guerdon of his song, sent to that bard.
Vellorix, who couth both well indite and chant,
Old warlike lays, of heroes and high gods,
Sigor, from his mid-finger, sent of gold,
Bright ring. Lords drink, and they anew discourse.
Of divine Cusmon, yet enquires king Brennus;
When Biandrante's servants, which with Ogmius
Were went, arrive, as men returned in haste:
And to the kings done reverence, those renounce,
Strange tiding. Lighted Cusmon down from steed,
Passed barefoot forth. Come to that sacred cave,
He spread his groping hands, as one who prayed.
Then long the hero, they did wait without.
Last came forth Ogmius, knocking with his staff:
Unto whom they lady, of divine aspect,
Saw then approach. She stooped and dearly kissed
That bowed-down agéd man and long embraced!

Then Ogmius, like one of the radiant gods,
Upstood; and seemed a fair young man of age:
Whom she, calling him son, anew embraced;
And on his eyelids breathed. He saw, again,
Then glory of the world, this dying sun,
And mother long unseen; and her hands kissed,
Divine. They spake together words that seemed

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Of antique hymns. Then, lifted he his voice,
Quoth, Greet ye well Gauls' kings; and henceforth peace
Have they with Brennus, hero of the gods,
Glory of all Gauls, on both sides of the Alps.
But those, hid in a thicket's shrouding leaves,
Had much cold dread, to look on and to hear,
The face and words of who immortal were.
The pair divine, to sacred poplars passed;
Hanged on whose shivering boughs, midst the wan leaves,
Which sound of rain, are hallowed offerings,
And Cusmon's shining arms. Last, from men's seeing,
A mist them both received, beside the lake.
Become a god, she leads him to the gods.

Look all men then on that Etruscan seer,
Expecting Tages' speech. King Biandrante,
At Tages' word, sends young men forth; that soon
Return, drawing by might of robust arms,
Black steer of two years old. And laid the king,
On the beast's head, betwixt his gilded horns,
His royal hands. The victim slain to ground;
Pour all Gauls' kings libation, to earth powers,
Agygia and Nuth, and Cusmon Ogmius.

Is late, when king of the Transalpine Gauls,

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Great Brennus mounts; mounts Heremod. Mount Gauls' lords,
To their tall steeds. But noble Biandrante,
King and warlord of the Transalpine Gauls,
Invites king Brennus, o'er the stream, to lead
His Gauls; and join their camps, at morning red.

Clear soars the moon, lo, on their twilight path.
Tells in the way then swift-foot Vellorix,
How came, like to a wandering bard, some man,
In his sire's days, unwist from whence he was;
That drew, by only vertue of his sweet tongue,
Sounding like Belin's voice, to harp of gold,
Much people, from Tólosa fane, to the Garonne:
And who, half-blind and old; in that year's games,
Of strength and skill, which wont there to be made,
Yet vanquished all. Was that not Cusmon Ogmius?

The same as Govannon.

The River Po.

Lago Maggiore.

The day new rising, over Sesia's strand,
Transalpine Gauls to Biandrante pass;
Who sends them beasts, and hundred wagons fraught,
With corn and wine, to make feast in their tents.
The armed Cisalpine nations, levied camps,
At morrow's break, march homeward with their kings.
But day is set, wherein their warlike aids,
With king Verpolitus, shall revert to Brennus.

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Then Brennus' Gauls, ere winter rains descend,
Frame wattle bowers; nigh where, in the next age,
Was builded, in this plain, the city Santhia,
Neighbour to Vercellae. There, at few weeks' end,
Twelve thousand foot, come with Verpolitus,
Marching, in glittering ranks, with thousand horse.

On the after-morrow, blow Gauls' dukes loud warhorns!
Behold, to their Italic war, march forth
Great mingled host. And first the fields of Umbrians,
They waste: but Umbrians, on advantage, wait,
Beyond Ticinus, to assail the Gauls.
Was night, and ride aloft the stormy gods.
Red Taran, in his iron rumbling chariot,
Seemed split, with lightnings, the shut firmament.
Then Eormen, Frisian duke, to the dim flood,
With Brennus' license, leads chosen young warriors;
That the cold tide, in storm and rain, o'erswim;
Which passed, with arms; those Frisians climbed, unwares,
O'er the enemies' rampire: them, with dreadful yells,
Now chase, in panic fear, before their spears.

Whose outcries heard, betwixt the flaws of wind,
This side Ticinus, hastes Verpolitus

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And Heremod, founden ford, to pass, with horse:
Whom follow then, in twilight, the trimarch;
For, in the East, now day begins to break.
Gauls then, the flying Umbrians kill, cut off;
Till risen the sun on height, o'er the wide earth.
Sith Umbrians, sent an embassage, sue to Brennus,
For peace, yielding Gauls fields, on this side Padus.
Brennus these, to Cisalpine Gauls, assigns,
Erst conquered lands: which done, Verpolitus,
Made sacrifice to Gauls' common gods and feast,
His aids leads home, now winter, to their hearths.

Ending that moon, came solemn embassage,
With Tuscan pomp. Clad in an azure stole,
With purple hem, before them, Arunt rides:
Was he of Clusium, royal magistrate.
Are tappets spread, where lights his sole to ground.
He lights, with herald, at Gauls' council tent,
Which boughs of mighty oaks, wide-tilted, made;
Where sit Gauls' kings. Of him, Duke Heremod asks,
Through an interpreter, what land's king he is?

He, lifting his two hands, asks aid of Gauls.
Him foully aggrieved Lucamon, prince, his ward;
And outraged Thania, his wife; aye, and these true lords,

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Which were his friends, exiled, whereto, now, hath
Lucamon seized on Clusium's royal state.
Are twenty marches, hence, his city walls,
The Apennines beyond. Will kings of Gauls
Be entreated of him, unto whom, he lifts
These suppliant palms; so that he come again,
Unto his own, in Tuscan Clusium;
He a temple edify will to Gauls' just gods,
And will with Gauls, allies henceforth, divide
Both cattle and lands. This said, went Arunt forth.

Queen Fridia, this same night, in sacred vision,
Beheld her spouse, like hird, with hounds and flock.
And he a she-wolf and her great-grown cubs,
Smote; whose lair was in seven-folded hill,
All white-strewed with men's bones; whose orphans' cries
Raught even to men's ears, in Gaul and Almaigne.

Kings sit in council: the next eve, to Arunt,
Responds king Brennus. The Transalpine Gauls,
Yet landless, grant his asking. They, with Arunt,
Will the third morrow march, in aid, towards Clusium.

Whilst, to their gods, priests sacrifice, cast lots
Transalpine Gauls; to know who to that war,
Of mingled Gauls' and Almains' host, should fare.

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Lot-chosen with Brennus, is Verpolitus,
Now newly arrived. To ethling Heremod, falls,
That he with Fridia, in Santhia camp, abide:
(There should the queen have rest,) and the main army.

The third day's dawn, that chosen power march forth,
With blowing trumps, as thirty thousand spears.
Parts Fridia, weeping, sacred prophetess,
From Brennus, her loved spouse, for daily grows
Her womb's chaste burden. Mounts mongst the trimarch,
Great Brennus, goodliest man of all the Gauls.
She, Nertha's priestess then to temple walls,
(Rampire of sods, which builded have armed hands,
Of who found pious, most, mongst Gauls and Almains,
About her hearth, who named is greatest goddess;
And that the mighty Alps with them hath passed,)
Gone up; long time beholds his raven crest;
Who aye the forward holds, with Tuscan Arunt,
Shining, from far, midst Gauls' departing spears.

Through uplands rich, with tumult dread of arms,
As winter stream, in some dry land, down-rolls,
Pass forth, before forsaken towns, those Gauls.
But they, to none, do hurt; nor gather preys.

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To Trasimene's lake, arrived at length,
They lodge, in standing camps; so counsels Arunt:
For he hath tiding, how Etruscan states,
(Twelve hill-set cities, closed in, with strong walls,)
Hold, in that peril, common parliament.

Those send to Trasimene soon, to Brennus,
Orators: but these did army of tall Gauls
Mock, seen men lapped, like corses, to their feet,
In blanket weed. Moreo'er such, that time, was,
Mongst Sénones' wives, the guise, to swaddle babes!
Erst seemed those chide then, in loud tongue, uncouth,
With Arunt, that he brings in Gauls' armed powers,
Which Italy threaten. They require then Brennus,
With insolent voice, from all their coasts, remove.
To them made, shortly, through interpreters,
Answer, the king of Gauls; and they would cede,
To Gauls, a third part of their uneared fields,
Might they have peace. And else, he sternly spake,
Look they for war; wherein Gauls wont, by far,
In valour, men of all wide earth, to pass.

In this extremity, Clusians send to Rome,
Great Sabine city, in wide Latin plain.
Their messengers so did put on, day and night;

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They come, to gates of Rome, when morning breaks.
To temple of Bellona, assembled is,
Which in Mars' field, in haste, that city's senate;
To hear grave message of a neighbour state.
The embassadors, then, at large, their city's merits,
To them expound; and what the antique faith,
Twixt Rome and Clusium. Lastly those, set forth
The public peril, ask, with them, gainst Gauls,
Were Rome confederate, by their common gods.

Uprose Rome's consuls, clad in purple weed,
With ivory sceptre-rods, in their right hands,
From their high stalls; they ask then sentences,
Of those grave sires. The fathers with one voice,
Respond (for troubled have their minds the gods;)
Be not that aid, those crave of Rome, denied.
Three, from among them, Fabii, one man's sons,
(Were those young men of noblest house, in Rome,)
They send then parley with Transalpine Gauls.

From Trasimene, levied camps, the Gauls
Now approach Clusium, Camers named, of old;
Fenced with high walls and gates and battled towers,
Of mighty stones. Her shining brazen roofs,
Like nothing seen in Gaul, those warriors rude,

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Do most admire. Gauls march unto that part,
To lodge, where wondrous builded monument,
Of spires, by magic spell, seems hang in the air.
Is that the antique tomb of Lars Porsenna,
Who conqueror, erewhile, was of Sabine Rome.

Gauls sit then down, tumultuously, to dine.
Soon, to their camps, who orators are of Rome,
From Clusium gates, outride, in glittering harness.
Heralds uprise, to meet them, mongst tall Gauls:
And them convey, with worship, to king Brennus;
With whom sit captains and Verpolitus.

Through an interpreter, the three Fabii speak,
Proudly, with fond strange jetting of their necks,
Lifting of shoulders, casting forth of palms,
In their Italic guise. With frank stern voice,
Responds king Brennus, of Transalpine Gauls,
Till now, had Gauls not heard named Latian Rome;
Nathless, they esteem, some warlike town is Rome;
Whence neighbour peoples, (sending in their peril,)
Wont seek them aid in arms. Contemn not Gauls,

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Though valorous, proffered peace. Let Clusians give,
And would they purchase peace, part of their fields,
Unto land-lacking Gauls. With haughty port,
Answering no word, turn Fabii their horse-necks;
So rode, again, with speed, to Camers' walls:
Where come; they, entered in the theatre,
The citizens persuade, (who with their senate,
Gather to hear them,) that all arm them straight;
And Clusians, sallying, from all ports, at once,
Erect, without, deep phalanx; and on Gauls,
Fall, heavy now with unwont wine and meat.

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BOOK IV ROME TAKEN BY THE GAULS OF BRITON BRENNUS

164

ARGUMENT

The three Fabii. Fray before Clusium walls. Lucamon slain, and Arunt is established king in Clusium. Brennus sends to Rome, requiring that were rendered the three Fabii, unto Gauls. Gauls march against the Romans. Battle at Allia brook. Brennus' Gauls, come to Rome, enter at an open port. King Brennus, at day, salutes the City's gods. He rides in Briton chariot, through Roman streets. Ambustus, found sitting, proudly, in his hall, is slain. The vestals and unarmed citizens are suffered, by the Gauls, to pass freely forth. Young Gaulish warriors scale the temple-rock.

Brennus, sick of a fever, departs his army, in three powers. Messengers, with grave tidings, come in from Santhia camp. King Brennus makes peace with Rome. He ascends to Tibur. Messengers come, from Centigern, in Roman field. Brennus sends back chariots and the trimarch. Onset of chariots. Romans turn their backs. Centigern's funerals, at Tibur. Lords of Clusium come forth, to meet Brennus, in his upward march: they bring him a victor's crown and victual. Gauls, hasting their armed journeys, come to field where are carcases lying, of slain Gauls.

Palarge. Fridia bears Sigamer, a son, to Brennus. Sedition of Palarge. His dastard's flight and death. Queen Fridia defends Santhia. Brennus returns, at morrow. Fridia, in prophetic vision, beholds Gauls' main camp in peril. Brennus and Heremod, leading out few warriors, run forth, in harness.

They approaching to Gauls' great camp, it find beset of enemies' multitude. Gauls sally from their wall. The flight of Umbrians. The fourth night, after, fugitives, of theirs, run by Santhia. Queen Fridia, issued with her women of war, cuts their rearward off. Tuscan cities now sue for peace. Tages' death. The aids, of Cisalpine Gauls, return home. A new embassy come from Arunt. Gauls sacrifice steeds, to their war-gods. They found the city Senogallia.

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To arms, run Clusians, in their master street;
Where thronging, they do morions on and harness.
Their magistrates cast up then the city's gates:
And shining host, with brazen helms and plate,
Troop shouting forth: who dukes, bear purple cloaks.

To order them, without, about their ensigns,
Was space uneath; seen running long-haired Britons,
With spended bows, their enemies to meet.
And yet is only fought, with far-shot shafts:
Then issue from the town, impetuous,
Horsemen, whose captains Fabii are discerned,
By their helms' crests and Sabine shields and arms!
Approached first Quintus, on ferocious horse,
His lance, against the Gauls, hurled headlong forth.
The Armorican duke, stout Amrigol, it pierced.
Sith, Quintus hurt, with glaive, Verpolitus.

Tuscans new sight behold, to them uncouth!

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Chariots of Britons, two men in each cart,
On bronze-hooked running axe-trees, hurling darts.
Clusians' steeds, flying from them, through the plain,
Their riders cast. Waver the citizen legion:
They come not on. Then Arunt sent a trumpet,
And bade them fear not: the Transalpine Gauls,
Who with him marched, are friends magnanimous.
Halt they, and Gauls will cease upon their part.
Recoil then Clusians, to their stony walls.

Brennus, betwixt the hosts, outrides with Arunt.
And lo, of Clusians' part, face to the earth,
Guilty Lucamon, bruised of horses' hoofs!
For Briton chariots overdrave his corse,
Lies uneath to be known; the black gore, run
So is in all his face. Dire prophecy he,
To eschew, issued, men say, in a disguise:
But, thrilled by an arrow, foundered his war-horse,
(When now he held almost the city's port,)
And wallowing on him all his chest to-burst.
A cripple wont, for alms, sit at that gate,
Beheld his fall, bewrayed it for reward.
Did passage then deny that Clusian folk,
To the damned carcase, through their city walls.
All cry out, they submit them to king Arunt.

To camp, return a band, Armoricans;

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Which Amrigol bear, on large pavese, slain,
Their duke. Did off his raven-helm king Brennus;
And all his lords stand with uncovered heads.
They honour thus, whilst those pass forth, the corse.
Men, on his steed, upstay Verpolitus;
At sight whereof, is ferment in all hearts,
Of Gauls; which cry out on truce-breaking Romans.
Nathless; will, erst, king Brennus send to Rome,
His heralds; of that city to require,
Delivered the three Fabii were to Gauls,
Which truth of nations' brake: that, for the death,
Of Amrigol, and for hurt Verpolitus,
They, at the hands of Gauls, should suffer death.
Cisalpine Gauls, are those he sends to Rome.

Now, on vast shining host of Gauls, the sun
Descends; when issue from the city walls,
A train, with olive branches in their hands.
Priests are these, and the senate of that town:
Which led before king Brennus, do confirm,
All Clusians will again receive king Arunt.
They promise, and ask, peace, of glorious Brennus.
They also will third part of their outfields,
Divide, as covenant was, unto his Gauls.

Heralds and messengers of Transalpine Gauls,

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Lo, come, at morrow's eve, to quadrate Rome.
Being gathered, to give audience, Rome's proud senate,
With only injurious silence, do respond.
Then from their curia went forth Brennus' legates;
Where they Numerius saw, Koeson and Quintus,
Truce-breaking Fabii three, sit in chief place;
(Which to Rome town, before them, were come home.)
The same night, they, with speed, return to Brennus,
And the army at Clusium. Rise, tumultuous,
At trumpets' dreadful note, then angry Gauls;
And, with vast cry, (fore-riding the trimarch,)
They now hold way leads to truce-breaking Rome:
And hardly, at night, the Gauls, impatient, rest.
Is Latium full then in men's fearful ears,
Of immense rumour, more than mortals' voice.
Seem ride dread gods, in warfare of tall Gauls!

So speed they, tidings hardly come to Rome,
Before their march. In city of Romulus,
Have chosen the people captains of their powers,
Those sons of Fabius. Hastily snatch their arms,
Then Roman youth, heard coming of fierce Gauls.
Helmed, harnessed, they from all Rome's ports, outrush,
Without due order kept. Who knights, mount horse.

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All issued seemed Rome's fatal city dead,
So sullen left, forsaken, her strait streets.
Might Fabii loosely them array uneath,
At the twelfth milestone, this side Allia brook.

Already Gauls, with dreadful cries, approach.
They go up, giants of stature, like a wall,
Immane, of shields; and heart-amazing sounds
Their uncouth battle-shout. Armoricans, erst,
Burst Romans' front. Yet riseth wave on wave,
Of the huge, bloody tide of war. Break war-carts,
Of Britons, soon, the Romans' horns of horse,
Then fall in heaps, unwont to turn their backs,
The Latin youth. They, like to slaughter beasts,
Die in their blood. Who rest, then flee aghast,
O'erthrown, they fly, in routs, an heartless press,
From Gauls and angry gods. The most then cast,
Death chasing at their necks, their shields and arms.

To Tiber, the first fugitives arrive,
Romans with Romans, there, contend for life;
So waxed they mad, for dread, who first should pass.
They hear shout terribly the dread Gauls' king Brennus,
Hurling sharp shivering javelins where he rides.
Each smites to death some chief one of the Romans.
Hard after swift-horsed Quintus, Brennus drives,
Quintus, first author of the Latin wrong.

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Even now his Cantion steeds do breathe hot breath,
Which hurt Verpolitus guides, in Quintus' neck.

Falls noble Marcius, of the knights of Rome;
Sulpicius, then and Claudius, Brennus pierced,
And Curtius, tribunes. Now he smites Quirinus,
Prætor, to death, and Sabine Lartius,
Virginius, rich Posthumius and stout Lucius;
Then Geminus Vectius, master of the horse,
Slain in the backward, mongst thick throngs, in flight.
And follow flower of Britons and king's sons,
With great cries, Brennus in his chase of Quintus.

He, would he fight or flee, mongst Roman knights,
Known by his horse-tail crest, is still borne forth.
For would not Brennus, yet, the felon smite,
With javelin, as desiring him to wreak,
On Fabius' son, for hurt Verpolitus,
With his Cheruscan glaive. Then, for this chase
Too long endures, nor longer will king Brennus
Abide; he drew a mighty bow, in chariot.
Betwixt the shoulders, pierced the bloody shaft,
And issued at his neck! and fell young Fabius,
As apple from the rise, down from his horse;
And seemed the earth beat back the felon's corse.

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Lighted, with shout, hurt king Verpolitus,
And, angry, offhewed, with glaive, head of false Quintus.

Hunts swift-foot Vellorix, on Gauls' further front,
The Roman routs; till on bright Phocian blade,
Stiffened, had hundred slain, that hero's hand;
And was his tunic black with swart war-gore.
Under the glaive of the least man of war,
In Gauls' great host, fell, that day, many Romans.
Gauls' slaughter nighs to yellow Tiber's brinks;
Where cast their bootless arms, the city-youth,
And hideous is the press. Much part, thrust down,
Which cannot swim, did in the eddies perish.

Other which beat forth, swimming, in the flood;
What for their hauberks' weight, or their limbs clipped
Of drowning wights, drench. Mongst his blood-stained streams,
Is fame, before the fearful Romans rose,
With frozen looks and side-long dropping beard;
And spake, with aweful voice, that river's god,
Saying, None perjurers should his currents pass:
Yet hid he someones in his hollow brinks,
Youth pious towards the gods; which the same night,
Returned; to city of Veii, last arrive.
Yet other, which came erst to Tiber's flood;

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(And waded some, to further part, found ford,)
And outwent Gauls, run on, before, towards Rome.

Vowed to their gods all preys, then Gauls not stayed,
To spoil dead foes, but trophies hastily raise,
Magnanimous, in the field, of Roman arms,
Great gathered heaps. And erst at Brennus' word,
They Roman steeds cast in that river's flood.
March on, with tumult dread, then blood-stained Gauls.
Sun sets, when they at Rome's great gate arrive;
Even in the neck of her last fugitives:
That port stands open wide! In strait dim ways,
Strange-smelling, who then of uplandish Gauls
Enter, (for so slight conquest doth amaze
Their hearts; as dreading aye some secret fraud,)
Go not far forth. Only they, nigh that port,
Few houses fired. But Brennus, set strong guard,
That night, in the next street, of trusty champions.

The army lodge, without Rome's quadrate walls,
Where weary, in long unrest, this night they pass,
Which full of shrill lament, is in their ears.
Rome's matrons wailing, from their temple hill,
The Latin name, now dead, and fall of Rome.
Dreadful with light of flame, is that dark watch,
And horrid rumour of oft rushing roofs.

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Entered, with shining host, at day, king Brennus,
He reverent, in Gauls' tongue, salutes what gods
Do keep this city, from their market-place;
Whose temple, in yond cliff, guides come from Arunt,
Him show; and rock where Romans lodge in arms.
Which long considers Brennus and admires.
Whose heart gins swell, with manner of disdain;
For that swart, guileful, little kind of men,
Which yester, at first battle stroke, fled forth.
Therein, five thousand watch, young Roman warriors;
Which thence gaze down on them, their enemies.

Unto whom king Brennus, glory of the Gauls,
Lifting up his great voice, Verpolitus,
His words interpreting, in Etruscan tongue,
Cries, And they would be saved, let them descend,
To parley; and fear they not the truth of Gauls.
For injury, satisfaction must be made,
Done to the faith of nations and the gods:
And they, moreo'er, shall number certain poise
Of gold, Rome's ransom. And, for Amrigol,
By Quintus Fabius' treachery, slain at Clusium,
Must them, of silver, a man's weight be paid.

So having said, great Brennus, like a god,
That sunbright shines, in glorious Gaulish harness,
Departed, leaving squadrons in that place,

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Of Gauls: and he ascending the next hill,
Hight Palatine, the Sabine city viewed,
Bulwarks, wide walls, fanes of strange Rome's great gods.
Sith rode, with the trimarch, the king through Rome;
Wherein, at first, he lodged ten thousand men,
In cross-ways, open places, temple courts.
Yet so that none from other further station,
Than might reach a man's voice. In chariot, stands
Brennus, with Vellorix; and Gauls' martial tread,
Which shook the Alps, shakes now wide-builded Rome,
And in their temples tremble Latin gods.

When silent, captive, lies, at afternoon,
The city; wander Gauls in Roman streets,
By companies, and in houses and in halls,
They enter; and thence, wondering, draw forth preys,
Which, heaped in open places, to Gauls' gods,
Much precious stuff, will they, by fire, consume.

Were some, which entered in a temple court,
Helvetians: there they marvel see one sit,
Old reverend sire, on throne of ivory!
Whose eyes like coals, under his frozen brows;
Them seems some ancient purpled magistrate,
Of Rome's forsaken city. Ingenuous Gauls,
Such deeming, gin salute him in their guise.

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Some, touched his raiment, ask, in their land's speech,
What be'st thou for a man, that thus here sittest?
Recording one, with sigh, his father old,
His long long hoary beard, gan gently smooth.
That sullen Roman lifts his sceptre rod,
Of glancing ivory, and the young warrior smote.
Shot through his heart an angry flame, disdains
The warlike child: uplifts his strong right hand,
His spear, yet, generous, in the midst, suspends;
Pitying, in that old wight, his father's years.

One came in then of the Cisalpine Gauls;
Who, using Tuscan speech, began to ask
That sire his name. But aye he holds his peace,
And lofty port. Now fortuned this man was
A faithful servant to Verpolitus;
Who lately, come interpreter unto Rome,
With Brennus' heralds, entered in their senate.
This Gaul, still gazing on his Roman face,
Quoth, Father of the Fabii, is certes this;
Even so looked Quintus, and this, who is Fabius,
His voice first gave, against us, in their senate.
Die, thrice accursed, he cries, thou of Gauls' gods!

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And pierced him, that like stock, in purple cloth,
On ivory sits, dispiteous, with his dart.

As when that goodly bird, cock-of-the-woods,
From cedar's bough, plumbs, thrilled of hunter's shaft;
And with his own gore, on the forest earth,
His dying pride is stained; on that paved floor,
So fell this father of the Roman senate.
His long white beard his spouting blood distains,
And toga and sceptre, amidst his enemies.
That Gaul, then, scornful, girds off his hoar head:
And brings sith forth, to Rome's great market-place;
In sight of Romans, on their temple rock.
And sets up all gore-dripping, as it was,
On lance which yesterday slew many Romans.
Thus dies Ambustus, priest of the Red Mars,
For his sons' guilt, who vowed, with dreadful rites,
His soul, for Rome, to their infernal gods!
And were not then Ambustus slain of Gauls,
Should not great Sabine Rome have ruled the world.

Have Gauls, to-day, which through this city wend,
Found many hid in cellars, or in holes
Of their house walls, old spent men, children, wives,
That flit, like bats, Rome's wretched multitude;
Whom the defenders of yond temple hill,

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Shut out from safety and the Latin gods.
Suffer all such poor wights, magnanimous Gauls,
To creep forth, freely, from their city's ports.

And Brennus caused, to be proclaimed with trumpet;
Who fled to sanctuary is of any god,
Fear not come forth. All such might freely pass,
Ere this sun sets. Soon suppliant citizens,
Yet in sore dread, for danger of the Gauls,
More bleak of face than their lapped wadmel weed,
Come trembling in the ways. Those fear the more,
Seen Gauls' outlandish guise, stern men of war,
Immane of stature, uncouth visages,
Whom party-coloured tunics clothe and braies;
Whose watches set in corners of all streets.

Now, by Suburra and Sacra, long paved ways,
To Rome's wide forum, flows white togate press,
Neath hills Capitoline and high Palatine,
Of fatal Rome. Those lift their piteous hands,
Whom tall armed Gauls hem round and horse and chariots,
Up to that quadrate hill of Rome's trine gods.
Eftsoons, from mouth to mouth, runs murmured voice,
Whose sense Gauls read not. Range Rome's reeling press
Them then, and open lane, from part to part;

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That sacred pomp might pass: at whose approach,
This bare-crowned people, sign of mourning, cast
Large lap of their white mantles on their faces.

Whilst yet the Gauls admire, with bills and rods,
(Tall Gauls have these now taken from their hands,)
And pompous train, come sergeants of Rome's town.
Trace matrons then, with solemn dancing tread;
Whom sue six virgins, Hestia's priestesses.
In linen amices, with purple hem,
Lo, girded come those sacred noble maids,
Bearing from temple of the firmament,
(All lapped in purple veils,) their holy things.
They bring great Rome's palladium in a pot,
Of earth; and fire from ever-burning hearth.
Gazing on whose acorn-hewed visages,
Were heard denying some tall fair-haired Gauls,
That they would, of such maidens, take them wives!

Follow, behind those closed, then Roman throngs:
Sith by that bridge of Ancus Martius,
Of beams, o'er sallow Tiber's flood, they pass.
All go up to hill-browed Janiculum.
And there fenced orchards are and vines; where wonne,
Poor potherb garden-folk, that purvey Rome.
In cisterns these, at coming of tall Gauls,

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Them hid and wells. Under a fig-tree hedge,
Now stand their few yoke-kine, by walled wayside.

But those poor wights, the sacred pomp beholding,
Pray on the wains, even in their children's stead,
Those holy things, saved from the Gauls, were laid.
This done the idols, lo, of fatal Rome,
Drawn forth of tardy oxen. Those arrive,
To Caere, a city of safeguard, at late eve.

A shield.

Anglo-Saxon hris, a bough or twig. Apples ripe and cherries in the rise, is one of the old cries of London.

The caper-caillie, so called.

In Tuscan tongue, tall heralds of king Brennus,
Each dawn, proclaim, that Fabii render Rome.
Brennus commands to fire, each afternoon,
New city ward; if haply, and such might bend
Foes' stubborn wills. In no wise would offend,
The king, by armed assault, that temple hill,
Abode of Rome's great trine Saturnian gods.
Him warns Carmenta, nymph, whose myrtle grove,
And well-spring mount Capitoline beneath;
Pleased that her precinct did preserve the Gauls,
Pure from all stains. Is Rome's two-headed rock,
Both temple and arx, hewn quadrate round about,
Like to a city's wall, by antique art.

One noon, were certain Gauls of that day's watch,
Young men, bruised of some hurled-down barley cakes,

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With mocking vaunt, out of the temple rock.
Then mongst their fellows, at the supper fires,
Those sware to wreak them. Threescore, this next night,
Unknown unto their captains, lo, upmount,
(Night lighted of few stars,) with hardy heart,
Tempting to scale Rome's arx, by strong effort;
Where stand few harder stones, as stairs, thereout.
Those bear short stabbing glaives, betwixt their teeth:
On their forearms, are lapped, for shields, their cloaks.
First Alopin, ladder, of strong shoulders, stooped,
Makes: each one, stedfast then, his fellow uplifts.
Each upholds other: thus they mount, from steep,
To steep. Romans forewatched, in summer heat,
And sick of corses' stench and famishment,
With slumber's pleasant weight, lie now oppressed:
Where entered, like some night-fowl, barefoot, Gauls,
Gin sleepers pierce: whose groaning spirits pass.

Them lacked but Fortune, else had of few Gauls,
That night, been won the rock of fatal Rome.
For waked, in Juno's fane, her sacred geese,
Gaggling! Start heavy then, from troubled sleep,
Romans. Men, caught their arms, blow dying fires:
Cometh, running, Manlius, soon, with six score spears,
And Roman knights: gainst few young valiant Gauls.

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Might those, not long, then poise sustain of Romans.
They to Tarpean breastwork overborne,
Backward, being few; and that with many wounds,
Most fall, there slain; and dreadful the rest hurl,
Headlong! Sith Romans all give thanks to Manlius:
And bring him, each, for their lives saved and Rome,
Gifts, barley cakes; and their scant cades of wine.

Nor many days, ere scarcity is of corn,
In the army also of beleaguering Gauls.
Then Brennus, who on sick-bed lies, in Rome,
Tossed of a summer fever, in three powers,
Departs his army. The Saturnian hill,
Part left round-sieging, he another sends,
To search through Roman field, with horse and chariots,
For victual: duke of these is Centigern.
The third, his sick, he sends, with Caturix;
To Tibur city, on the neighbour hills.

Vast silence, sith, is in beleaguered Rome,
Wasted and burned. Among her ruinous heaps,
Languish the Gauls; like weary, then, are Romans.
Pale Famine looks down from their temple hill.
Gaul that meets Gaul, with straitened brows, requires
Tiding of Brennus, who comes no more forth:
Nor found is leechdom, for these foreign ills;
And the air is full of reek of funerals.

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Rumour of disadventure springs, mongst Gauls.
Is noised, were Heremod's war-hounds seen, by night,
Run in Rome's streets. Then messengers are come in,
Cisalpine Gauls; that, night-time, journeying, hid,
In some thick brakes, have every daylight lain.
These secret word, from Santhia, bring to Brennus,
How Boii and Lingones, false Cispadine Gauls,
To Umbrian-Tuscan league, would join their powers.

Then Brennus made, for one day, truce with Romans.
Descend their consuls, parley with the Gauls.
Hungry their plight, and squalid is their weed.
Have eyes as wolves, these Romans! For their lives,
And their rock saved and fane of Rome's great gods,
They covenant to pay ransom, thousand pounds'
Weight of burned gold. They sware, are Fabii dead,
And are mansworn. Behold, made this accord,
Their magistrates bring forth, from Juno's porch,
Coined gold. Gauls' dukes, some taking in their hands,
Admire strange effigies, of wolf-suckled kings!
Sith, lo, fetched forth, (for yet there lacketh poise,
Of gold,) that temple's uphanged ornaments!
Last bring their jewels mourning wives of Rome:

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And all weighs Gabius, at their temple stairs.
Looks godlike Brennus on, magnanimous:
But Gauls' king, spying their Italic malice,
Guileful in weights, his broad Cheruscan brand,
(Lamp of Transalpine Gauls, and Heremod's Almains!)
Into that other basket, scornful, cast;
And, Woe, unto who vanquished! sternly spake;
The remnant he forgives, impetuous:
So loud commands, blow the repair, through Rome.

He mounts then chariot, with Verpolitus.
Gauls, gathered ready, in the ruinous streets,
Then gladly pass dim threshold of Rome's gates.
Upon that orchard hill, they lodge all night,
Which Pincian sith was named: and speedy chariots,
The king, to Centigern, sends, warning return,
Out of the fields; for he at morrow, ascends,
With the main host, to Caturix, duke, at Tibur.

At new day, turns his back, the glorious Briton,
Upon great perjured, ransomed, ruinous Rome,
Which yet doth burn and smoke. They upland march;
And glad are Gauls, as in that summer heat,
To reach fresh breathing coast. Nigh Tibur's gates,
Now noon, the royal leathern booth is stretched,

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Where of Albunea is, (fatidic nymph,)
The fountain-oracle and cool cedar grove.
And Brennus cast in, of the Roman gold,
In her clear pool, mongst captains of his Gauls.

Then, running, two men seen, that breathless, quite,
Approach! Who first, is a tall Briton Gaul:
Who next an Almain; both with deadly looks,
And both of the light armed. These, first of five
Men, runners, from duke Centigern, arrive.

Duke Centigern, is, they cry, beset of Romans!
At even, the king's message he received;
That captain blew then trumpet, to call in,
From field, his scattered bands, to fence of banks,
Which had they cast about a castel-hill;
Whence he, ere morning star, to-night should march.
There they, in squadrons, were lain down to sleep,
Set slender ward. All slumbering, towards midnight,
Men marching, by the moon, with glittering spears,
In the low plain, by way of Veii, pass.
Barked war-hounds, whence those, that were Romans armed,
Halted, perceived their camp; and seemed consult.
Formed phalanx, then, they mount up to assault.
Was duke of Romans some chief magistrate,
Who rode mongst shining axes, and Camill,

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Was heard his shouted name. (Their captain, he
Was, who, with ten years' siege, wan Veii; Rome,
Of Gauls, was taken, in an afternoon!)

The full moon shone from clouds: mounted those foes,
Deep wavering ranks of bronze. But not few Gauls,
Vext by a fever, hardly manage arms.
Duke Centigern shouted, Who, swift-foot, this tiding
Might bring unto king Brennus; should his name
Aye sound, in lays, of the victorious Gauls!
Outlept then five; and brake through battled Romans.

Brennus sends hundred speedy chariots;
And he commands, mount with them the trimarch,
To succour Centigern: and cries, angry in heart;
They fire all village-steads round, to the walls
Of ransomed Rome. Those, lo, as storm, depart.
They hold swift course down to Ciminian wood.

Was lighting now the sun, to her late eve,
When they draw nigh, to place, where, Cerdix duke,
(For fallen is Centigern, in the long night strife!
Whom Cadivor succeeding, soon was slain,)
Yet fight the Gauls, by multitude, beset.

Yonder, behold, a valorous remnant, Gauls
And mingled Almains, that defend the bank!
Wounded the most, for weariness, pant the rest;

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That each, gainst many, and having no more darts,
Hurl stones. The wheels, the war-hounds, the trimarch,
Of Brennus, like to storm, out of the north,
Arrive! Leap Briton warriors down, from carts.

And they, now, falling on the Romans' necks,
Hew shields, pierce hauberks, of hard-tempered bronze.
Break the trimarch through Romans, with stiff spears.
In fury, outrushing some sick Gaul, mongst Romans,
Camillus smote. Then Romans draw back foot,
They lose their ranks; they turn, they flee aghast.
Fast after them pursues, then the trimarch,
Killing and slaying to Ciminian wood.

Gauls, late besieged, now sit, to sup and rest:
Then bind their bleeding wounds, among the dead.
Thereafter, delving, with their glorious glaives,
The Latin sod, bury their weary hands,
The slain. But Centigern, they, the friend of Brennus,
Lay in a chariot, in his bloody harness;
To burn at Tibur. All their hurt and sick
Warriors, (like harvest corn, whose yellow looks,)
And victual, which had gathered Centigern,
They bring, in Roman wains. But the trimarch
Ride forth to warry and waste, burn and cut off,
Even to the ransomed walls of fatal Rome.

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The rest, with Cerdix duke, be come, that night,
Weary, to Tibur. Brennus, Centigern dead,
With his own royal hands, lifts from the chariot.
Then gathered mourning Gauls much funeral wood,
Under the stars; they strew, sith, a vast pyre.
And when long-haired Carnutes' priests have laid,
Thereon, the corse; it kindles the king's torch.
Priests cast his ashes into Anio's flood,
Which streams by Rome; but over his white bones,
At day, mound Gauls, eternal monument.
Brennus, enquiring of the Sibyl, learns;
(Who bubbling rundles, in her sacred pool,
Of cast-in gifts interprets,) shall burned Rome,
This, they leave vanquished, great-grown in late age,
Through all the world, rear trophies of her arms.

One day they rest, at morrow next, remove.
Riding great Brennus, in his battle-cart,
The Briton prince, oft, casts back mourning looks,
Towards that swart mounded mould; wherein he leaves
The bones of Centigern, ah, in hostile march!
Who now with Brennus, in the royal chariot,
Communing rides, is swift-foot Vellorix;
That with a daily fever vexéd is,
Malice of demon of the soil of Rome.
With the Cisalpine duke, Verpolitus,

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(Whose warlike front, where he received new wound
In Roman field, with healing herbs, is bound,)
Next follows swart Ligurian Caturix.

Gauls four days, upward march. At the fifth camp,
Etruscan lords them meet, with flocks from Arunt,
And droves; and that bring with them, in long wains,
Third part of Clusium's fruits, corn, oil and wine.
And Arunt sends, gold-wrought, a victor's crown,
To Brennus, battled like a city's wall.

Thence, Brennus, marched; with all convenient speed,
Contends a month of days, towards Heremod,
And his loved spouse. Last, after many camps,
O'er a wide valley-plain, where they arrive;
Gauls, in the lift, (abominable sight!)
See carrion fowl, which tire upon the dead.
And lo, on a foul, gore-stained, trod-down grass,
Gaping upright, slain, spoiled, of upper weed,
Lie long-haired Gauls, (ah, who hath wrought this scathe!)
Dead steeds, strewed broken furnitures; rusted arms,
Already with night dews; and yet are found,
None enemies' here unburied carcases;
But embers found, ben, warm, in many hearths!

Declare, for thou it only canst, the cause,

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O, Muse. The main host left, in Santhia camp,
Called by Biellan was in hasty aid,
(What days was Heremod ridden to parliament;
And namely of Boii and Lingones, neighbour tribes,)
To ward the confines of king Biandrante.
Marched the same tide; false Lingones' bands, joined camps,
To that wayfaring army of stranger Gauls.
But, sith, being noised king Brennus' death, in Rome;
By covert night, they an Etruscan legion,
With a strong power received, of Umbrian spears:
Who part then of the host, of slumbering Gauls,
Here in this field, by bloody fraud, oppressed.

Moreover envy of Fame's trumpet breath,
Had swelled the recreant breast of one Palarge,
Picton, who Cadivor followed to the war,
And like was he, in arms and counsel, naught;
But painted words, as puddle blebs, whereon,
A little moment shines the sun, could frame.

His fond intent was, draw away the Gauls,
From Almain Heremod, promising unto all,
Which follow him, divide rich Umbrian soil.
Brennus is dead, he cries: behoves Gauls choose
A man, to be their king, in Brennus' room;

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But not an Almain from beyond the Rhine.
He, and his friends, the Alps would liever pass,
Again and turn, freemen, to their own soil.
Then were there many found, foolhardy Gauls,
Which followed forth, by night-time, fond Palarge;
But few of Almain kin, disloyal sons,
Whose sires, with sires had warred of Heremod.

Was Fridia, queen and sacred prophetess,
To certain river isle, twixt Vercellae
And Santhia, now withdrawn; being nigh her time,
Which unto women, heaven's decree assigned.
She dwells in shadow of cool alder grove;
And oft, for tarries long the king, she weeps:
But Nertha comforts her, that lives yet Brennus.
Then many sighs she casts, soon to bring forth.
Few noble women, with her, in that place,
Go gathering herbs, meet for their lady's need.
In midday vision, Nertha her forewarns,
(Goddess which passed the Alps, that wall the world,
With Gauls in arms,) that stream should rise in flood;
Which sign is sent from favourable gods,
That Sigamer, thus shall be called her son,
Is born victorious king of Gauls and Almains.

Then Fridia, wakened, passed beyond the stream,
To a green hill: whereon, mongst cedars sweet,

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Gauls, which left sick in Santhia were; wide bower
Now build for her. Sith they, at the hill's foot,
Watch round in arms. When rose, after day's heat,
Night wind, from the fresh streams, fell childing pains,
On Fridia; and she her women helpers calls.
Nor 'sdeigned the blue-eyed goddess self descend,
In form of Helga, on whom she cast dead sleep,
The queen's Cheruscan nurse. And she embraced,
With love divine her priestess, in her smart;
Between whose knees, now falls, nigh middle-night,
Child Sigamer, germ of the hero Brennus,
Noursling of Nertha. Berhta aided her,
And Holda, which being handmaids of the goddess,
Are women half divine. Sleeps Fridia anon.

Bellow the vaulted heavens; that Taran smites,
Like targe, and flings down lightnings from his hand,
Which pierce the clouds, and leap upon the ground;
And falls much rain; the river roars in flood.
Wakes Fridia, happy, at dawn. A teeming mist,
She sees, wherein that new-birth of the sun,
The heavenly thing, and pathway to high gods;
Which blissful shines, like many-hued spring,
Riding on the wide bosom of the ground:
Whereby already hath, with Berhta and Holda,
Returned the goddess, to divine abodes

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The third day, risen, Fridia pale and faint,
From child-bed, royal Sigamer shows to Gauls:
That hail him, in both tongues, with joyous shout.
Then messengers run forth, men with guirlands crowned;
To city, whither went was Heremod.

With the ethling, thousand Gauls had marched and Almains,
Of the most valiant; and two hundred horse.
But laid false Lingones ambush, midst their path.
Heavy with meat, which sent them those forged friends,
The Almains slumber round their dying fires;
Dreading, in friendly soil, none evil turn.
In the dim night, draw nigh, with silent foot,
Like stealing beasts, whose prey is murdered blood,
Five thousand spears; and harnessed are their breasts:
But wind them Briton war-hounds, yet far off.

Rise up duke Heremod's men, in shielded ranks:
And come, lo, enemies, on, in the moonlight!
Reputing Heremod, then, he is betrayed,
Them calls by name; attesting the high gods,
That abhor perjury! Wonder seen then was,
In panic fear, fast flying Lingones,
For troubled the wood-demons their false hearts;

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Whom seemed the oaks, the root-fast pines, remove
Against them, threatening still their crooked arms.

Duke Heremod viewed, at morning ray, nigh hand,
Some village in wood-side; whose people fled,
When he approached. Found corn there, Heremod fenced
That hill, with pales and rampire. Flocking host
Then, Boii, Tuscans, Umbrians, Lingones,
Have him enclosed. Heremod thence sent, by night,
His runners back, with tidings, to Gauls' camp,
At Santhia: but those in the forest paths,
Were all cut off; and daily did increase,
Which leaguer Heremod round, his enemies.

Anglo-Saxon lyft, the air, atmosphere.

One of the Pictones; whose chief town is now called Poitiers.

As for Palarge, he, blinded of the gods,
Had marched; and followed him tumultuous routs,
Having none certain ordinance nor ensigns,
Yet early, amidst the way, by trumpet's throat,
Palarge had caused himself to be proclaimed,
New king of all the Gauls, instead of Brennus.
But Mantua passed, men of false Lingones, guides,
Palarge beguiled; and they, his folk, by night,
Forsook, in a vast marish fen. Three days,
Those Gauls then wandered wretchedly, seeking paths;

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Till they are spent, for hunger. The next night,
Assailed them, sleeping, army of Umbrians.

Who first then fled, and cast his craven shield;
Wherein portrayed that bird which highest soars,
But false Palarge, who uneath noble steed,
Base thrall, unapt to ride, ignoble, mounts.
He in his coward fear, that steed's proud crest,
And gracious mane, in his ungentle arms,
Embraced, fled fast away and left to loss,
His host; and they were scattered, save few Almains,
That loud invoking Woden, lord-of-spears;
And turned to Umbrians evermore their faces,
Sternly withdrew them, made wall of their shields;
And wan forth, at day's-red, to some dim wood.

But Umbrians having slain, till they were weary,
Gauls of Palarge, they, captives, all the rest,
Bind, like to beasts; and them will vend, for thralls,
In rich Etruria. As for that Palarge,
Unworthy to be named mongst martial Gauls,
He fled, he wist not whither, fled fast on;
And aye, from lofty sell, he dreads to fall.

From every shadow, shrinks his heart aghast,
And faints in the lean chamber of his breast.
At every gossamer weft, which thwarts his path,
He gasps, as cords which should him bind to death.

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If woodhack sudden shrike, in lofty forest,
His spirit faileth. Flickers any leaf,
The hew all changed is, in the hilding's face:
He sweats, he blenches, doubting every bush;
And hardly he caught, again, his dastard breath.
Noise of his own steed's hooves, rings in his ears,
As dread pursuing sound; aye at his neck,
Him seems steel glide; and nigheth fast on swart death
He prays, with double heart, to Gauls' great gods.
And promised the false wretch them many gifts,
Nor would, were he once scaped, perform his oath.
Nor more repair to Gauls, the kestrel hath,
Whom he betrayed; dread conscience only hath,
Of ill desert. And aye this pricketh on fast:
Half sliding from his sell, the lossel rides.
Where all before him seems dire dreadful dream:
Eachwhere, in enemies' march, an open grave.
He dieth thus, many times, before his death.
To tumbling brook, at length, he came, whose sound
Long frayed his ears; and in the meadow green,
He caban spied aghast: yet nigher viewed,
Mongst children small, therein, was one 'lone wife.

Then lighted Palarge, and him proudly advanced;
And standing high on nis distempered joints,
Made as though some great personage that he was!

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Now turns from hunting, by this forest side;
Whence thus his weed to-torn, wind-blown, his locks.
And looking big and grim, the capon quoth,
Yester, discomfited were strange Gauls of Brennus;
Wherein he also, in battle, bare some stroke:
And from stout captain, whom, with spear, he smote,
This rochet took. Entered in that poor lodge,
He takes up there his inn; and asks to dine.
Howbe, Palarge, yet, made it somedeal quaint,
As so great one became. And that poor wife
Him served, of all, what little best, she hath.

But his vile corse, with meat and drink, refreshed;
That spouse he, ah, foully oppressed! He slew her sith;
And slew her children small, dispiteous;
Which her defended, when she cried, alas!
Then seeing he needs must die; covered his face,
He would, with desperate hand, have slain himself,
Had he found heart; but Dread draws back the knife.
Yet slew he, in the valley, those few beasts;
Were all the livelihood of that poor place.
Sith, like mad wolf, he wandered, howling, forth.

Was afternoon, when an armed Umbrian band,
Turning from battle; wherein spoiled and slain;
And namely of this Palarge, were stranger Gauls,

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Him there have found. Great rout, they with them drive,
Of bounden captives; by some of whom known,
That madman those attach, Palarge, who stalks;
And prates aye to himself, with bloody knife.
As for the father of those little ones,
And husband of that wife, which with them was:
Beheld their murders, speechless, he and scathe,
Unto that river ran and drowned himself.

All Gauls detest Palarge, then, by their gods;
And ban the caitif, spitting on his face.
Stripped the mad wretch, they cause him by them pass;
And smiteth every hand his abject corse:
Which done, and even with his felon's knife,
They him unmanned, and cut out his false tongue.
Then made he signs, to signify his mind,
And spread his frenzied hands to angry gods.
But when now all were found his damned deeds,
Men, pierced the sinews, knit, so rapt to flight,
The kestrel's feet, to tail of his own horse;
Which Gauls, with bitter braids, smite and hoot forth.
Are broken the ribald's brows, at the first stone,
And bones; his loathed carcase burst anon.
His ghost torment yet kobolds of that fen.

Hurl on their way, great army of Lingones,

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With Umbrian bands; to assail new Santhia camp.
In Santhia, admonished by divine foresight,
Rose Fridia, yet from child-bed weak and faint;
And being armed with Nertha's divine targe,
She, in their midst, descends, whose gentle hands,
When they were sick, did wait upon their harms;
And bearing Sigamer babe, the child of Brennus.
How quicken the Gauls' hearts, at so sweet sight!
And all they smile on her, with reverent looks.

At Fridia's word, though they perceive no cause,
All put themselves in warlike ordinance.
They cast then earthen wall about their camp,
Ring-wise: nor had they achieved to crown the dyke,
With pales, when brake from wood, forth, with vast shout,
That bordered Santhia plain, foes' blood-stained host,
(Wherefor more fell and dreadful their swart looks!)
Like Fridia, to some image of just gods,
Which look down on the froward deeds of men,
She stands, on thill-board of her wain; and her
Full paps give suck to babe-king Sigamer:
Then in the arms of Osset, maiden thrall,
Who joying him received, the queen deposed.
Mounts Fridia now upon the walls, and bears
Bright sinewed bow: and quiver hangs of Brennus,

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On the queen's shoulder, full of bearded shafts!
Her other hand that Woden-shield embraced,
Which covers yet a veil: and Nertha goddess,
Her bosom girds, with more than woman's force;
To be her people's captain, in these wars.
She, priestess, murmuring, vows the foes of Brennus,
To gods of death: so swart-winged scudding shaft,
To her bow-string fits; draws, and she it loost forth:
Riding wild airs, that arrow bears her curse,
Over the phalanxed enemies; and a twang
The bow-cord gave, which thrilled those foemen's hearts!

Stalks bloody braying Strife, betwixt the hosts,
And battle joins, with infinite hands, the fiend.
Fridia shoots rife; and Nertha guides her shafts,
That they the foes' chief ones attain; and, pierced,
Sinks many a glittering helm and nodding crest.
Like adder's tooth, their warm blood drink her shafts;
But shot of Umbrians idly, as rattling hail,
Fall from her shield divine. By Fridia, unseen,
The mother-goddess stands. Now Nertha marked,
Go certain by, in heaven, huge welken god,
Unto him she calls, on height anon, by name,;
Thou Derg! He then, like herdgroom of earth's ground,

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Gathering swart clouds, to please her, like a flock;
Them scruzed, as mighty udders, twixt his hands.
Ruins then on dim world, a windy flood;
And so an hail smites, in the Umbrians' faces,
They might not, longer, hold the open field:
But draw them, fallen their dukes, to covert wood.

They show themselves, at early morn, anew;
Like wolves, that thirst for blood of those few Gauls,
Whose fence a woman's arm and Nertha's targe.
By her ensample and prophetic voice,
Fridia sustains new battle; in what part
Had Santhia camp defect of hasty walls,
Till noon. Her right hand stretched then forth the queen,
Holding bright lance aloft, and cried, Comes Brennus!
And straight, inspired of Nertha, she unveiled
Her Woden targe. Recoil those harnessed foes,
In great amaze; and cease to fight their hands.

Nigh now the sun, in his ascending cart,
Midheight; few armed men seen, like one man's flock,
Are on the plain, approaching, from South part.
Brennus before them, Heremod, swift-foot run,
Eath to be known, each hero, by his port,
And shining crest! And follow after, fast,

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Who noblest of their Britons, Gauls and Almains,
Glittering in number as eight hundred men.

As glorious Brennus, noble Heremod,
Did seek, erewhile, in war, each other's bane;
They now contend, both, brethren, in dear love;
Towards spouse, towards sister, like two flames of fire:
And both theirs is the young child Sigamer.
They come on, with much cry, like flock of stares.
See, scatter, at the heroes' nigh approach,
Seed of the Northern gods, fell Umbrians!
Nor those wait their hand-strokes, nor bear their shouts,
(Such fear puts in their hearts the mother goddess.)
They flee, from Santhia, an heartless multitude.

But sore constraint falls in the travailled breasts,
Of those two running dukes, that shine far off;
Which gleam have seen, o'er field, of Guidion's shield,
And see now glancing morion of the queen.
They lift devout, up to the heavenly towers,
Their arméd hands. They run now, where, the grass,
Strew Umbrian dead. New cold creeps in their loins,
When, drawing nigh, they, Fridia's tilted wain,

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May plainly see, thick-fledged of long war-shafts!
Which, gainst her life, her enemies lately shot.
Blessed be the gods! she stands forth, them receive:
Her helm now doffs; and they embrace and kiss.
Then Fridia shows them blue-eyed Sigamer,
Whom Osset rocks, with sweet Hesperian song,
And looks of love, babe suckled in the wars.
And smiles, unto them both, the royal child.

Guidion is Woden.

When of this blissful day, the sun dismounts,
Captains and kings sit, yet in their war weed,
Under fair chesten boughs; and with the queen,
They sup. Turn rowan spits, beside the hearth,
Swart young men, captives of Iberian war,
With pleasant smell of roast, to hungry hearts.
Young warriors set on bread, before the dukes,
On whom they wait; and pour, in gold-lipped cups,
(Horns of the great wild ox of forest Almaigne,)
Ausonian blood-red wine. Sup martial Gauls,
At thousand fires; and feel revive their hearts.

An herald, after meat, from the duke's hearth,
Blows mournful note; in sign, all silent drink,
And pour wine out, upon the foster earth;
To memory of their dead, in battle slain,
Or sickness, or through malice of some god

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Oft as some chief one, loud records that herald,
His eyeballs, wherein born are burning drops,
Shrouds many a man of Gauls' tall warriors.

Uprose at the king's feet, a Briton bard;
He took his rote from off his neck, and toucht
The silver wires, and wove them in his hands,
With war-like voice, and clear as shepherd's reed,
Of each, he chants, in order due, the story;
But chiefly the high praise of Cadivor
And Amrigol. His dreaming instrument,
Then made mourn low, honouring young Centigern,
Beloved of all the army, and groan the dukes;
And Fridia weeps, and wetted her bright hairs,
Which, token of dool, the gentle queen had loost:
And all which list that silver-shrill lament,
Rue in their hearts. Then ceased the vates sing,
That himself weeps. And, that day, the name, erst,
Of Rome, was heard, upon the chords of Samoth.

Relates then Brennus, briefly, the emprise
Of Tuscan Clusium, tells of vanquished Rome,
And that soil's sickness; and prince Centigern slain.
Whereafter, ethling Heremod gan rehearse,
How Lingones, his stout warriors, in their march,
(Like beasts in pen, and howling wolves without,)

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Beset; which soon were infinite swarms: sith Brennus,
Being, after days, of those, heard to approach,
They spersed, by night-time. He, on whom were left,
Then sallied suddenly; and, before his warriors,
(That them, which fled, with slaying sword, pursued,
And furious spears,) those fell down, in thick wood.

Standing without, record then loud-voiced heralds,
The royal words; which heard, men joyful shout,
And smite to hollow shields, their war-like arms:
Wives of the Gauls, in all the camps, clap hands!

King Brennus, proudly, girt then valorous arm
Of Fridia, mortal loved of the Earth goddess,
With jewel of Etruscan dedale work,
(His only partage of the Roman war,)
Of the red gold; whereon, of Fidius,
Winged unborn god of love, the image crowned,
Is seen: and noble Fridia, happy smiled.
But she lifts, sudden, in prophetic mood,
Uprisen, hark! loud presaging voice to arms!
Gauls' main camp, Fridia, illumined of the goddess,
Sees compassed round of nations enemies!
New voice of heralds, tumult, war-horns' noise!

Fell power, then, on the two kings, of the gods;
That they leap forth in harness. On them, Nertha,

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Fresh vigour, breathes, and in swift course sustains;
That imped seem, on their shoulders, eagles' wings,
And under them, as bulls, leap their strong knees.
Brennus and Heremod run, in arms, all night,
Unweariable dukes; whom follow fast,
Their warriors in dim hills, with flaming brands.

When dawn, wide-clad, in gold-fringed glittering weed,
Springs; on returning host, which Vellorix leads,
They beat; and aids, which hurt Verpolitus leads:
And each, erst, deemed the other enemies;
For mist, which yet lay on that meadow's breast.
See, wayworn, march that main of war-like Gauls;
Whereof, not few, hewed like the Autumn leaf,
Come sick, from smouldering Rome. In the long path,
Go many training weary joints, uneath:
That fain would lay them down, in briars; so sweet
It were, to sleep, in cragged rocks, were, rest;
To slumber in cold mire, in wind and wet!

Thence taking only thousand chosen warriors,
The kings, of whom unvanquished is the force;
Like full-fed steeds, in race, anew leap forth.
Before them wood and hill seem, speeding, pass.
So ran they on: but did withhold the gods,
To lead the army, unwilling, Vellorix.

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Nighs eve; and Nertha yet upholds their strength,
As though felt not their bruised feet the long trode.
Their beacon an hill's head; and when night falls,
Lo, certain star, whereunder say their guides,
(Men of Verpolitus,) that Gauls' main camp lies,
By a brook side, closed-in of enemies.
They halt, to sup; and then, one little hour,
Till rising of the moon, lie down to sleep:
Whence they awake refreshed, power of the goddess!
As were from night-long rest. They risen so run,
As seemeth that Nertha flings them, from her palm.

Erst from hill brow, at day, they wall discern,
Which girds-in Gauls' main camp, and dukes and warriors,
Which it defend. Are those, like great horned beasts,
Of many wolves beset; that every way,
Turn threatful heads, and ceaseless is their strife.
Like to sea's face, whereon the sunbeams brake,
Glisters wide field, with harnessed enemies.
Erst mark, who run with Brennus, of Gauls' powers,
The huge Helvetian king, known by his arms,
And by his towered targe. Next whom, be seen,
Asperian, Merovin priest, and Frisian Eormen;
And Irmenfried, who vies, in war-like worth,
Cheruscan duke, with ethling Heremod.

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Then Bran, Dumnomian, whose spear-glittering men,
Seem flames upon the wall. Next Carduan,
Who battle-king is named of Belgic Britons.
Mongst shining band of vehement warriors,
Ligurian Vara fights. Beyond whom, seen
Are, Almain warsmiths; mongst whose matchless spears,
Are Offa and Ceolin, known by their helms' crests,
In that they beat back surging enemies.

Lo, on that other hand, Italic Gauls!
Erst Biandrante, who in glorious harness,
With greaves upon his legs, of shining brass,
Stands, like bold charioteer, on his camp wall.
Beyond whom, each with their proud men of war,
Fight Marvor, Oggion, Tolsa, and Marmirol;
With whom joined bold Insubrian Garlescan,
Who war-band leads, all servants of his house.
Then strong Treveglion; beyond whom Biellan,
And Roysan's helms, Transpadine warriors:
Past whom, lo, where unvanquished Baladore
Sustains much battle press. This, they admire,
Dread dance of war, that come with glorious Brennus!
But chiefly an aged hero, in Gauls' camp gate,
That port hath made his body; and which doth fight,
(Wielding in either warlike hand, iron mace,)

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With all durst him approach: and whose long locks,
Over his hauberk, hang down by the nape,
Like eagle's feathers white, the hero Bazzan,
Of martial Cenomans. Disdains this champion,
To stand, in shielded ranks, mongst lesser warriors.
A god, him from thick-flying shot, defends;
And yet maintains, in age, his matchless force.
Of all that came in compass of his hands;
In his long life, few ones returned have, home.

Gainst all the nations, which them now beset,
Fell Boii and Lingones, Umbrians; and the powers
Of thirty Tuscan towns, Gauls hold uneath.
So many are, in this field, their enemies,
That, whilst a third part fight, by turns, the rest
Might eat and sleep: but Gauls can take no rest.

This seen, from far; approaching from wood-shaw,
Lo, on, covertly, leads Brennus, his tall warriors!
Whence, with loud cry, invoked Gauls' battle gods;
They break out, and run sudden in plain field.
And, yet them shrouded Nertha's hand, from view;
Whilst they contend, to yond beleaguered walls.
Nor were those foes aware, turned towards the Gauls,
Their face; till Brennus' glaive is at their necks!

Before the axe, in woodman's robust hands,
As falls some trunk, that ruins, with vast poise,

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In immense space, with many spreading arms;
So hew the glaives of Brennus that armed press,
With dreadful mingled shout of Gauls and Almains;
Hew way of blood, amongst Italic swarms,
In the vast eddies of their spears and shields.
And made them Nertha seem new mighty army.
Gauls, at that cry, leap on their rampire walls,
Marvelling! They, weary warriors, with long siege,
Then shout aloud, of Heremod and king Brennus,
The illustrious names, and blaze from trumpets throats!

Cold coward fear, breathe gods, which fight for Gauls,
Then in Italic breasts; when, from their banks,
Like giants, now issue, Gauls' beleaguered dukes.
Break Gauls, at once, forth, yelling, from all gates.
First Umbrians fled aghast, for dread of Brennus;
Fled Lingones, and them spersed forth towards thick woods.
Flee Tuscans, whose camp takes Verpolitus;
Wherein rich booty of furnitures and arms.
But all too weary, to pursue, were Gauls.
Scattered the enemies' nations, in wide field,
They fled, till eve. The fourth day's dawning was;
When, as beat quails in trammels, fall not few,

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Fleeing by Santhia, on the camps of Fridia.
Then Witta and Vellorix, which there wake, in arms;
With the stern warriors, which returned from Rome,
Whom Cerdix leads, issue like stinging swarms.

Waked was in hoar moon-shine queen Fridia, amidst
The women's wains, afflicted of pale vision.
She dreamed, she captive fell mongst enemies!
From sleep, she leapt; did raiment on, and snatcht
Her bow and Woden shield, and sheaf of shafts.
Yet stooped she, and erst child Sigamer she kissed:
So ran forth, and mounts that Asturian steed,
Which cometh, the gift of Brennus, to her hand.
Leap other valorous spouses of the Gauls,
Women of war, from thill-boards of their wains.
They Fridia follow soon, to foot, to horse;
With outcries shrill. The starring morion, in
That dim light, of queen Fridia, leads them on.
Behold those wifemen hurl, impetuous,
With their spears' points, upon the enemies' backs.
Now have they, partly, cut the rearward off,
Whom they compel, to cast, for life, their arms:
Then drive, aye glorious deed, like beasts, to camp!

Fast swift-foot Vellorix, with the men of war,
After the greater flight pursues: that all

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The way along, before their furious spears,
Fall down, till the hot noon; when wearied Gauls,
Bearing, on wattled boughs, their wounded ones,
Return; lo, thousand captives, reft of arms,
Driving in bounden. When they come, gainst eve,
Lo, Fridia keeps the gates, girt in bright harness!

Next day's light wanes, when cry raised on the walls,
Comes Brennus! Chariots lo, and horse approach;
And these precede the main returning host.
Thus gathered have together, from all parts,
Again, with joy, their gods, victorious Gauls.
Join then, in greeting, thousand strong right hands.

At morrow's noon, when led before the kings,
All captives; Laon, king and priest of Umbrians,
Is found: and first had him descried Biellan,
Albe he counterfeit him, in poor weed,
To be some husbandman. Are Umbrian lords
These with him, whom cut off the impetous spears
Of those bold wifemen of the war-like Gauls;
Whereby reputed all this war is ended,
For Umbrians reverence Laon as a god.

And all who rich and noble, (which made known
By men of Arunt and Verpolitus,)
Are held to ransom. The now wearied Gauls,

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In standing camps abide, then, certain days.
And cast the dread of them, their battle gods,
On all the enemies of great glorious Brennus.

Then Tuscan cities sue, for peace, to Gauls,
And Umbrians, sending solemn embassage.
Disloyal Lingones send then their two kings;
Which lay all fault to charge of their young men,
Saying, they might them not refrain. But Brennus,
On them imposed to yield, of their eared fields,
Third part to Gauls: on hostile Umbrians,
Which their king-priest would ransom with much gold;
That they, yond Eridanus, all their marches
Yield, and they would have peace with Sénones Gauls.
Receive stern answer, Tuscan embassies:
Upon each city, lays victorious Brennus,
A toll of victual; cattle, corn and wine.

The same word as crowd, a stringed instrument.

The river Po.

In the king's council, certain accuse Tages,
Then saying, Was this corrupted their affairs,
Rendering false soothsays; whereby, in late wars,
The estate was drawn in peril of all Gauls.
King Biandrante sent then, summon Tages.

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But that king's messengers Tages found, deceased;
Who opened in a bath, men say, his veins.
That seer foreknowing, to Etruscan nation,
By Gauls descended lately from the Alps,
Much hurt must follow; longtime used this sleight,
(Tendering his people yet his Tuscan soul,)
To Gauls, he gave Etruscan auguries;
Wherefore, he vengeance took on his own flesh.
But when hear Gauls, that strange new kind of death,
The seer, that so unmanly died, they deem
No man; for save by mouth of battle-iron,
Or bit of bronze, they hold no freeborn man
Ought die. Whence bury him his sons, not burn;
Like woman laid in a forgotten tomb,
And without honour of the martial Gauls.

Out of his city, swift-foot messengers, then,
Glad tiding, to king Biandrante, bring:
How, yester, a maid child was born to him.
Her asks, for babe-king Sigamer, glorious Brennus:
And Biandrante accords; enduring bond,
Should be, between all kindreds of the Gauls.
Soon after this, Cisalpine Gauls march home;
Charged on their necks Etruscan spoils, as much
As each might carry. And did divide king Brennus,
Unto all their dukes, gold taken in this war.

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Arrived, the same day, solemn embassage,
With trains of beasts, and bearing royal gifts,
From Clusian Arunt, to the Gauls' king Brennus;
Him brother, and new conqueror of Rome,
Saluting: and Porsenna's antique arms,
His glaive of adamant, ceiled with golden flowers,
He sends, and long-maned Greekish helm of bronze;
Whereon is effigied Rome's great temple-arx,
With silver wall and golden battlement,
For crest; and king Porsenna's hauberk bright,
With Victory-winged portrayed, in the mid breast;
And shield, wherein limned air-hanged monument,
With shining gold, which wonder of the land.

To Fridia, queen and sacred prophetess,
Of Gauls Transalpine, Arunt, reverent, sends
Etruscan mirror, made of mingled tin,
And gold and steel, which like stars' burning flame;
With imagery of the twelve greater gods,
Of Tuscan subtle antique work adorned.
To Heremod, two tall steeds, king Arunt sends,
Daughters, men feign, of swift Sicanian winds:
To babe-king Sigamer, jewel, made like chain,
Of the burned gold, of many little hands,
Whose magic virtue to preserve from harms.

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Bring Arunt's legates treaty of fast league,
In brazen tablets, charactered with gold;
Wherein is graven, Friendship, aid in wars,
Twixt Clusium city and Transalpine Gauls.
The third day take those legates leave of Brennus;
And wend with them Tolosan Vellorix,
And Bran, Dumnonian. Is this Briton prince,
Mongst all the Gauls, which passed the Alps with Brennus
And Heremod, counted fairest personage:
These friendship shall confirm with Tuscan state.

And Brennus, bronze-hooked silver-tyréd chariot,
Sends to king Arunt; and, in brazen coffer,
Lo, public gift, the temple ornaments,
Of ransom-gold of Rome: and asks king Brennus,
Might these be hanged, before his city's gods;
And namely in the great fane of Tuscan Clusium,
Sign of enduring amity with his Gauls.
Sends to king Arunt, noble Heremod,
For token, amber precious cup; it is
Of proof, gainst venim and all baneful spell;
Wherein his sires, whose blood descends from Woden,
Drank mead; and poured out to the blessed gods.

These things concluded, with grave sound of warhorns,

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Gauls' martial nations, which have passed the Alps,
Levy their camps; for lacks now in that place,
Herb for their beasts. At length, where Anemo's stream
Down-flows, they lodge: the place at a ford's head;
Where verging common ways, is merchants' wont,
Convene to traffic. Gauls vend to them there,
Their captives taken in late Umbrian war.

Then Gauls make sacrifice, to their war-gods,
(Which dures forth other days,) and eat and drink.
And yet, ere the leaf falls, duke Heremod leads,
Eastward, a power, to sea of Umbrians.
That coast they waste: and after not long siege;
By the only terror of their name, take Gauls
Ariminum, city fenced, at the sea waves.

Now winter nigh, the Gauls' victorious kings,
Appoint, o'er their armed nations, magistrates;
That these divide, to every freeborn man,
A ploughland, were he Briton, Gaul or Almain.
Sith Gauls, in mirth and rest, pass winter feast.
Brennus and Heremod, then, their royal booths,
Pitch at flood side: that which, have Sénones Gauls,
Now Sequana named; after the stream which flows,
In Gaul, by fair Lutece. There timbering Gauls,
Of wattle and of turves, them winter bowers,

217

Found town, which sith named Senogallia.
Whereof when tidings come to Clusian Arunt,
He Tuscan master-craftsmen, to king Brennus,
Sends; and Gauls, taught of these, build of hewed stones,
A temple and city; and fence round with just walls.

Now Tivoli.

BOOK V

ARGUMENT

In a great battle, at Ariminum, the Italic nations are finally defeated, by Brennus.

The Earth-mother, goddess.

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.

BOOK VI

ARGUMENT

Funerals of Second Brennus. Britomart's Gauls conquer Galatia.

Cimbers, which partly seed of Brennus' Gauls, overthrow Roman armies; and pass over the woody mounts, into Spain: but, in the end, they are subdued and cut off, by the Roman consul, Marius.

Cæsar, having conquered Main Gaul, invades Cantion, with legions. In the new year, he returns, with a greater power to Britain. He, finally, departs; with loss.

Pomp of Samoth's god, to the great plain of the Sun. Cassiobellan and Commius strive, for the divine image; which is brought, at length, unto Isle Mona.

Christ born into the world. Stephen is slain; and the saints are scattered. Certain disciples, journeying down to Galilee, constrained by the Spirit, preach in Samaria. Descended thence, to Cæsarea, they find Joseph. Tumults among the Jews. In that peril, many of the brethren escape to Mnason's vessel; and sail forth. Certain are set on shore. The rest, in the ship, sail thence by Carmel, Tyre, Sarepta, Sidon, Berytus. From Aphic cliffs, (whereon is a fane of Asherah, the moon-goddess,) they are cast over, in strong storm, to Cyprus. Driven from under lee of that Island; they are carried forth, in much tempest, in the Midland Deep. God the Father sends His angel, to convey them unto Britain. The ship's heathen mariners rise up to slay the Jews. A sign from heaven. Strong Alexander. Isle Iranim; where those shipmen assay to save their lives to land. A calm morrow. A vision of Ithobal.

And now allayed, of heaven, the stormy wrath,
There went by, certain scouts, from the main army;
(Of whom, much part, in wide Corycian cave,
Pan saved, wild god; where kindling hundred fires,
They, sheltered, comforted their hearts with food:)
With warhounds, Brennus those, eachwhere, seek forth!

Howl warhounds; that have, in his blood, found Brennus,
On this bleak bent, mongst frozen warriors!
How stand those Gauls, confused, and mourn their hearts!
Gone back, on Brennus' steps, they find his peers,
Lie under rocks' wild eaves; cold, stiff and dead.
Then haste those scouts, to heap a little dust,
With pious hands, on them, and stones, and frost.

On boughs, of mountain pine, they Brennus' corse,
Bear forth to Gauls' cave-camp; hence not far off.
Then sally Brennus' army, cypress-crowned,
With wailing chant, to meet the royal hearse.

Sith, all day, there was made great moan, for Brennus;
Till eve, when with split olive-beam, the dead
They burn. At new sun-rising, Gauls, of stones
And earth, mound hill on Brennus' burning place.

This was that other Brennus, king renowned,
In antique song, for Hellas' great emprise.
Above all battle-smiths, was his great force:
Yet fell he, without honour, at the last;
And cause, he was not loved of any god!
Wherefore his mortal strength, which did attempt
Thing, which accomplish might the only gods;
Could not prevail, or save, or bring to pass.
King noted, mongst his people, Ambones,
One given, midst the mead-horns, to insolent riot:
And in his grame, how, and oft overmood;
Was swift his high hand, on manslaying sword!
But tiding come to Britomartos' ears,
Who yet in Macedon is, with half the army,
Of Brennus' death; that prince of heaven enquires.
And the oracles renounce, God defends Hellas!
Unto whom, not disobedient, he withdraws,
(Omitting Greece,) now, to the Hellespont:
Where come, what rests, to him, of Brennus' powers.

But Britomart, to that salt-streaming strait,

Arrived, some little from Poseidon's town,
Declining, overfares, in wattle-barks;
Which, fame is, wrought, (of well-steeped osier rods,
Dight with pitcht line,) Britons, which with him marched:
Then being to soil, beyond, all safely passed,
Nikomédes, one of that coast's kings, besought
Gauls' instant aid, of warlike Britomart,
Gainst the king's enemies; promising Gauls, meed,
(That strangers are, and landless, in these parts;)
Half of what villages, cattle and fair fields,
They might win, with him, of their adversaries.

Gauls then, with king Nikomédes, lo, march forth,
To victory: which being given them of the gods;
That conquered soil Bithynians did, with Gauls,
Divide, in just accord. It pleased, thus, God,
In His foreknowledge, plant the ingenuous Gauls,
Mongst old worn fastuous nations of the earth;
And give them, and their seed, there, plenteous seats:
Where dwell they, neighbours to the sacred gates,
Of Canaan, till the coming of the Christ!

Byzantium.

Rule Ambones, heirs of Rome-conquering Brennus:
And what time, now, was king Divitiacus,

(Of Brennus' seed,) in Belges' Gaul and Britain;
Were Celtiberians nigh destroyed of Rome.
By Rome's hired murderers, Viriathus falls,
Great hero of Spain: but he avenged her wrongs.
Cimbers, with warlike Teutons, then, in arms,
(Were Cimbers, partly, seed which Arthemail led,
Thither, of old time, of great Brennus' Gauls,)
Gainst Rome, arise. Then send, (adventurous swarms;)
Their warlike youth, to Cimbers, their allies:
Mongst whom, lo, many main and island Gauls;
And, people of Brennid Arthemail, Ambones.

In Thule, those Cimbers dwell, called End-of-land;
Which with the opposing Thule of Helvions,
Shuts in, vast sea-gulf, mighty Mentonomon:
Which passed, lies Ocean, bridged with stony frost,
Dead Mormarusa, till that congealed wall,
(Whereas are dancing-places of the Dawn,)
Which the world bounds; whereon, steep firmament
Is staied; under whose coast, feign bards, beyond
Cold clear North wind, there sleeps a winter-god,
Crowned with bright rays, in amber pumy cave;
Where strange birds bring him an ambrosial food.

Great-statured men, behold! whose infinite swarms,
Dark forests seem of spears, their threatful face,
Towards Summer Land, descending from the North,

With flocks and four-wheel wains; and is, as noise
Of tempest, their dread march. Where those meet, erst,
Legions of great-grown Rome; there Romans fall,
In fight, as bulrushes, before their glaives.
That day, they, utterly, did beat down, of Rome,
The vaunt; her consuls, bury in the field:
And spoiled, the Cimbers' dukes, their helms and harness.

Yet twice, in the next years, the Roman armies,
They overthrew, (Belos, the Cimbers' king,
With his own hand, Aurelius Scaurus slew,
Consul of Rome;) and a fourth time, by Rhone;
And was with so great slaughter of Rome's sons,
That, purpled, ran down Rhone, swift-streaming wide;
And out, even, on blue sea-deep, stained with blood.
Cimbers' victorious army, sithen, marched,
O'er Pyrene mounts. They tarry, in Spain, two years:
And, (wrongs there rendered, of Gauls Celtibers;)
Still wrought destruction of the Roman name.
Then weary, again, those mountain-wolds they passed.

But now, like winter-brook, that roared amain;
Sith wasting, last, in summer heat, decays;
Nor fortune long, at any stay, may dure,
Of mortal wights, which neath the moon, have being:

Or envying gods, in their immortal breasts,
Gauls' glory; and fearing, lest the antique giants,
Should new uprise, rude Cimbers' minds confused;
So that, in two hosts, they depart their armies.

Then vanquished Teutons war-wont Marius;
With such effusion of their barbare blood,
(Is seen, twixt Aquæ and Arles, the battle-place!)
That purpled seemed Gaul's plain, as summer heath.
On Cimbers, which the travaillous Alps have passed,
And sacrificed, at the grave-hill of Brennus;
In the next year, in fair Verona fields,
A like destruction falls. Rome's Consul Marius,
Them overthrew. Few which escaped, with life,
Under the spear, were sold, for thralls, in Rome!

Now Corbelin, nephew of Divitiacus,
Being king in Britain, consuls of great Rome,
Taught of the gods to war, much part of Gaul,
Subdued; though, to her aid, sailed Cantion youth.
In heavy hoys, borne slowly of the wind,
Could not be rowed; had those, in arms, contended,
Gainst Rome's light navy, longships, winged with oars.
But aye, in equal battle, they more valorous
Were found, as Britons yore, than Rome's helmed soldiers.

In Italy, now subdued; the Gauls of Brennus,
Do pass, again, the mighty Alps, in arms;
But, ah! now, inscribéd in the Roman legions!
Gauls war on Gauls; nor else in all the world,
Had, o'er the nations' gods, prevailed great Rome!

One summer morn, when in their sacred month,
From cantreds, and from dunes, much concourse is,
Of Briton folk; nor few come, bearing arms,
Which from far shires, to the moot-hill of Samoth,
Where should be courses run of famous chariots;
Men, as who dream, behold, full of winged ships,
Yond blowing seas! Lo, sun-blanched, thousand sails!
Much like as where spread fullers forth their wares,
Of line, in flowery meads of Itchin's brook;
Or butterflies disporting o'er the stream,
Which thickly, upon some river-weeds, alight.

Wind warhorns, the four kings of white-cliffed Kent;
And, hastily, kindled is much warning smoke,
Calling to arms. Shout fast-assembling Britons!
To seaward all, then, watch, with glittering spears.
Their knees, as bulls, dance under them, in course:
And pant their hearts, to battle. Rome's longships,
Approach, with weather and with tide. Seen Britons

Stand on yond cliffs, so rife; those, further, passed,
Seek where, before them, lies more open shore.

Fast follow warlike Britons: who to horse,
Who, light-armed, running with the justling chariots.
Haste them then Romans, leap down, from their ships,
In the salt billows. Archers, from the poops,
Erst, with thick shot, depulse the Britons' horse.

Mounts Cæsar's phalanx up, with knitted shields,
Then, from sea strand; and ring those chisel banks,
Erst, under enemies' tread! In sliding ground,
Shoot Briton charioteers, their darts, on Romans;
Sustaining, till their first foot-bands arrive,
Tumultuous running thicket of bright spears.
Britons, with shields, and valorous naked breasts;
Hurl enemies' strife, back, on their foster shore!

Ere might entrench them Romans, on the green,
Was afternoon; and still assail tall Britons,
Casting thick darts and stones, their hasty vallum.
Night fallen, murk tempest, that doth fight for Britons,
Afflicts Rome's heavy sailing ships of charge;
And gulfs their long row-gallies, drawn on land:
So that, when lightens day, on Kentish coast,
Like carrion cages of unburied bones,

Strewed in some slaughter field, lie broken hulls.
Perished in those dasht Roman-Gaulish ships,
With great destruction, Cæsar's mariners.

Beholding legions, cut off from the main,
Stout Cassiobellan, lord of Verulamion,
Choose Britons; them, in this great war, with Rome,
To lead. That king lays ambush, in dim wood.

Now Cæsar when, at day, he no more Britons
Discerns, a cohort sends, to reap down corn.
Done off their helms, and laid aside their harness
And shields; in Britain's harvest fields, Rome's soldiers
Whet their Italic glaives, to reap them bread.
Then suddenly outleapt, on them; tall glast-stained Britons,
In routs, drive soldiers, towards their naval camp:
Whence Cæsar issuing, armed, them hardly saved.
Sith he, that night time, in what rest of his
Longships, embarked, (now, doubly, is each one fraught,)
His silent legions; hoised, from Island Britain,
Broad sails, steers over to Gaul's Continent.

Then Cassiobellan, called all Briton kings,
To Troynovant; proclaimed, mongst the blue tribes,
One year's high truce. For, like as seen, mongst Gauls;

For factions, might not Britons thrive nor rest.
Let all their powers be ready, at the New Year;
When word is, Romans will renew the war.

W. Cantref, a Hundred. Cant, hundred, and tref or tred, homestead.

Now in that month, when churlish winter past,
Blithe cuckoo sings; and springing the new grass,
Lengthen the days, and kine go thrice to pail;
And ships sail forth, is, from Gaul's Continent,
Resort of merchantmen again to Britain:
Of whom is heard, that soon will Cæsar pass
The seas; and that with greater armament.
Then fortifies king Cassiobellan camp,
Felling wide round, in compass, in green wood,
Rampire of thousand oaks; which, heaped with sods,
His people's cattle might safeguard in wars.

Pass other weeks; till when, one rising dawn,
Behold, from Cantion cliffs, new Roman navy,
Borne slowly, infinite ships, forth of light wind!
Which failing under land, they thresh, at once,
Wide-wandering waves, with myriad glistering oars.
Cæsar, arriving at shole strand, descends,
On empty shore: where, as the former year,
He fences naval camp; so rests, till eve.
Come night, his legions march, by the moon's lamp;
But on all hills, see Britons' warning fires.

Send kings of Kent, before them, battle chariots,
Which station, shrouded in a woody hill:
Whereas, towards dawn, when gin Rome's cohorts pass,
Weary and chill, and ready now to lodge;
Break, with dread yell, forth, on them, woad-stained Britons.
Erst hideous creaking din of battle chariots;
Down-rushing, from hill-steep, disorder Romans.
The sharp bronze axe-tree scythes of Kent-men's warcarts,
Maim many wretchedly; and pierce legionaries,
Those woad-stained charioteers, that shoot sharp darts.
Sounds Cæsar halt; so sends his Gaulish horse,
To vex, on every hand, with javelins' cast,
Those island trains. Britons outnumbered, thrice,
Spent their first force, withdraw them to hill-woods;
Whereas they lurk, in arms, till fall of night.

Was then, that Taran, unchained tempest blast;
And clouds whelmed, of thick darkness, on steep seas.
Uneath might stand a man, for rage of wind,
In breaches of the storm, on Cantion cliffs.
The roaring deep lifts up his boisterous foot;
And falls, on the dry land, in cataracts.

All broken lie, of Rome, the long war-ships,

On Kentish coast. Cæsar, again, in haste,
Returns: and to repair so great mishap,
Sends o'er, for shipwrights, to Gaul's Continent.

Whilst Cæsar tarries at the island's coast,
To Cassiobellan, come much woad-stained youth;
That leap to arms and warfare, as to feast.
Have chanted bards, in their lords' halls, this curse:
Who goeth not forth to warfare, for his gods,
Gainst strangers, which the foster-land invade;
Should not his sire acknowledge him his son.
Shall his own wife and children him, and thralls,
Despise: and shall not those, when he comes home,
Run forth, with joy, to meet him. Shall be burned
His homestead, slain his cattle; and he infamed,
Himself and banned; dead, also, with mischance;
Shall not his father's kindred, last, receive
Him, in soul-kingdom of infernal gods!

First to arrive, were young lords, in swift chariots.

They, when great Cæsar turns, again, from shore;
Vex, with oft ambushes, his legions' trains,
And with the Gaulish-Roman horse contend.
Eftsoons, with warlike host, comes Cassiobellan.

Lo, midst his marching legions, Cæsar rides,
Julius, (known to all ages,) on white horse!
And bears a purple cloak, this duke; which hath
All great Gaul, lately, tamed. Then Rome's allies:
Sith voluntary rabble, loose, armed, bands;
Which follow Cæsar's fortune, to his wars:
The sum of all, were fifty thousand spears.

Expedite Cæsar, passed at Conway Stakes,
(Had Cassiobellan fenced that ford, with pales,)
Thames, by his warlike sleight, what though Thames' brinks,
Held Briton chariots; took then, by assault,
(Out of the field,) that hold and cattle-dune,
Of Britons' king: wherein, with infinite beasts,
Few hinds were left. Sith port-sale being made,
Were all, both sheep and beves, to merchants, sold,
For the hides' bare worth; and sold those hirds for thralls.

In this, to Cantion cliffs, his squadroned war-carts,
Leads Cassiobellan, gainst Rome's naval camp.
Long then was fought blind battle, in the night;

Till wounded Cassiobellan Roman dart.
But him, (blue Britons' war-lord,) in his chariot,
A king of Kent, saved, to nigh covert wood:
Where Cassiobellan, now, in languor, lies.
But when ran voice, that was their war-lord slain,
Disperse, (which gathered were, yond Thames,) blue Britons;
Caterfs, in arms, to withstand harnessed Romans.
Nigh-dwelling Trinobants then, first, to Cæsar,
Did sue for peace; with prayer, that Mandubratios,
Prince to him fled, in Gaul, from Cassiobellan,
Were now to them restored, to be their king.
And Cæsar grants: those sureties give; and promise
A, yearly, tribute send, to sovereign Rome.

But Gaulish Commius, royal Atrebate,
Both Britons' friend and Romans'; for not yet
His wrongs were ripe, went unto Cæsar's tent;
Shows great uprising must be, from the North;
And that next moon, of all this Island's tribes:
Aye, and Cassiobellan lives. Wherefore deemed Cæsar,
Expedient, to Kent coast, withdraw his legions.

There, after few days, stived his wasted cohorts,
In the weak remnant of longships; he, loost,
His three-square sails, hoised, from our Britain's coast;

And, once more, stood o'er to Gaul's Continent:
Leaving ten thousand, Latin carcases,
(Soldiers, and who armed followers of the legions,)
To dung that island soil, (yet unsubdued!)
He came to reave; and hoped it to possess.

Rive, angry winds, their sails! But thou strong Albion,
Which hovest, aye, on thy sheen, (it to safeguard,)
Wide, angel-wings, o'er this, free, sea-walled nation;
So break their pirate keels, and cast aback,
With shame and hurt, them; that, with strong armed wrong,
Our erewhile happy Britain would invade!

And thou, whoso thou art, that goest about
To kindle hell, on all our island hearths;
Shalt be a lord, erelong, (strong Albion saith,)
Of souls beneath the waves, and sunken ships.
Take heed thou, (that would'st slay us,) to thyself,
God abhors Cæsars! Against such, be, first,
In fight, each hero's hand, and levelled shaft;
To cut him off, from all Christ's peaceful earth;
Long battle-trodden! Rome's late peril past,
Blue Britons, for a season, then, have rest.

Lat. caterva, a Gaulish word.

Lords ride, in the new year, with warlike chariots,

To Kent's moot-hill: and Britons' parliament,
Assembled, at that tide, lo, to sea cliffs:
Where plays of running horses, and career
Of battle-carts, and many warlike shows;
With pomp and sacred choirs of white-stoled druids.
Britons' chief druid dreamed, he dreamed it, thrice,
And told the kings; that image of his god,
Which Samoth, old, set up on Kentish cliff,
He saw, in vision, turn his divine face,
From Gaul oppressed; and cried immortal voice,
He would remove. The kings, by sacrifice,
Enquire; and it, by signs, confirm their gods.

Devout, then kings and who chief priests, impose,
On new oak wain; (whereto have joined their hands,
Two white colts of a year, whilst loud chant druids,)
The sacred image. Might be manifest thus,
Made the high pleasure of the Britons' god.

Cropping the tender herb, those colts draw forth,
With tardy wavering pace. Wend barefoot choirs,
Of white-stoled druids, all chanting where they trace:
With whom much people, which have crowned their heads,
With guirlands, and that carol on green grass.
Descends this sacred pomp, from shire to shire:

By forest Andred, sith by dark Coitmawr:
And come forth all, to worship, where they trace;
And follow them, with hymns and joyous feast.
Unyoked, at eve, in sheltered leas, are loost,
The sacred steeds, to pasture, till new sun,
Shall mount in the blue oracle of heaven;
Fair as the eyebright flower, full of clear beams.

See, how the goddess, Mother of the Year,
Her virgin youth reneweth! late, having doffed
Her russet homely weed of winter teen,
She takes new raiment, on her, of high tide,
With silver knops and buds of living gold.
The earth her garden is, wherein she goeth,
As Dawn's sweet breath; and all, with green, bedecks,
And gentle flowers, like a bride-chamber floor.

Teems earth's wide bosom, of much sunny rain,
As in what tide the firstlings she brought forth,
Of love, in the fair field of a new world.
A shrilling subtil ferment is abroad,
Like harping small, of iris-wingéd flies.
Ean ewes, in shepherds' pinfolds, without throes;
And fallow-beasts couch, in the fern; where goeth
By, Samoth's god: in thickets, they bring forth.
Comes every kind, that harbours in green wood;

To silver accords of the druids' crowth,
According the swift tripping of their feet,
Forgate their salvage mood. Run the dun does;
That stand then, mongst the hazel-thicks, at gaze.

Through moor, through moss, and many an oozyford,
And bourn, they tread; that, in his hollow brinks,
His pebble-streams, in reverence of the god,
Withholds; that might they, dryfoot, overpass.
Through launds, and by sweet-smelling underwoods,
Which guirlanded with honeysuckle locks;
Where windflower blows, and dew-dropt daffodillies,
With robin, medléd in the thicket grass;
And loved maylilies, most of heavenly grace,
And pure ambrosial breath: where vermeil-white,
Are blossomed boughs, of cherry and the thorn;
And strew wood-apple blosms, their forest path.
Be these wild garden-grounds of Britain's woods.
Bow down their sprays, the latticed boughs of oaks;
And seem to crown the Britons' antique god,
With budded bronze. Bordering these breathing pines,
Beyond the forest, lies fair champaign, wide;
Sweet with wild thyme, and gift of the sun-god;
Which flower of broom gilds widewhere, and the arms
Of thorny honied whin, that heathbell shrouds;
In whose frail trembling crocks, the wild bee sleeps.

And, lo, in the element, follow, from green woods;
(Which druids' pomp o'erhang,) melodious fowl,
Like chapelet, singing praises to the god:
Which past; see, Britons' fields! where now West wind
O'erthrows the barley blade, that tender springs,
To the colts' knees. There, putting flower to flower,
This people gather poesies; and before
The sacred cart, them strew of Samoth's god.

Though, daily, some turn home, each morn more grows
The sacred throngs. And when that blissful sun,
Loosed the god's steeds, is from the earth, gone down;
The Britons, which have washed in some nigh stream,
Their garments and their flesh, to keep them pure,
Sup of what little in their scrips they bare.
Then, nightlong, making leafy boughs their beds,
The harps they hear and holy chant of druids;
Whereto, of waterbrooks, soft bubbling noise,
Makes answering voice; and dew lies on the grass.

Surges blithe lavrock, in the rising sun;
And chants, at heaven's high gate, that new-born god,
Which looks, with flaming locks, above the world.
Then waken all sweet fowl that sing in the morn.
Hark, their full-throated song, in breasts so small!
Hark, siskin, ruddock, linnet and the wren,

Odzee-zit-spirrink! each his leman call.
With train of little birds, flits spotted gawk,
From hill to croft. Rides antique Samoth's god,
(Midst Britons, which bear rowan sprays and sheen
Green oaken boughs and holm, from sacred groves,
Devout, forth, in their hands, by these wild paths;)
Aye tottering image, in new harnessed cart;
With guirlands, deckt. Now they, at length, approach,
(Foot-weary throngs,) the sun-god's sacred plain;
Where nations dead, in grave hills, lie around;
Sun's famed wheel-temple, of the hanging-stones:
Where manifest, once a year, is, with sweet sound,
Of harping, in the skies, the Summer-god,
Who Belin named. Here loost the sacred steeds;
At eve, rest Britons: under the horned moon,
All silent lies, save bruit of crickets shrill.

Springs dawn; joined to the wain, those sacred steeds,
They, whinnying oft; then, daylong, waver round
That holy fane. When this a se'nnight dures,
A bower build, night-time, druids, of oaken green;
Which taking root, over that sacred wain,
At morrow, already, ah, wonder of the gods,
Be growing trees! Moreo'er, was thatch, thereon,
Of clambering ivy-twine, or even, seen!

Chief priests then, which the mind of Samoth's god,
Explore, interpreting that new heavenly sign,
Bade kings proclaim, that turn this people home.
There guest they Samoth's god, leave, of the Sun.

The Greatwood, in Somersetshire.

Now Stonehenge.

The moons have waxed and waned, of seven years,
In Britain's skies; when spake dark oracle,
Nigh city of Troynovant, which, in those days, was,
In chalky cave; would Samoth's god remove,
Beyond sea-waves. For this, contention is,
In their truce-month, mongst sceptred kings; whereas,
To Samoth's hill, of Cantion's windy cliffs,
They come to council. Loud there Gaulish Commius,
(Now king, in Britain's isle, o'er Belges' nation,
Are those earth-tillers and, in arms, proud warriors;)
And whose high heart is turned, as wine, to sour,
To abhor Romans; cries, The god of Samoth,
O'er Cantion seas, to Brennus' Gauls, would pass,
Mongst Britons armed; to burn again proud Rome.

But Cassiobellan, come to Verulam home,
Thence marched, to the sun's fane; fearing lest Commius
Should reave that holy image from Isle Britain.

But angry the sun-god, when voice he hears,
Of strife, and sound of armies in his plain;
Murrain and pestilence casts on beasts and men:
And dures, in both the hostile camps, that death,
Until, to peace, incline men's weary hearts.

Make covenant then, betwixt those kings, chief druids;
That were imposed, in sacred cart, again,
That Samoth's god. Kings' yoke, now old, his steeds;
Which, towards the setting sun, gin new draw forth.
Is season glad: lo, where they journey hold,
Sweet-smelling summer heath and leafy woods!
And sith, by coast, where for wheeled wain, no trode,
Appears; yet as in champaign place, they pass,
Power of the godhead. Chanting, as they wend,
Devout, much people sue the sacred steeds.

Behold them, after many days, arrive,
Whereas murk forest-isle, Silurian Mona,
A streaming sea-strait severs from mainland.
That Sound, o'erswimming, pass the sacred steeds;
To Mona's shore. Britons some in frail curachs
Follow; some swimming, other wade, uneath.

Where now salt-dripping steeds, from the grey flood,
Ascend, behold, full of strange light, a cave;
Cleft erewhile sacred to sea nymphs; whose voices

Priests ween they hear, amongst the tumbling billows.
Druids the antique image there depose;
Which, midst of empire, in long age to come.

Returned from Mona, send back Briton kings,
Who, cunning most, found with them, wrights and smiths;
To edify Samoth's god, some stately house.
Those timber temple-porch, under sea cliff,
That wonder was; with graven balconies,
And high-reared roofs, and stairs; where sacred pomp,
At each year's end, of the tribes' kings, upmounts.
Come that high tide, they dedicate, in dim Mona,
This work; which liken singers of their bards,
To gold-bright mansions of the blesséd gods.

After this age, in Britain, long endured
Peace; Commius dead, dead also is Cassiobellan.
An handful now, of common cinders, made,
Is mighty Julius; he, whom the whole earth,
Seemed but small compass, for his only tomb.
No more, sails Roman navy, into Britain;
But Britons' summer ships, to Roman Gaul,
With corn: and full of people is the Isle;

Whither trade gainful merchants, from the main;
For hounds and wool; for tinny ores and line.

Pass other years: and seemeth that her first peace,
Returned to earth; and truce in weary hearts!
Then, in a night, which lightsome seems as day,
Sounded in Mona's temple-cave, divine
Voice, saying; Him worship, all ye Briton gods!

Dear Muse, which from this world's beginning, was
Seated, above, in heavenly harmonies;
Reveal that Radiance to mine hungry ears,
Thine eyes behold; what sacred Light, far off,
Like New wide Dawn, (for which, men's eyes have watched,
From age to age,) now kindled on the earth!
Whilst Night lies, as a cloak, whelmed on our Britain;
Tell me of Land, under East bent of heaven;
Wherein, is born, the Everlasting Prince
Of Peace, Sun of night-darkness of our hearts!

On her cold hills, lo, snow's white raiment lies:
And journeying, on a lowly ass, there rides
A maiden pure, enwombed of heavenly child;
That not of sinful fleshes seed, conceived;
But as of sunbeams' influence, which looked down,

Divine, from heaven. And though, to a just man,
Espoused, she lately was, she VIRGIN is.

They went by Zion's city and hill; whereon,
Melchizedek worshipped: and her temple walls,
(Wherein wont dwell that Presence of the Highest,)
Reverence! Now, towards the winter's even, draws:
They a little twilight hour, yet journey forth;
Then, weary, Miriam lights down at an inn.

They sup: but, sith, (the chambers being full
All, of wayfaring guests,) rose Miriam, pale,
Feeling much burden of her guiltless womb;
And she sequestered her, in an ox-stall:
Where, kneeling, virgin-spouse, on the clean halm,
With folding hands, she sought the Lord and prayed,
It might Him please, her innocency to make known.

God sent then two poor wives, which, of her kin,
Seemed; (but were angels,) in that darksome bower;
To be her helpers. Miriam leaned and slept.
Then opened God the temple of her womb;
And passed the Love of God, that virgin's BABE,
The gates of childbirth. Shone then all that place,
Wherein no lamp, as full of heaven's light.
Led of an angel, cometh in pious Joseph,
Her husband; who, his eyes being opened, sees
That Holy Babe; beholds those heavenly ones!

It is the Lord-of-Life, that smiles in sleep,
On Miriam's bosom laid: she, virgin, sleeps!

Were certain shepherds, keeping in that field;
Tent-dwellers of low Jordan's wilderness,
Whose wont is, in high Judah's villages,
Seek, in lean winter season, hire of bread.
Those couched, in penury and cold, and nakedness;
Now chill night fallen, abroad, at their poor fires,
Spread their lean hands, and gazed towards holy stars;
Whence cometh all help, to wretched wights' sore need!
Then, suddenly, are the night-heavens full of strange light,
As day now were! Descending to dark Earth,
Shines choir of infinite heavenly angels, bright;
Singing, Good will to men, and on earth Peace!
And triumph in the skies, with holy mirth.

All stoop those angels, to that chalky cave!
Whereas the King of Glory, Light of light,
Lies suckling of poor Hebrew royal maid.
O'er all the World, then, those high starry choirs,
Chanting that new song, in the night, pass forth!
Which hear, in every land, the elect of God,
All virgin-souls, as God first Adam formed:
They see, they hear, dim vision of Christ's Light.

Forsaken lie, in these new days of Christ,

The oracles; and do fail men's fearful hearts.
But in that aweful stound, when the Man-God
His spirit, on heathen Rome's reproachful rood,
Breathed forth, for infinite, infinite, love of souls;
Smote earthquake Britain's Isle. With rumbling sound,
Stumble her hills; as would they kneel, before Him!

But thou me uplift, dear Muse, in heavenly vision,
On thy glad wings, from dull Earth's froward face;
That I might view those admirable things,
Even Christ's New Dawn, on far East hills; and as
The lavrock, Him adore, with holy hymns.
Turn then the tenour of thy golden lays;
And them, to sing Christ's Kingdom come, accord!

Eternal Sacrifice, now, for wretched wights,
The Lamb was slain; and from the dead, arisen,
The Lord received, again, up, into heaven;
And sate down where, before all worlds, He was.
Sith, to the City of Peace, His Promise, hath,
(The Comforter,) Christ, sent down. There, with the twelve,
Lo, a multitude, are believers in the Word:
Mongst whom, young Stephen, erst, hath crown of life
Attained. He, martyr, being before Jews' nation,
Arraigned; and lifting up his eyes, to heaven,

With stedfast angel's face, beheld the Glory
Of the Most-Highest: and, by the Throne, the Son,
Of man; at God's right hand, clothed with the sun,
Standing. But Stephen slain, of Jews, to ground,
Amidst his passion, from his dying bed,
(Whereas he fell asleep, on Jesus' breast!)
Of bloody stones, prayed for his murderers.

Then great affliction was; and scattered forth,
The saints, lo, from Jerusalem, far abroad;
Like as seed-corn is strewed on an earth's field.
But, in that bloody city, a little fold,
Yet break, from house to house, the bread of Life;
Few poor, whose souls are of the magistrates,
Sought, in her impious streets, to be cut off.

Behold, at glooming hour, when the Jews sup,
Those lowly saints, to pass her gates, creep forth;
(So bade them Jesus, flee their enemies.)
Nightlong, then, go those down, by the moon's lamp,
With fearful steps, in many stony paths.

Some to sea-side, gainst morrow, already approach;
Other, to wells, which in South wilderness,
Of Judah; some draw nigh, now, Jordan's flood.
There twain wend down unto that blissful lake,
Which Jesus loved; where, also, with the twelve,

He chose to dwell. The men are Galileans,
Which now, past noon, arrive, to Sychar; where,
Beside their way, is father Jacob's well.
They, in that fresh plot, lodge then, of green field,
Where Jesus, with the twelve, was wont to rest;
When journeying up, from Nazareth, to the feasts.

One of those twain, is Shalum, Gileadite;
Who numbered of the seventy, lately, was,
Of Israel, whom, by twos, the Lord sent forth,
To the hill-villages, which before His face;
And to every city, whither He would pass:
To heal their sick, to bind up broken hearts;
Speak Peace, and preach His Kingdom, on the earth;
And publish this Glad-tiding, in each place.

Parmenas, the faithful deacon, with him, fares:
Is he one of the seven, whom had the brethren,
These late days, chosen, in Jerusalem,
Men, holy, harmless, undefiled, with Stephen;
To serve Christ's household. Weary they begone,
In the noon-heat, from long wayfare, arriving,
Drink of the women's pitchers, at that well,
Which there draw water. Sitting down, those then,
Apart, eat, in remembering Christ, their meat.
Slumber those brethren, sith, on the green grass.

Shalum, in dream of Light! beheld the Christ;

Saying, To bear witness of Me, lo, I send,
You, to nigh city of the Samaritans.
Howbeit those brethren made, being raised from sleep,
At afternoon, as they would, further, pass.

Now, went by Sechem; they, to that hill-gate,
Approach, which, by Engaddim, leads, to Nazareth,
Through Jezreel's plain; and whence there way downforth,
Lies to Capernaum, and that city-shore:
But, was, (them there constraining, the Lord's Spirit;)
They, it left, on their right hand; the upper path,
Hold, league's-way forth. By olive woods, thence passed;
(There where is heap of cursing, which Jews cast,
Of old, o'er Baal-Tartak's idol house:)
They draw, now, nigh to city very great,
Samaria; whose ruins Herod had set up;
And with long porticoes, theatre, it, and arcs,
Adorned. And named Sebaste, in gentile sort.

There entering-in, they boldly, from the gate;
As opened God their mouths, then preach the Christ!
Being come those twain, unto their market place,
Some mock; but other, gladly, hear their speech,
Philip's disciples: which, home to their hearths,
At eve, those weary brethren lead, to sup.

Late days, had Philip, mighty labourer,

In the Lord's vineyard, eared this hill of Shemer,
And men and women Philip's word believed.
Mongst whom the Gittonite, Simon Sorcerer,
Which baptized, with them, was. Sith went down Philip,
Bound in the Spirit, in all fair Sharon's plain;
Preaching Christ risen. And, sith, by the seaside,
(Where hath the saint an house,) he founden was;
At Cæsarea. Which tiding to their ears,
Come, that in Ephraim, these days, had believed;
They, amongst their elders, choose out faithful men,
Which should confer with the Evangelist;
The Shechemite, Assir, namely, and brother Rufus.

Moreo'er those brethren, Jews and Galileans,
Come lately forth from Cephas and the twelve,
Shalum and Parmenas, also, will go down,
In fellowship, unto Philip. Of God's Spirit,
In fasting to enquire, and prayer, together,
With him, concerning questions of their Law,
Which the Angel of the Covenant, from the cloud,
Gave unto Mosa; and of the Promises made
Unto the fathers; namely in Abraham's seed,
How should be blessed all kindreds of the world.
And what should signify, the Lord's Mercy-seat;
Which was in Solomon's temple: yea, and what

That holy thing, the Lord's Shekhinah, is.
And what, now, the Lord's will, for Israel, is.
And if, in Christ's New Covenant, have the Greeks,
Their part. Yet erst, as touching Shemer's Church,
(That little gleaning is, of Ephraim's grapes!)
Whereof hath the foundation, truly, laid
Philip: and what, now, taught us Jesus' voice,
Concerning the ordinances; and that we might walk,
In all things, blameless, in God's holy paths;
Would those consult, with the Evangelist.
Yea, and furthermore, of God's love unto us,
Which, lately, hath revealed the Holy Ghost;
(We being One with Christ, and Christ in us.)

Behold, their little company, that descend,
(The third day, early, are they parted forth,)
From the hill-set city. Assir them, by vines,
Leads; and through olive yards and laurel woods;
And sith, those brethren pass, o'er oozy fords,
Where crooked stream slides tardy, in thicket reeds,
To blue salt deep. They, two days, wayfare thus:
The third, come down to sea-plain; those which hold
The strand, their way, forth, by sea's glittering waves,
To city of impious Herod, now arrive:
Whose gates, anon, they pass. Brings brother Rufus

Them down to Philip's house: but him they find not.
This morn, with certain, from Pentapolis,
Strangers; the Evangelist ascended up,
To the Holy City, unto Jews' high feast.
They lodged then, in his house, will Philip wait.
His mother, Ammah, washeth her son's guests' feet.

Those brethren find, not few, in Cæsarea,
Come hither, from Jerusalem, fugitive:
Mongst whom, that Joseph, named of Arimathea,
Just man and honourable councillor:
Who master being, in Israel, and rich lord,
Believéd on the Holy One of God;
But secretlý, and that for world's regard:
Yet boldly, of unjust Samnite Pilate, asked
He Jesus' body dead; deposed from rood,
It washed from blood, and shrouded; and he laid
Him, in his own, (from whence the Love-of-God,
And hope of all our deaths, the Christ, arose!)
Nigh sinners' dying place, new garden grave.
And, as one dead, unto the flesh, henceforth,
Liveth Joseph, risen in Christ, in lowly wise.
Now rich in heaven, he no more fears the Jews;
Whose elders put him from their Sanhedrim.
In Joseph's holy hands, is healing gift,

So that are sick folk laid forth in their street;
Which wait the saint, what hour his feet should pass.

Brethren, which come from Ephraim, salute Joseph;
With whom, now evening hour, they pray and watch:
And so continue, all the long night-season.
But when now morn, (which sabbath day,) is risen,
They entered in the Jews' chief synagogue.

There, after Moses read, stood Shalum forth,
Servant of Christ: he cries, with kindling heart,
Unto you, is preached Salvation! should not these
Last days, the Lord, among our brethren, choose,
(Whereto bear witness all the holy prophets;)
One like to Moses, which, of every tongue,
Should gather, to Himself, new faithful nation?
And lo, the Lord hath called our brother Ephraim!

Then rose up all the Jews, they stop their ears;
And loud, blaspheming Christ, fling forth, at doors.
And, were not sabbath day, had then been slain,
And stoned, with stones, had been those faithful men.

But when dismounts this tardy sabbath-sun,
To eve, and now is set; in the Jews' ward,

Run hubbub angry throngs, to Philip's house:
Men which have armed, with bats and stones, their hands.
On Ammah's door, they beat, with hideous threat,
And outcries fell! Bring forth those Shomerons,
Which say, in Ephraim, that God's temple is.
Yea and certain entered, with them, Galileans.
In this, went some by, elders, from their town;
Jews, honourable men, that fear the Romans.
These, stayed their steps, such violence gin reprove!
But seld is seen, lewd multitude hath ears.
Greedy of bloody mischief, those thrust on.

Some ribald hand a fire-brand, through the lattice,
Soon cast! Ah! kindles, then, the widow's house.
Ammah her hastes, send, erst, forth, her son's guests,
By her clay thatch; whence, they from thatch, may pass,
To thatch. Sith agéd Ammah, herself 'scapes,
With Philip's two young weeping daughters, forth;
By an inner court, and certain orchard path.

Those brethren light down, then, in little lane;
Which leads, by garden walls, to the sea side.
So issue, with swift foot, and weary hearts,
To the void night, saved from their enemies!
And silent way hold sith, by the sea sand.

Then kneeled they, all, down, on that rumbling shore,
Do pray. Whilst yet they of these haps, commune,
A slumber, sent from heaven, upon them falls.

Half is that watch, outworn, of heaven's clear stars,
When those awaken. Rising up, they wend,
They wiss not whither: shields them the Lord's hand.
An angel meets them, then, in form of Joseph,
By Straton's Tower; who going on, them before;
By lanes, conveys, to certain hidden place:
(Where secretly is wont assemble the Lord's church,)
Ware-room of Mnason, Cyprian merchantman;
And friend to Joses, surnamed Barnabas.

Now dawing nigh, the first day of the week;
Are men and women, in those vaulted walls,
Gathered of the new Israel of Christ;
Whence, hark! their hymns resound and praises sweet.
Therein, descended, by the stairs, the angel
The brethren leads. Behold all those, on whom
The name is named of Jesus, in this town,
How they break bread; that manna, which came down,
From heaven, to us men, sinners. Whilst they eat
One holy Meat, unto Eternal Life;
And sith, that Cup of blessing, they all drink,
With devout hearts, remembering the Lord's death:

Those pure elect souls, which were, erewhile, washt,
In Well of Life, such joy have, that they count,
It were, not hard, themselves, to die: so covet
They, as great gain, be ever with the Christ.
Last, lifting Joseph up his hands, to bless,
Bade them be strong, be fervent, in this hope:
So them dismisseth; for now day is come.
Good Mnason bids all strangers, to his house.

The visible Presence dwelling over the Mercy-seat. In the Heb. word is the sense of dwelling.

Cyrenaica; now part of Moorish Tripoli.

Hebraized form of Greek sunedrion: syn, with, and hedra, seat.

Samaritans.

Acts xxi. 16.

At hour, past noon, when erst wanes midday heat,
The Procurator of Judea, for Cæsar;
Marcellus, rides; with retinue of his servants,
And certain cohorts, up to Jews' high feast:
And after him, were shut the city gates.
Then fear, within those walls, Christ's little flock!

What hour the sun, purpling the sea's wide face,
To evening, stoops; when Jews, day-labourers,
From weary toil, without the city walls,
Gin, lo, return, unto their gate and ward;
Thence sounds, eftsoons, new tumult: yelling, run
Jews' concourse, to the city's market place.
Hark! how, in their harsh Syrian tongue, with husk,
Men shout, and angry throats; To Shomerons death!
Cast all, on Him, their care, Christ's little flock,
Who able is to save them; and where less,

They, in suburbs of their streets, hear fearful voice,
They flit. Lead spouses, children, by the hand;
Some bear, at breast, their little ones, that weep!
Are bloody stirs, no new thing, in this town;
Though every nation, Syrian, Jew and Greek,
Disparted dwell; and shut-to, with strong doors,
By night, the gates be, of their several wards:
And Cæsarea all surviews the Roman arx.
Who Christ's, most-part, flee to the Water-port;
Which aye stands open, towards the haven and mole.
There midst long rocking rows of cordéd ships,
Of Mnason's partners, a stout carrack lies;
Ready, with charge of corn, to loose, for Cyprus.

At quay-side, Mnason waits; whose carrack's barge
Lies, at these water-stairs. His freedman, Malchus,
Brings brethren, running down the haven's long street;
On, by the hand, aboard. Last ascends Malchus,
Cry heard, of raging multitude now approach!
He thrusts then, strongly, out from those marble stones.
So sits, to steer, as Mnason him commands.

Loud Mnason charges, Speed to ship! hoise Ithobal,
(Shipmaster,) sail; and part, anon, for Paphos!

Mnason himself, a Roman citizen,
Fears not, mongst raging Jews, still, to remain,
In Cæsarea. Friends Mnason, also, hath,
Of the household of the governor Marullus.

Bend their stiff chines, his shipfolk, on the banks,
That seem, like bows, then, shoot forth long pine oars.
Already are angry Jews come to the port;
Where mariners lodge, in arches of the mole;
That, heard this stir, run forth, tumultuous.
Glimmer their firebrands, rife, now longs sea shore!
Gin hail Jews' slingstones, then, upon the water.

That deep-fraught bark, in this, to Mnason's ship,
Arrives. And when all, safely, are climbed, aboard;
The shipfolk cut her moorlines. They fall off,
And draw their sail up to light evening-wind;
That here, mostwhat, wont, after the day's heat,
To blow out, o'er salt-deep, from South-west part.
The haven's long marble horns, they slowly pass;
Where, kindled on the pharos, Drusium,
Are watchfires of the night: whereunder, seen,
Bleak row is, lo, of shining statuas;
The abomination, ha! of them that perish!
Semblants of gentile gods, in this moonlight.
Them Idumean impious Herod had raised;

Fawning on Cæsar, who him king ere crowned.
Run-to, that curse them, many yelling Jews;
Fall rife, on Mnason's shipboard, their hurled stones!

A freshing sea-wind boweth down the vessel;
That, like dive-dopper, flushing from salt waves,
Runs sprinkling, o'er the deep; whilst, landward, sound
Sea's infinite surges, as of thousand oars;
Falling, in measure, on a shelving sand:
Steers their ship's pilot fast in with the land.

When they, in dim night, Dora's rocks have passed;
His Cypriot seafolk, which Phœnicians are,
At Ithobal's word, strike mainsail. They, their barge,
Then let down, from the board. Their meaning is,
Those passenger Jews, whom hardly now they saved,
From Cæsarea, to set, here, on the shore.
Into that bark, climbed down, men, little ones,
And wives, they crowd. Rowed-forth, soon shouted was;
That were they well arrived! But thence, that shipfolk,
Returned, will no more, nor for prayer, nor hire,
Put forth, saying; how they saw One on yond shore,
Stand, clothed in a bright light; and that he was
Like their kabîrs, those great and strong ship-gods!

Whilst thus they reason, sudden blast nigh lifted
Their keel, on shelves; wherefore they part, in haste.
Blows the night wind; that Cypriot carrack breasts
Dark justling waves: eftsoon, they loose the land!
That little band, which rest, aboard, of saints,
(And they, in this sea-way, are ill at ease,
Wet, with much flying foam, and cannot sleep;)
Refresh, with murmured hymns, their travailled spirits.

Lo, Carmel's Sacred Head, whose vines, wide crowns,
New rising dawn; which passed, in a large bay,
(Ere Akko named, now Ptolemais,) they fleet,
By Hepha's strand. Ithobal, shipmaster, here;
Those passengers, which remain, would send to shore.
But come is, yestre'en, in, great Smyrna vessel,
Parted from Cæsarea; on whose high poop,
Stand men of Asia, Jews, returning home,
From the Holy City, where the Passover keep
Did many; and some that feast of fruits, or weeks;
But all great day of Jews' atonement fast:
Of whom, last Sabbath morn, in Herod's port;
Had certain heard, in the chief Synagogue,
Shalum disputing; whom, on yond ship-board,
Now brings up, in this road, they do perceive;
And with him Joseph. When those, in their bark,
Then gin descend; they cry out, in Greeks' tongue,

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To Jews on shore: these, running, take up stones!
Then Ithobal hastes, his barge, again, draw in,
And loose, anew, their great mainsail; ere fail,
This morning-wind. To seaward, Ithobal steers;
And, leaving, on his right hand, Akko shore,
They drive, eftsoon, by Ecdippa's deep sand:
Which passed; they draw forth, by the Tyrian Stair,
Where surges hoary, to white cliff upride.

They sail, from thence, by sea-beat cragged strand,
Which yet named Alexander's Tent, for, there,
Was stretched that king's pavilion, at his spear;
Where he it pight, amongst his phalanxed Greeks:
King whom the Everlasting sent to war;
Wherefore none able were, from West to East,
To stand, before the fury of his face;
Whence He-goat him God's prophet named, of old,
Which pusheth, with his horns. Way for his chariots,
This made him, in the sea, to island Tyre.
He having present need, to pay his army,
Of certain antique temple of Jews' god,
Upland, (in mountain of the Amorite,)
Bethought him, wherein laid-up wealth, he hears.

Of these things, mused the young king, on his bed,
Till time he weary was: so drew his lamp,
And sate him up, of Homer's lays, to read.

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But lifting Alexander, soon, his eyes,
Beheld, beside him, standing, some old man,
Venerable of aspect! mitred whose hoar hairs;
And shined his linen stole, with precious gems;
Saying, of the Father of all men and gods,
Was he chief priest, in Hierosolyma-hill.

This stretcht his hovering hands, o'er Javan's king,
Forbade him, to molest God's City of Peace!
But drawing, from his bosom, forth, bright scroll,
He read therein, of the king's wars to come.
Whilst yet gazed Alexander, on this vision,
And could not speak, it went up from his seeing.
Then called the king, and questioned with his guard:
But made one answer all, They saw no man!
Wherefore, at day, he sent his messengers,
With gifts, to Jews' hill-god; which His priests bade,
To sacrifice, for Greeks' king, an hundred steers.

The Cabiri: kabîr, signifies great.

Then mighty pillar of the crystal house
Of heaven: they sacred Shenir see, from board;
Great rib of earth, which wont were Tyrians call,
The Shining-face-of-Baal, their mighty god:
(Was Israel's far-off border,) Hermon, white;
Whence dwell the tented children of the East;

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Whereon looked Jesus' youth, from Nazareth;
And, daily, his manhood, from that blissful lake,
Which, like to golden cup, with roses, crowned.

On the hot-shining sea, to noon-tide draws;
And flags, on the tall mast, now their great sail.
They, tardily, draw by Tyrus' wealthful Isle;
Where Melkarth's idol-temple, brazen roofed,
High-built, shines midst Phœnician merchant town.
But troubled were, the while, those brethren's hearts,
When cry comes of her markets to their ears:
Whilst they record, how letters the chief priests
Had, from Jerusalem, sent, through all these coasts!
By poor then and grey town, they, slowly, fleet;
Which in blue sea-waves, glasseth her thick roofs;
Zarepta city, from low rock, where yore
Time, certain desolate woman dwelt devout;
Fearing, mongst the Zidonians, Israel's god:
Which nourished, two years, in her widow's house,
God's prophet, (him, who Chariot named was sith,
Of Israel.) There the Lord, also, the sick,
Had healed; and cast out many unclean spirits.

At length, with lowering skies, this day decays.
Shoots the low sun yet few thwart golden rays,
On that great Zidon, of the fishers' rock.
Beyond them, glooming night, falls; with few stars:

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Then look down covert heavens on their ship-voyage.
Breathes, rising, a night-wind: they laid then course,
Bear up now, for Phœnician Berytus:
Where, those few Jews would send, to shore, good Malchus.

Perhaps Snowy peak.

Now Beyrout.

All sleep now, weary, in their reeling vessel,
Save Adherbal, the ship's pilot; who the helms
Governs, and few his mariners, that yet watch,
Under the snoring shrouds, their sail. But passed
That headland, which before the city lies;
A land-wind, sudden, out of Lycus' jaws,
The carrack smites. Staggers their hull, and run
The sea-folk forth; that fast then hale and brace.

Stands Ithobal; and on stars and misty rack,
Firming his eyeballs, tempest toward sees!
But sith, here, no safe haven is, he commands,
Bear-up, again, head seaward! Steer to fetch
Jebail, for shelter, (Byblos of the Greeks;
Phœnician city, of old name, for tall
Ships' timber, hewn in nigh, high, Lebanon.)

Full of main gusts, now starless is their course.
Then lift up, mariners, of this Cyprian vessel,
Their palms, devout, amongst the surges great,

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And roar of storm, to Ashtareth, star-sheen, goddess,
Of strange Phœnice; whose trëen image, crowned
With an horned moon, is, heavenly mother, seen,
In temple-oracle of yond Aphic cliffs;
Amidst blue woody bosom of the mount,
Of lovely Adonis, sacred cedar's grove:
Whereby is that white, welling, cave; wherein
Her handmaids, changed, for grief, to marble stone,
(Were hundred nymphs, which bathed their breasts,) are seen.
And thence, to deep sea-dale, down-rolls that stream,
Which through Adonis' garden flows; and is
It yearly purpled, as with that god's blood.
What days are wont Phœnician frantic women,
Him to bewail, (their sun-god, Tammuz,) slain;
By tushes slain, of fell wood-boar, alas!
Slain his young beauty, an-hunting in dim forest.
Two days, they, weeping, beat their wanton breasts;
The third, cry; He is made, again, alive!
Lord of the year! and they, with pæans, rejoice;
With dance, loud cymbals and lascivious rites.

Yet more, this tempest's rage, out of the North,
Bearing the night-rain; on his darksome wings,
Scourgeth the hoary waves, about their carrack.
In so sore wind-strokes, Ithobal looseth hope;

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To fetch Jebail, his haven, or Tripolis; they
Must run for Cyprus; or, in this sea-trough,
Lie-to all night. What though were perilous,
That open sound, yet is this now their course.
They carry rent and lowly sail; pipe loud,
The rattling shrouds: seize on their trembling poop,
New whirling blasts. Seem surge, above the mast,
Swart seething waves. They see, of Arvad pharos,
Last, a dim light; in looking towards the land.

How dread is this sea-night, tempestuous!
Seems, bound unto so frail and mortal flesh,
Man's life, like wafted gossamer, on some cliff;
Uncertain should it fall on field or deep.
Now, covered of swart waves, wind-shaken, groans
Their vessel. Bounden, sits old Adherbal,
To rule the rudder-bands: this dures long forth;
Till hour when look they now the day should break.
Then, to their ears, betwixt the flaws of wind,
Raught noise of breaking waves. The Cypriots sound;
Anon, in dread to fall on some sharp rocks;
But find no bottom. They, for dawn, then wait;
Which yet appeareth not: under the lee,
Then, somewhile, lie; where puts an headland forth.

But when now afternoon, they make account;

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New storm-wind, suddenly, smites that Cyprus ship,
Out on hoar deep. And as we see, from furrow,
To furrow, scud, sere bough, in lent-month's blast;
So o'er the wild wave-rows, that Chittim vessel,
Now hurried is, from shelter of the cliff.
Falls night, nor see they the Phœnician star;
Nor lamp shines, in high heaven, of blesséd gods.

The morrow and thereafter, many days,
They drave: then loom was seen, of Crete's white land;
And, through much mist, as gleam of herdman's fire.
And bark was heard, of hound, on some steep shore.
Now Malchus, Ithobal and the Cyprian pilot,
Consult, for their ship's course: and sith now must,
Their hull to save, part lading needs go lost;
They cast out burden of Egyptian corn.
Their sea-beat carrack, then, more upright rides.

The river mouth, now called Nahhr el-Kelb.

Now Mnason's starless ship night-shadow shrouds,
From mortals' ken; but not from heavenly sight.
The Spirit-of-supplication, poising, bears
The evening sacrifice of those few saints,
Beyond the high-starred, crystal firmament.
Heard; and looked down the Father-of-the-World:
He Gadera and Chittim sea, He Tarshish Isles,

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Saw; and He, Ocean-main surviewed; beholds,
In dark storm, labouring, that Phœnician vessel;
Whence feeble cry comes to His infinite ears!
Commanded the Almighty Father cease
Then tempest's rage! And looked God towards an Isle,
Crowned with white cliffs, and walled of running waves;
Which full of greenness, He, the Lord, beyond
This Midland deep, (midst Ocean-streams,) had made.
God smiled; and nodded His immortal brows!
And, in that moment, when, of Godhead, smiled
The aweful looks, in her long travail, was
The earth refreshed; and brought forth kindly flowers.

God's voice, out of the Throne, called angel Albion;
(Is he a mighty prince of heavenly host,)
Saying, Lo, I have compassion on My saints!
Go faithful Spirit; and to that Utmost Isle,
Where in I will, whilst sun and stars endure,
Were called Mine holy name, My chosen servants
Convey, which sail in yonder Chittim vessel.

Like unto sunny ray, that holy angel,

108

Stoopt, through the veil and temple of the stars,
To Middle-earth. Lo, on the misty rack,
He stands as Sirius! Shine out, with dread light,
Murk hollow skies. This holy vision hangs,
Before the slumbering eyes, of sea-beat Joseph,
Who hears, from heaven, a voice saying, Peace of God,
And of his Christ, be with you, in the ship.
Wakes Joseph: sounds this word yet in his ears!

Though cold their bodies, and their raiment wet,
Sleep on the saints: and when the morrow breaks,
Behold, it is the first day of the week.
They risen, come all together, to break bread:
Good Joseph tells them, also, his night vision.
Then consolation creeps, in their dull veins,
Forgetful of dark tempest and sea-waves.

But fear is fallen, on the heathen mariners,
Which sail in Mnason's ship; seen how hath naught
Prevailed their prayers and vows, which they have made,
At sea, to Baalim, these many days.
Then kindle, with old malice, their rude hearts,
Gainst those sad passengers, which be Jews of nation;
Abhorred, in all the world, of men and gods:
That hurl vast tempest, in this winter deep,

109

Upon them. They gin, covertly, then, conspire;
Come night, to oppress Jews sleeping, and their corses
Cast to sea-waves; and purge the vessel's board.
So them might, haply, Baal save to some land.
But were not all, therein, of one accord:
For, mongst them, certain Hamdan, Idumean,
(Whose mother of Jews' kin,) gainst eve, warns Joseph:
Unto Ithobal, Joseph speaks; and he with Malchus.

Their days are storm, the nights tempestuous;
And o'er grey billows, they are, aye, wind-driven:
Nor sun they see, nor moon, nor stars, in heaven.
Now is night's watch; soon spent that little light
Which made their day. Then to the travailled saints,
In the ship's bilge; whose hearts, with hymns, were rockt,
On quiet rest, shows Albion sudden ray!

The brethren start, from slumber, to ship's hatch;
And Malchus, Ithobal, Hamdan, find, that watch;
With swords drawn in their hands, for Mnason's guests.
Is lull, the while, of storm. With murderous yell!
Sudden, in that, break drunken mariners forth,
And wielding glittering knives, from their foreship.
They parted, then, among them, in two bands;

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Rush in bleak moonshine, by the vessel's sides.
Naught heed those Ithobal's voice; that scourges, chains,
Threatens: he smites who foremost, then, in press:
By whom, borne forth; this, from the reeling board,
Ah! plumbs in darksome wild waves' wilderness!

Who thrust on, drunken, bear then back, aghast:
Some reel for lanterns; some call on strong gods;
Other warp cable-rolls. All tend thick ears,
And dreary eyeballs, over seething billows,
Strain; where them thought, above these surges' din,
They heard his drenching yell. Lifting the saints,
Their hearts; they ask that life, for Jesus' sake.
And, lo, swart yawing sea, in hoary lap,
Him bears again, of dim returning billow.
The brethren saints, Christ's saving hands outstretch:
And from the counter, taking, on him, hold;
The drunken drenched wretch, now nigh dead, for fear,
Draw, to their shipboard in, those men of prayer.

Yet turn, of new, the heathen mariners,
Blinded of hell, to slay those innocent Jews.
Then thundered heaven, a lightning split the mast,
And ruins the immense yard, o'erthwart their vessel.
Arrests the shuddering ship, an hand divine.

111

Those heathen, on their faces, as dead men,
Fall; for they, standing, saw Some Heavenly One,
Exalted, like a cypress, on sea-deep!
From whose eyes, issue two consuming sheaves,
Of fiery leams. Of Ithobal and of Malchus,
The angel did moreo'er re'nforce the voices,
As seemed were battle-shout of three-score men!
And seemed, as the murk wind, about them round,
Gleamed full of threatful glaives and heavenly spears!

One of the brethren, that thwart-fallen beam,
Whereunder lie bruised wretches overthrown,
With his great faithful force, uplifts, alone;
Young Alexander, which was Simon's son,
That on his shoulder, bare the Gate-of-heaven.

Nightlong, (for so He loved our souls,) the Lord,
Despiteful contradiction had endured,
Of sinners, spit on, buffeted, ah! and bruised.
Weary forwatched then, in the morning tide,
Stooped, lowly, His meek neck, the Love of God;
Whereon, have wicked men laid His own rood,
Heavy and rudely knit, wild-olive beam;
And it the Lord-of-Life, bears forth, behold!
Follow blind Jews, with train of Roman soldiers;
That glory give to God, for Jesus' death;
Shooting out tongues, full of despiteful mocks,

112

As troubler of their State. Mourn, in the press,
Few men of Galilee, hanging down their necks;
And covered is their face. And where they pass;
Daughters of Salem wail on their house tops,
Beating, as for one newly dead, their breasts;
Of whom had healéd many Jesus' word;
Yea, and divers had the Lord raised from the dead,
The Lord-of-Life, which goeth forth unto death!

Christ's fasting knees, the gallow-tree, beneath,
Faint. Last, He fell down, in that paved long street,
Which, by the temple, leads, from Pilate's house,
Through the North gate, to paths of Galilee.
Fell the pure body of the virgin-born:
And lay, on street's stained stones, the Christ oppressed!
In that, there cometh one, Simon, by the gate,
From Mizpeh field; but this averts his face,
From impious Romans, and from sinners' death:
Whom seeing one mighty of limb, gan Pilate's soldiers,
Calling him Mule! compel, threatening their spears,
Take up the cross of this condemned to death;
And bear where hanged are thieves and murderers!

But quail, in Mnason's ship, the mariners' hearts;
Seen so dread tokens, as of angry gods.

113

Before the glaives of Ithobal, Hamdan, Malchus,
They now recoil, confusedly, to their bay;
Where shuts them Albion in. With sceptre, he
Thrusts on the carrack ship; that speeds all night,
O'er infinite blowing forest of salt billows.
The saints, with Malchus and good Ithobal, watch:
In whose hands, swear those shipmen, when new day
Is made; by their great gods, Peace to the Jews!

The seamews, hoary, crying round their vessel,
Is sign, those shipfolk ween, of some nigh coast.
Ere noon, men, on their backboard, loom, discern,
Of land! Isle Iranim they, eftsoon, it deem;
Which shows, like mountain, midst high-running billows,
Station of the Phœnician merchandise.

Great surges break, in spouts, on yond swart cliffs.
Here can they make, for rage of storm, none haven.
But, unto all which ask him, Ithobal license
Grants, which their weary lives would, in the skiff,
Out of his ship, (that unseaworthy is,)
Hazard, through perilous waves, here, save, to land.
Adherbal, more inward, steers then with the coast:
Where seen some skerries break the billows' force;
Whose rolling caves seem watery sepulchres!

114

The mariners haste them, let down their ship's barge,
Which fleets, in jeopardy to be staved. On Baal!
Men cry and call, which leap down to frail bark!
Now on surging billow climbs: they thrust then forth.
Only the pilot, that lies sick and old,
With Malchus and good Ithobal, in the carrack,
Abide; and Phelles, he whom saved the brethren;
Nor this would them forsake, for any death!
Those travailling, in their barge, with broken oars,
Now mantle spread for sail. On watery hills,
Lo, borne, towards heaven; they seem then shrink beneath!
Soon covers them, from sight, a falling mist.
The brethren, gazing on that boisterous gulf,
Pray, (so Christ bade them,) for their enemies.

Perhaps Pantellaria.

This wind goes down, upon wild waves, all night.
They sleep, till morrow's break, with cheerful face;
Like to some gracious dawn, in Canaan,
With azured sea and firmament of gold.
How bows that pilot old, upon the plank,
(Murmuring his heathen hymn,) his brow, to kiss
The holy sunbeams, garment of his god!

115

Finds Ithobal, there is corn yet in the ship,
And loaves unspoiled; and water might suffice,
For many days. Cast angles in salt deep,
Now calm, the brethren; and take store of fish.
Sith gather all hearts comfort, whilst they dine.
Then Joseph and the saints sing temple songs,
With holy mirth and rest, in their sad hearts.

Consult good Ithobal, Malchus, Mnason's servant,
And Adherbal, pilot: they, and this wind shift,
Would bear up for great Roman Carthage-port.
To winter, there, they purpose and refit:
And turn, from Egypt, with the merchant fleet.

Men of the sea, they hew away their mast,
Was split; step boom, sling yard, whereon they bend,
A driving sail. But scourges winter blast,
New, o'er sea-deep; which hurries, from her course,
Their tottering carrack. Bound, sits Ithobal,
Unto his helms, all night, in the dark hatch.
He heard, then, in his ears, sound heavenly voice,
Saying, Ithobal, take no thought, for thy ship's course.
He sees, how, midst sea-streams, lies glittering path!
Wherein his ship descending in the West.
From whence, by rudder's sway, or set of sail;

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Can he his keel not wrest. But like as stork,
Which, in her season, flits to soil far off:
(Closing her eyes, she beateth her wide wings,
Through the night-murk; and yet she faileth not;)
So Mnason's ship holds to her destined port.

117

BOOK VII

118

ARGUMENT

Tales of the brethren, which are cast away in Mnason's vessel. They are driven to a desolate isle; whereas dwelling, somewhile, they refit their carrack. Last when the island's forest burns, they flee, again, to shipboard.

Their ship is driven by the straits of Melkarth-Hercules; from whence, they are borne forth, on a South wind, in the Ocean Stream.

Demons of those coasts assemble, to parliament, in Abermaw, vast cave of Gaul. They send ambassadors to Satan. With them, returning, Satan sends Abaddon into Gaul. The power of the air assails the saints' vessel.

The Muse's scroll. Vision of Great Hell.

The Heavenly Watchers save Mnason's vessel. Albion descended from heaven, scatters the demon-swarms.

119

Are these, the brethren's names, in Mnason's vessel,
Souls foreordained, whom Christ sends unto Britain:
Joseph and faithful Salema, the saint's wife;
And Aristobulus, kinsman to the Christ,
Of Miriam's house: who tarried, slow of heart,
Till from the dead, rose Jesus; to believe.
But standing, daily, then, in Solomon's Porch,
And being an eloquent man, he did confute
The Jews. And when was Stephen stoned, rebuked
Them, boldly. Nor, for that, he ceased to preach;
That Jesus, risen, is the very Christ.
Then some laid, on him, hands, to hale without;
To stoning place. But saved the Roman watch;
Whose captain him, to Pontius Pilate, sent,
In Cæsarea; who finding, in the man,
No cause, him loosed; and dwelled the saint, with Joseph.

And there is Barnaby, singer of sweet lauds,
One numbered, erewhile, with the eremites,

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Called the Lord's Poor; which lodge, in hollow rocks,
And booths, in wilderness of the Salt Plain;
As thou, to city of Jericho, goest down:
Where they converse, as angels, on the earth;
And cleanse, by washings, and through daily fast,
Body of this death, which doth our souls molest.

Went Jesus up to Galilee, unto the feast,
Journeying, by Jordan; and great multitudes,
Which heard him, and would see His mighty works,
Followed His footsteps, on both sides the stream:
Came Barnaby's company, heard voice of great press,
Forth, from their caves, to see the Teacher pass.

And stood the multitude, for, lo, in that point,
Some sick ones, certain, unto Jesus brought;
Who, laying on His hands, healéd them all.
He opened then the eyes of one born blind,
And all men marvelled. Jesus turned His face,
Looked upon Barnaby! and the eremite's heart
Leapt; and in that was molten in his breast.

Then Barnaby followed, in that cragged path,
Which mounts aye up, to Zion's holy place.
He came to Bethphage; and beheld, far off,
Jesus, Who standing, midst much people's press,
Before a tomb. Then, loud, the Lord called Lazarus!
And he, which had been, three days, dead arose.

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But Barnaby entered, in Jerusalem;
He, in the temple, heard the Master preach.
Last, in that dayspring, when the stars did weep;
With Jesus' brethren, and the twelve, and Lazarus;
The Roman band, he followed, trembling, forth.
And come without the bloody city's gate,
He stood; and Jesus saw, ah! nailed on cross:
And twixt two thieves, how lifted-up, alas!
And, from their walls, mocked cruel Jews, aloud.

Then did long sorrow wring their faithful hearts,
Until, like lily, folds the Lord, on rood,
His virgin head, and passed His suffering flesh!
(Ah! ignominy of a malefactor's death.)
But thou, cursed gallow-tree; for died, on thee,
Jesus, art named our Tree-of-Life, henceforth.
They kneeled and wept; and quaked the centred earth,
And fell a dread great darkness, on the ground;
And rent that rocky hill was, from beneath.
He saw, from sepulchres, rise some holy dead;
And lift, towards that bloodstained, life-giving, wood,
Their arms, from shrouds: and Him, which hanged thereon,
Adore! They entered in the city's gate;
And in dim shadow, (when, the sun eclipsed,
Forsaken were her streets,) those walked unmarked.

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He saw Christ risen, and he believed; and sith,
Saw Jesus taken up, from Olivet!

Then, with his mother, Barnaby, in Ophel, dwelt,
Nigh to Mount Zion; which is the Levites' ward:
Where also the high-builded house of Joseph;
Whereas, prepared, for Jesus and the twelve,
The Passover was; wherein the Lord did bless,
(Eve of that day, when He was offered up,)
Last dear Remembrance, of the wine and bread.

There dwelling, His disciples did await,
The Promise: and with Miriam, they conversed;
Which virgin-mother was, of the Lord's flesh.
But when was Stephen stoned, fled the eremite saint,
With Sabra, his mother, down to Cæsarea.
And given to brother Barnaby, is a new spirit,
Of song; and voice, to hymn Christ's kingdom sweet.

Then Shalum that, is named, the Gileadite,
Howbeit, of Galilea, his father was:
Who dead; in Ramoth, fostered was his youth,
Amongst his mother's kinsfolk; where being grown,
To comely manhood, Israelite devout;
He journeyed to Jerusalem, to Jews' feast.
But come to Jordan flood, in that he passed,
By the stream's midst, singing, with manly voice,

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A song of Israel's sons, ascending up,
Before the Lord; John, which baptized there, poured
Water, that seemed as fire, on Shalum's head!

Came the young Gileadite unto, Daughter-of-Zion!
Thy strong walls of Salvation, and high towers,
Those tried foundations, pleasant goodly stones,
(The City of Praise;) and he, from brook, upmounted,
Of Kidron; enters in the Holy Place,
By the gate Beautiful. Shalum then, midst press,
Of devout Jews, which there, before the Lord,
Stand, seemeth the stedfast pillar of a palm;
Mongst trees of the wild field. Sith, certain kinsfolk,
He, of Beth-saida, (Philip's city,) found;
Of them which lodged, in villages, olive-yards;
Or even under thick trees, without the walls,
(Having, strangers, none acquaintance, in the town.)

Have those persuaded Shalum, then, go down,
After the feast, unto Gennesareth,
With them, to claim his father's heritage.
Now, when, of Passover, the seven days were ended,
And being, this year, also, his mother dead,
In Ramoth Gilead; what time parted forth,
Those, mongst the great returning companies,
Of Galileans, that hold the upper path;
He follows with them. The eighth day, they pass,

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By hills of Nazareth, Shalum thence went forth,
With those his kinsfolk, to Tiberias:
Where, of the Tetrarch, was his father's field
Restored; and who were seized thereof, hath Herod
Antipas, from his judgment-seat, condemned,
To pay, the forepast fruits, out of their goods.

In the next month, among the husband folk,
Young Shalum tilled, nigh to that blissful lake,
His glebe; and as he wrought, still looked towards heaven,
Musing, when should that Promise be revealed.
And, aye, he, in bosom, bears Isaiah's scroll.
And wont is Shalum, in the open field,
Therein, what hour his labourers eat their bread,
To read. But, when now barley-harvest ended,
Was bidden Shalum to a marriage feast,
(Is that in Cana,) to a kinsman's house:
And calléd thither, the Lord's mother was;
With kinsfolk of the bridegroom's house, from Nazareth.

And that same day, ascending from the lake,
With few disciples, (Andrew, James and John,
Simon and Philip,) to high wilderness;
Befel, that Jesus fared, by Cana; and taught
The Lord them, in the way, as they paced forth.

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And, hearing them, from door of the spouse-house,
Came forth the bridegroom, (young Bar-Talmai,) crowned,
With lilies fair; anointed and parfumed,
With myrrh, and clad in raiment white. And calls
Them in, from Cana street, his joyful voice;
(Is day of his heart's gladness:) calls, by name!
To his espousals. Mongst the marriage guests,
They sit: and sith, with singers and with lights,
The bride brought home; when timely hour, they sit,
To sup, in linen marriage garments white:
And given thanks, strecht forth right hands, they eat,
With gladness; and sith drink. But when wine lacked,
To chief one of the servants, Jesus spake.
Those draw then, from the water-fats there set,
For the Jews' washing; and bear forth, thereof,
At Jesus' word, to all the bridal guests:
That marvel, tasting of their new-filled cups!
Supposing, this some fetcht-in old wine was.

The morrow after, from high wilderness;
Where He, in prayer, continued had, all night,
Again descending, Jesus, to the lake,
By Shalum's field, lo, cometh, in stony path!
And Shalum, husbandman, scatters his seed corn,

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After the plough, and chants prophetic verse;
He shall grow up, before Him, as a root
Out of dry ground. On Shalum, Jesus looked!
As sunny ray glanceth through waterbrooks,
So Christ's gaze pierced his being. The Lord spake, Shalum!
Who took his cloak and staff, and followed forth.

Nor least is Alexander, Simon's son:
Nor any is least, nor any first, in heaven.
Moreo'er, is Barnaby's mother, Sabra, of them
Which washed the Master's feet: and numbered is
With the holy women, called the Hosts-of-Christ,
Which had both ministered to Him, in the path;
And of their substance also, in the feasts.
Of whom was Salema, Joseph's wife; and niece
To Anna prophetess. In high Mizpeh, dwelt
His mother, Elyma, widow; one whose gates,
Unto all which fared by, to the Holy Place,
Stood alway open: whence might such refresh
Them, in their way, with bread and wine; and rest.

Thus, also, came Salvation, to her house.
Miriam, with child and weary, there did rest:
And sithence Jesus, with His parents, both;
Night of what day they, longtime, had Him sought;

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With hearts of sorrow, in their straitened breasts.
Words spake then, of the Kingdom, and the Faith,
That Holy Child, of Israel; insomuch,
Was that day, kindled in the widow's breast,
A lively hope, were this He, which should break
The Yoke from off their necks: and spake thereof,
Elyma, at Lydda, unto rich young Joseph,
Affianced to her daughter. These be, Christ!
Thy little church, that fleet, in Mnason's ship.

Now month is in; when set the Pleiades,
Shipmen forsake sea's boisterous wilderness;
Laid up, in havens, their carracks and long ships.
Only this storm-beat carrack holds the deep.

Though long be, till crude winter season change,
Dear to the saints, are their seafaring days;
Wherein new birth and childhood of their lives.
Fair is that fleeting fulness of the seas,
In whose round molten bosom, their keel rides.
Falls now the storm, and sleep grey dapple waves:
Or these like fallows, and much furrowed field,
Whose springing blade is wallowed of the wind.
And aye sea's infinite bruit is in their ears,
Like to an everlasting voice of God.
Then seem the watery billows clap their hands,

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Their keel beneath, that breasts the watery path.
And seem, in still days, these wide-wandering seas,
Neath crystal bent of heaven, like sunlight helm,
And glittering hauberk of the Lord of Hosts!

But when stoops tempest, on the craggéd deep,
Lifting up billows, like to blowing woods,
Those seem some barking wolves, that scour to land.
Or hurled together, with high-running crest,
Foaming out rage, they barren rainbow-drops,
Do toss again into the windy loft.
In tumult, then, of storm, waves ride on waves;
Like God's great army of justling chariots,
And squadrons rushing, in long confused ranks;
Or thousand cataracts, on the dry land.

Now in that dark-ribbed chamber of the ship,
Writes Joseph record of the days of Christ,
Paths of His feet, words of His blesséd voice,
Which fell, like dew of Hermon, on men's souls:
His wondrous works; Christ's death on gentile cross.
And how being risen Jesus, from the dead,
Was forty days, of many, seen alive.
This, daily, in those few brethren's ears, he reads;
Whereto they, with one heart, confer what things,

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Each one, his eyes, his ears, his happy hands,
Have seen, heard, handled, of the Word of Life.

Moreo'er them, those few gentile souls, hath given
The Lord, which, mariners, sail in Mnason's vessel;
Save Adherbal, pilot, old in rust of sin;
Which to God's spotless Lamb, might not be won.
Naught profited them hath Baal, in time forepast,
Astarte, Adonai, Melkarth, their false gods,
Nor the Kabîrs, those great ones of their ships,
Glad tiding they receive, from Joseph's lips,
Of heavenly love, and soul's-rest after death.

So long, in heaven's darkness and much rain,
They fleet, the saints, well-nigh, forget their count
Of days. Oft reason their sea-faring men,
Whither, in seas, they drive; if nigher were
They Gadera, or jeopardy else of Lybic coast?
Somewhiles, they tell, of many adventures strange,
These seas beyond; where vessels of long voyage,
Sailing, by stars, wont, after moons, arrive;
And Syrtes, (waves commingled with quick-sands;)
And paths of far Phœnician merchandise.

Tells Ithobal, master, of fair Isle, which lies
Long past the gates, of Melkarth-Hercules,

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Outward, amidst vast Ocean's running stream;
Whence, in his father's days, storm-driven vessel,
Which loosed from Gadera forth, was returned safe.
Lies, neath wide heaven, men deem, none further coast.
And seems that isle, whose midst a mount, to fleet;
Whereon the firmament, stayed, like a steel glass.
Is that the Island of the Blessed; where souls,
Pure from all stains, and now immortal made,
Dwell in a mountain, which ascends to God.
More fair are those than children of the world,
Nor know they travail, or for meat or cloth;
Nor tempest's wrath, nor snow, nor winter's scathe;
But pluck ambrosial fruits, in holy grove,
Whose leaves, is fame, drop honey; and are, therein,
Twain living wells, which flow forth wine and milk.
And crowned their brows, with never-fading flowers,
All days, in feast, with joyous dance, those pass.

The pilot old, tells, how his ship-feres cast
Away, far in the sides were of the North,
Where hanged the stedfast star, above their mast;
Nor this, that we know, day, nor night, is there,
But each, by long returns of half the year;
Their year one day: men plough, at dawn, and sow,
Harvest at noon; and gather fruits, at eve.
Yet, in their long night, is clear flickering gleam,

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Of frosty stars. Cold cliffs, of that sea-deep,
Are blue-ribbed ice; whence oft strange lofty sounds
Are heard, as lute-strings knapped, of the ice-god.
Clothes those dull waves, much fleeting icy dross,
The rotten spume of an eternal frost;
Wherein seen swimming hairy strange sea beasts,
With visages of men, and immane fish;
Whose gape, they say, might swallow a great ship.

Tells Ithobal then of soil, whose stones are tin,
And silver mangers of Hesperian steeds;
And mighty rivers, rolling golden sands.
But in those seas, by night time, kindled flames,
On many a foreland, shine, to misguide ships.
Tells shipman Phelles, how on Zidon's quays,
Sit old worn mariners, that with toothless chaps,
Carp of strange seas, and marvels still report,
Of many far-off lands, which they have seen.

But, all seem shadows, fables of vain things,
As who should hoise a net, on his main-yard,
To sail his ship, or would pursue a bird;
To these now newborn souls, which them submit,
To God, in Christ, great gain of their lost voyage!

The tinny wedges, silver, iron, the brass,
Wherefore, wont Cyprus' ships trade to far coast;
What Araby parfumes, and fine gold, sends forth;

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Hind ivory, and doting Mizraim linen wares,
And Javan bronze; whence, Zidon's merchant folk,
Wont turn enriched, in paragon, seem as dross,
Of those new riches of our souls, in Christ.

Now Cadiz.

Egypt.

Ionia or Hellas.

Weary begone, all on the winter seas,
They drive, one night-time, sleeping in their carrack,
Under an isle, not far from Tartesse coast:
There sheltered from all winds, the vessel rides.
When morrow breaks, behold, a forest cliff!
Phelles and Malchus swim, on boards, to land.
In little islet, warped the rest their ship,
They now, by stairs, descend on the white sand.

Is comfort, in all hearts, when stand their feet,
Now on fast earth, out of the unstable deep.
Then some, spersed forth, their garments wash, longs shore;
And in the sun display. The holy women,
Bear meal out of their ship: sith kindled hearths,
They bake, neath sandy embers, hasty-bread.

But Malchus ranging, to search out those cliffs,
Hath found, mongst sharp wild crags, some sullen cave,
Shelter for all their souls. They sing an hymn,

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And giving thanks to God; on these sea-brinks,
Now sit to dine. O'ershines glad winter's sun,
Them, of an azured heaven, golden fair.
Then, to that hold, they gather leaves and halm,
Some draw in boughs, defence from the night wind:
Other pight pales, hang curtains, and divide
Their bower. This, chamber, for the stuff and women,
That, for the men. They, gently, bear then, in
The pilot; who, sith when Isle Iranim.
They passed, lies bedrid. Speechless, nigh to death,
This dreams and oftwhiles wanders, from his mind.

Here lodged, at eve, they thank God for good house.
Long yet the nights; but they, with great heaped fires,
Do them recomfort, of sweet-smelling pine.

Phelles, who climbed the cliffs, to-day, surviewed
The land; had seen nor house, nor earéd field,
Nor path of wight, but all lie salvage wild;
Wherefore, to-night, their carrack, without guard,
They leave: and sithen having supped and prayed,
And them commended to the grace of God,
Their eyes, in peaceful rest, the Angel closed.

They rise, at dawn, up from their leafy beds:
And when they lifted have their hearts and prayed,
Fetched Phelles saws and axes from the ship.
Him follow, and good Ithobal, all, to forest.

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Those shipfolk, and the brethren, by them, taught,
Labour together there, refit their carrack:
They hew down pitch-trees; plane new yard and mast;
And boards, whereof to frame another bark.
And sweet that labour was to them which wrought.
Travailling their hands, converse their souls, in earth,
With angels seemed; and, in their midst, is Christ.

Nigh the sick pilot now, to his last end,
They pray and lay, at eve, on him, their hands:
At dawning ray, he passed. Old Adherbal, dead,
They bear, sun-setting, forth, to blue sea-brinks;
Where digged is, (which he, dying, asked,) his grave:
Pight Phelles sith a steer-staff, at his head.

They caulk, with hassog reeds, they pay, with pitch,
That Ithobal stills, to make her staunch, the ship.
The holy women sew their mainsail rent.
They heave her tackling taught then, and redress
Her wicker bulwarks. This dures forth, few weeks.

Were sitting, in a twilight, after meat,
The saints, whom Albion sees now well refreshed;
When bitter choking reek smites on their sense;
And where they, late, charred wood, strange glow is seen:
Fly skritching birds, in current of night wind.

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Hark rushing, in nigh thicket, of wood beasts!
Leap up, ah! on hill-brow, wild crackling flames.
The Angel breathed then terror in their breasts!
So that, caught up their bundles, all flee forth;
Nor any turn their face; till, come to ship,
They climb, amazed, aboard, with panting hearts!
So cut her moorlines. Wafts them evening wind,
Then, from that land. Lo, like to brazier, burns
The Isle, behind them, with much falling smoke;
And ruds the waves. They, come out, to the large;
Hoise sail. But Albion guides the carrack's course;
Appeasing their desire of the dry land.

Phœnician Tartessus, in Spain.

They come then carried, in discourse of days;
Where currents fight together of two seas,
In Tartesse-straits; twixt opposed beetling cliffs,
Derne Kalpe and Abyla. (Mongst Zidonians, is
Fabled, that rent them Melkarth-Heracles,
In-sunder; where, erewhiles, was long ridged mount!)

They see, where their keel fleets, thick bedded ribs;
(Clothed with long tangle-locks, of wild sea-wrack,
And shells,) of many drowned and broken ships:
And, under rumbling caves, strewed the white sand,
With skulls and dreary bones of mariners;

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That, to and fro, washed in cold-sliding billows,
Do make their everlasting moan, to God!

Beyond, illimitable deep, appears!
Rolling to heaven, high watery wilderness;
Whereto their carrack tends, as she did know
Her path. They, from that inner sea, passed forth;
Lo, stoops, now, sun's vast rundle, to her rest.
They, looking back, behold those ends of land,
Ah, token of God's peace, with rainbow, crowned!

Them smites then Lybian wind. Yet other days,
They drive: till, by noon-shadow of his staff,
Night stars, and his ship-card, good Ithobal casts,
Their height were nigh now that of golden Tagus;
Whither trade Zidon's ships, for tin and brass.
They, sith, sailed by two high tempestuous capes;
Which passed, before them, lies vast treacherous gulf,
Where peril is, by keels of cruel pirates;
Whence on sheen circle of the empty deep,
Their sea-wont mariners' eyes, all day, ben fixt!

Now named of Gibraltar.

Last looms great Gaul's hill-coast, before their mast;
By vertue of Julius, late subdued, uneath,
To imperial Rome. Gaze-on, with lifted hearts,
The saints, till skies, in russet hews, ben clad:
And sith, through glooming eve, till the night-murk;

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When wafts their ship, from land, new springing breath.
So that, when day now daws, appears Gaul's coast,
Like far-off tents; which, sith, they see no more.

Droops, dies the wind, to calm: twixt the sheen heavens,
And this wide-circling deep, seems hang their ship.
Poises, past noon, to the heaven of heavens, high Albion,
That mighty angel; midst bright Seraphim,
To stand. Yet, in his parting, the bruised carrack,
He sealed with signet, graven with that Name,
Which cannot uttered be of men of angels!

He went, to Godhead up, like sudden gleam,
Which mirror casts, against the sliding sun.
And, in his parting, feel the saints of Christ,
A creeping cold; as one who sits by hearth,
Whose kindly flame, now dying, is nigh spent.
Albion's ascending, have malignant spirits
Beheld, whose habitacles in these coasts.

In upland Gaul, amongst vast pathless brakes,
Dark rock-ribbed gulf, in dim Carnutian wood,
Dread Abermaw, (which sounds the Gate-of-death,)
To hell descends; and baleful is the place.

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None herdsman thither leads his wavering flock,
Few only wicked herbs, that mould brings forth.
Who wayfare in the wood, wend far about;
Nor feet of any fugitive durst approach:
Nor, in that soil, is heard man's living voice;
But booms the owl, wolves ghastful yell, by night,
And there, the spotted lynx, her harbour hath;
And o'er the dwale-grown cankered bramble-thicks,
The uncheerful spider, weaves her poisonous gins.
Is fame, huge Yotuns digged, that griesly pit,
Of old, what time made earthborn giants revolt,
Gainst the long-living mightier, sky-born, gods;
Shelter gainst hurled-forth lightnings of heaven's wrath.

A. Saxon eóten; a supernatural race of giants, enemies of the gods.

And, quoth the Muse, In that dim loathly gulf,
Saw I great twilight train, assembled spirits!
With trump and immane arms and boisterous looks,
Gods Caradoc, Bran and woad-stained Camulus,
Whose iron mails, yet, were black, with battle-blood.
Terror and Murrain came to those war-gods;
Whom followed yellow Pestilence and pale Flight;
And came mad Discord, drunken of the cup,
Of mixture of men's blood and heaven's wrath.

I saw, like Ocean, in vast boughts, uprolled,

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Then immane worm, of hellish countenance,
Bit of whose teeth is an aye-rankling sore;
And blasts fair world, so wide, her carrion breath:
Wreak, madness, pangs of hell, are in her voice!
And hiss her tongues, of rancorous fell despite,
From morn till eve, against the very gods.
(Her gods have, whom they shun, named Household Strife.)

There saw I Faction, full of whispering jaws,
Much strife of words, whence springing enmities:
And warlike Gaul this challenged for his own.
Nigh whom, with impious looks, brain-wasting Wrath:
All-kindled were his eyes, as coals. On jars,
And frantic outrage, set is his delight.
To their decay, men hearken to his voice.

Disdain went by, then, tiptoe stalking demon;
With countenance of high mind, and wondrous worth:
But aye thing, which he yester did affect,
With strouting lips, to-day, contemns this fiend.
Then blasphemous Despair, lean crooked wight;
That stinks of misery and is evil breathed.
Where enters this, like thief, unto an house,
Hope, on the threshold, dieth; and as he goeth,
He murmurs to himself, All life is loss,
And, oft, this slew himself, with burning knife.

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Swelling Ambition, busy climbing demon,
Passed by, like he-goat, standing on the nape,
Of silly sheep; whence leapt, anon, he stalks,
O'er heads of men's tumultuous multitude.
This seen his father fallen, would hardly stay
Uplift the old wight; sith only himself he loves.
Yet in his heart, could find, to die, the fiend;
So trumpet fame should blaze his empty praise;
And his name, fable of men's idle hours,
Ride upon tongues, that sound by the rank breaths,
Of taverners, harlots, gulls. And still this looks,
For some exceeding meed of his light parts.

One, masking in a cloud, mongst thronging fiends,
Drew nigh; of kin to those fell Spirits forepast.
Old Riches him, (but some say, Envy, part,
His father was,) on mother base, begot,
Lewd Ease. Brute-Ignorance, sith, the demon nursed.
Wherefore this is, whom gods of darkness named,
Presumption, for all his vain-glorious boast,
Maugré his o'ergrown, sluggard, unknit, joints;
Still found, at proof, to every manly work,
Unapt. He seemeth some lourdain, lither, youth,
Distempered, foul, distract; the milk-beard springeth
Yet hardly on whose peaking, froward, face.

Presumption, wise words of the old, despiseth;

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And who, before, expert. What though this demon,
Do, each hour, fall from some dread precipice;
Yet, nor by such, may he, nor other's hap,
Be taught. This deigns, from his cloud-height, uneath;
And that, with lofty blighting eyes, look forth,
On sick world's, burdened, bruised, bound, multitude;
That sore must travail, and wear thrifty cloth.
The fiend takes but small keep of other's merit;
Since only he would, himself, should be set forth,
(Vile counterfeit!) The remnant, he accounts
Dust, base world's dross; even who divinest spirits;
Aye, and every lofty work of theirs bebarks,
Presumption, still, with his hot carrion breath.

Heart-nipping Envy saw I nigh approach.
Is this a meagre, hollow, homicide, fiend,
Whom once high gods bound with a brazen band.
Aye grudging hear of other's happy chance,
And full of teen, this murders his own mind.
His gossip, derne Suspect, with frozen face;
For dread of thing should never come to pass,
Saw I; and of a poison-cup this drinketh,
Who eyes awry, of double-meaning, hath.

Pride stalked by, on long shanks. Is his the vaunt
Of some high lignage. Twin he of Self-love,

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And father of Mischance. Is his pretence,
A fond pre-eminence. This demon hath
Two hidden asses' ears, under his hairs!
Came dogfaced in, nefarious, Avarice;
Who wars breathes on the earth. Guile, glozing fiend,
Full of veiled eyes, passed crippling to the ground.
And every eye a glistering adder seemed,
That lieth, in baleful wait, under some bush.

Yet monstrous demon saw I, shake those cliffs,
Strong Spirit of Storm. As stands some drizzling pine,
Sere, without rind, and muted-on of birds,
Mongst lower woods; so this mong demon gods.
Heaven's lightning blinded had his boisterous face.
A whirlwind on him seized, and smote to ground;
Where, flocking, trode on him all other fiends.

I saw hell moved; mongst those infernal spirits,
Stirred tumult rife; and midst much striving, was
One haled, by the hair: and Violence hurled him forth,
From that assembly; unworthy found, consort
With fiends! For as dread demons the High God,
Above them; they as much, beneath, abhor
Blind blasphemous Despair; whom cannot hell

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Contain, nor floods withhold of Tartarus:
Wherefore, alone, Despair no fellow hath;
For unto all he adversary is.
His tongue that barked erst outrage, gainst all powers,
In heaven and hell, and mortal creatures, both,
Hell-hounds, which angry gods against him sent,
With torment, outrent, from his strangling throat;
Where serpent it became, on earth's low ground;
Which sith named Spite, creeps, dropping venimous rheums,
Eachwhere, through the whole world. Long dumb he was:
But, sith, Despair a new tongue gotten hath.

Blind is the fiend, of old time; when he pluckt,
From boiling brain-pan's bloody sockets forth,
His two eyes, with lean, crooked, iron claws.
But the extreme horror of his countenance,
There might no tongue, of earth-born flesh, unfold.
That outcast fiend, a mirror, still upholds;
Wherein, if eye should, even of a god,
Behold; his spirit, though deathless, should taste death!

Dread spirits in darksome gulf, low underground,
None seemed more dire than heart-consuming Care;
Whose squalid days, aye cumbered, like a curse,

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All, in disease, misspent. And oft beats Care,
With groans, as wretch undone, his blubbered face;
And fares like one that mourneth for the dead.
Yet falls no dread, in Care's breast, of the gods.
From shadow, unto shadow, of each place,
Where might he find some pause, flits the rackt fiend:
A stinging swarm of flies, aye, about his ears.
Blear are his eyes, still dropping acrid rheums:
Eyes, whence the dreadful pains of hell look forth!
Full aye of blains, and lapped in filthy clouts,
Saw I his wearish body nigh consumed,
With sighs, and baleful never-ending smart,
As of forsaken heart, and long night-watch.
Still without sleep this murders his own mind:
And cause that twice die mortals is the fiend.
And where, with straitened brows, comes this, unglad;
All gather blackness, faces of the gods.

In that hell-ground, saw I, descending rife,
House and hearth gods, great unhold rabblement,
In guise of lesser loathly infinite beasts;
Toads, adders, flitter-mice and crested newts.
Came thronging wild gods, of earth's field and wood,
Punks, spectres, bugs; earth, well and mountain sprites,
Skrats, woodwives, goblins, of earth's forlorn night;

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In guise of werewolves, fitchews, and strange shapes,
Of chafers, gnats, and gledeworms' garish brood;
And worms from crossway-graves of murderers.

Then saw I mightiest fiends, take aweful state;
Whose lewd dread shapes, there might no tongue unfold.
They sit on ranges, round, of swart-ribbed rocks.
Uprose great Rumour, herald of the gods;
Who husht that fell assembly, with huge voice,
That seemed the hum of nations, and the noise
Of tumbling streams and winter-storm, in forest.
Then seething hideous silence! as in grove,
Whose sere leaves ruffled of chill autumn wind.
Yet casts, like woodwale, oft loud yell! some fiend.
Is Rumour many-headed demon god,
With thousand tongues. Were, like vast burning wheel,
His nether parts, whereon he seemed to move.

Last, husht that great assize, rose sea-god rude,
That boasts him, before all world's gods; because
His streams, as serpent, middle-earth enfold.
Three salvage blasts, blew he, on his wreathed horn!
Run-to brown and black elves, whom Luridan leads,
Ground-demons' king, heard deep earth-bellowing sound;
From seven stages of dark under-world.

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Dwarves rise up in the floor, that in fast rocks,
Like maggots, wonne. Come cloudy-reeling train,
Of painted nightmares, dwelling nigh to death;
That, when, gone down on this dull clot of earth,
Sun's rundle, rise, dark mists; and do afflict
Men's weary sense, when they should timely rest.
Yet saw I stand, midst shapes of demon gods,
Of wretched wights, which perish on the ground,
Strong stubborn spirits; that wait on their behests,
With kindling eyes, like eagles and winged beasts.

That sea-god spake, and shook his briny locks;
And sware by Hell, and by his thousand floods,
That certain arduous, high, exalted spirits,
Exiled from heaven, which sith in haughty steeps,
Of ether, have their frosty mansions,
Flying the empyrean starry eaves beneath,
Of the aye-wheeling, glassy, firmament;
In jeopardy of high heaven's bright burning javelins,
As stars, shot forth; heard new song of God's angles;
Saying, Hear O Heavens! And ye, of the low Earth,
Inhabiters; all, give ear unto My voice!
Salvation of our God, and of His Christ,
To the Isles; And God saith, They shall know My Law.

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(In that, seemed flame-forth the dull heavens above;
And shoot craig-splitting lightnings, to pit's ground!)

Is this great sea-god, a soothsaying Spirit;
In whom yet shines derne light of heavenly birth:
And girts the god's frounced brows, a guirland swart,
Of salt sea-wrack. He cried among the gods,
And quake deep vaults of all that horrid house,
And on them all long stares. With spumy lips,
At last, he spake; I saw, from painted womb,
Of yond Phœnician hull, born sacred brood,
Shall quench our bloody altars, and deface
Our fanes; and all hew down our hallowed groves.

Consult then gods of Gaul and Island Britain,
In Abermaw, with the blue watery gods,
How, all suddenly, they might destroy that vessel,
Whose angel-ward now mounted from the world.
Ordain those gods send messengers unto Satan;
And chosen three fleetest spirits, they bade them speed.
Those straight, from midst the pit, like arrows, rose!
Then Rumour huge, dissolves this parliament.

Rise all; on seething wings, like locust swarms,
From Abermaw; or like are those damned fiends,
Small mingled fowl, that surge in Autumn fields.
And now the mid of night, to mortals, is.

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The sound, in the thin lift, is of their wings,
Neath shining stars, like to that dry East wind,
Which soughs at dawn, and shakes the forest leaves.
And sith they light down, at Armoric shore;
And cast from Venetan dark craggéd coast,
Forth hellish cries; and full is all the night,
Of whispered crimes. Those messengers, then, to Satan,
To plain already stoop, beyond the Alps.

Lighted on Alban mount, which surviews Rome,
They plumb, like ospreys, through swart wave; and stood,
In ever-burning belly of that hill,
Beneath; where keeps the god of this low earth,
Presumptuous spirit, great Lucifer, his high court.
Son-of-the-Morning, he, an equal throne,
Would challenge, with Alfather; God, in heaven!
But pierced by lightning-arrows of God's wrath,
He all day, (a thousand years, that day,) to earth,
Fell; and fell league, as stars did rain, of angels,
Damned with him. Satan, great Hell, timbered hath,
For their abode, beneath the center'd Earth.

He, heaven-spurned prince of fallen starry host,
Sits buffeted of huge, high, tumultuous thought,
Touching the world, since High God it accursed;

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Might not Earth's heritage, now, be wholly his?
Unto him those swift air-running messengers,
Arrive. Them Satan hears, with guileful ears:
Commands Abaddon, strong prevailing demon,
Who sits, with spotted wings, at Hell's right hand,
(In shape, a dragon, is that murder-fiend,)
Then fly, with their returning embassage.

Hell's angels tower, from high hill-seat, nigh Rome,
To the wild winds, bove Earth's green-tawny face.
They compass a man's journey, in a moment:
And soon beneath them, as white mere-stones, set,
Were of a garden, see the vast, towered, Alps.
Abaddon stoops then, with more easy flight;
O'er Gaul's wide plain, that seems a forest field.

In his iron wings, destroying tempest rides,
Uproots the groves, and blasts all tender buds.
The ploughman's hope, he smites, of the green corn,
With rattling hail; and in the field, abroad,
His herds and flocks; he smites the widow's thatch;
To the end, might wretched wights, by nature, blind,
Blaspheme the God of Heaven, and stain their souls.

In hour of lark's suprising; when the sun
Looks from her golden lattice, in the East,
Declines Abaddon, to the shore of Gaul.
A little, then, suspends his haughty flight,

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To thwart Gaul's seas. Sith o'er loud waves they pass,
To likeness changed, of rushing cormorants.

All sudden surging, from Armoric shore,
That army of fiends, from pit of Abermaw,
Did hurtle with Abaddon in the air.
Then mongst them known, they join anon their powers.
Sith, in dim morning skies, all sit consult.

Half was that daylight spent, when last they rose.
Those eftsoons stoop, which would smite Mnason's vessel.
How spumes dim sea-flood, under demon's flight!
And troubled, lifts up wreathing waterspouts;
Which, on the deep, march, as it were a wood.
And, lo, where, yonder, Mnason's carrack rides,
Midst circling, sheen, sea-face; a calm divine
Diffused about the ship. Infernal reek
Abaddon spewed then, from his hellish gorge,
To hide his devilish arts; wherein descend,
Like to a drizzling rain, now, the damned fiends,
Upon that shipboard of the men of God.

Were slumbering, after meat, those sea-bruised saints,
For weariness; when them seemed already spent
Day's darkening ray: close creeping, in their joints,

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Sour rheums and aches; so crud'ling their dull blood,
Unkindly cold! From the dim wallowing flood,
Sounds hellish hubbub, in their drowsing ears.
They deadly dream, and have forgotten Christ,
As spouse forgetteth the new spouse, in sleep.
The deep about them roars, with dreadful noise.
Abaddon, with his sceptre, lifting up
Stour billows; whelms them, mainly, upon their vessel!
Wherein they drench, and seemeth all a sea-grave.
Howbeit no more may Power prevail of Hell,
O'er those few saints; whose prayers yet offered up,
Before the Throne, as incense; (and was sealed
Of mighty Albion their carrack vessel;)
Than all dead world, gainst one man's living force!

Whilst, on these things, I mused, with fear of heart,
For time now is, and that beyond our deaths;
I looked for some in heaven, which should reveal,
Unto my troubled sense, that cannot rest,
The mystery of Hell, and God's world, seeming waste.
Read Muse, which hearest the Canticles of angels,
Touching great Hell, and the aweful fall of Satan!

Was after this I, poet, leaned and slept:

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And stood the Muse before my dreaming sense!
Which, opened brazen coffer; and took forth,
Scroll, blackened, as it were, for eld and smoke;
Yet which seemed, in mine eyes, as clear as glass,
When that, unsealed, she gave it to mine hand.
Quaint-charactered, I that Muse's roll spelled forth.
Like as a child, I it conned; wherein thus writ:

Tremendous his presumption; warred the Archangel,
Gainst Him Who highest sits, on throne of heaven.
Lo, in infinite night's abysm, without stars,
Gulf, walled with flaming vault of adamant,
Dead world of endless pain, great Hell doth rise;
Where souls, foredoomed, for their eld-father's guilt,
To fall, have their eternal punishment:
Christ save us, from the torments of that tomb!
There Hell, whose countenance, ere, as morning star,
Was fair; at length, unbends his cheerless brows,
To look on that vast world of men and spirits,
Which he hath framed; and proffers blasphemies,
(More horrid drad, than able mortal breath
Were utter, or man's deathling ear might hear!)
Mongst angel-princes fallen from God's Face.
Through all, Hell's aweful voice resounds; and quake
The flaming pillars of that underworld.

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Then Hell, exalted, in dread throne, sate down,
As God; and lifting his high murder-hand,
Sware mar, and bring to naught, all Heaven's fair works.
To this end, Hell sends, forth, on the Lord's earth,
Concupiscence, to breathe in living flesh;
And Covetise, to bring all souls to loss:
Two his most strong are they and subtlest spirits.

Dark, without stars, in the infinite Universe,
Dismeasured, void, is place, which yet no place,
But furthest from God's eye. There Satan cast,
Of Hell's great frame, the baseless fundaments hath.
He laid the plot, there, greater than the Earth;
And strewed with dust and bones of this world's death;
Wherein who lie, as stumbling-stones and rocks,
Or hang, (as lacking sense,) like drowsy moths,
On walls of burning hell, in a death's dream;
Were brutish souls, unworthy punishment.

Dim land it is, whose eager fiery floods,
That fall to everlasting sink of brimstone,
Were tears, with mingled murder-blood of wars:
Whose tempests rife, were sighs of ages dead.
Children of stature, purblind, without stay,
There wander, lost, unnumbered multitude.
Thick-flying eagles, which in fiery loft,

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With cruel claws, and sharp beaks, rend their flesh,
Were their old sins; and serpents, where they pass,
Their pithless limbs enfold. And, in await,
Lie mouthing fiends, in shapes of fearful beasts.
Their bodies scourged are of a fiery rain.
And run they shroud them, under cliffs, a moment,
These threaten, lightning-riven, on them fall.
Who fly, their feet, in scalding ooze, stick fast.

Few there are wells, midst smouldering earth and rocks.
Stoops any soul, to drink, for brenning thirst,
It, in his belly, is as molten glass.
Sit who seduced them, grinning visages,
In caves, their bodies buried to the necks,
Chained, under red-hot cliffs, on that dim shore;
Where daily they are drenched, in fiery tide.

Thence hell's vast frame upriseth, by degrees,
Immane, a world of torment, manifold,
Which hath men's thousand-ages' dead received.
But great hell, with vile earthly thing, compare;
Like hornet's nest, in some dim holt, it were,
Which hangs apart, where, seldwhile, foot doth pass.
So hangs great clustered hell, in the abyss,
Deep under deep; whose infinite circuits full
Of wailful nation, peoples that lament

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Their endless pains, in serpentine abodes;
Wherein ten thousand kinds of living deaths.

Are, in each circuit, cities of strong torment,
Where demon-gods bear rule, o'er damnéd souls.
Who higher heaped hath crimes, in hell, is set,
Pre-eminent, up to Hell's temple wall,
Whose dædale building is of congealed flame:
Wherein, in aweful state, sits Lucifer,
The Majesty of hell; and him adore,
As God, the nations dead and exiled angels.

When passed a time and times, (each thousand years,)
Since day of God's great doom upon the world,
Satan commanded, and dark Samael,
Demon of death, sounding dread clarions thrice,
Summoned, before him, all Hell's angel host.
Come thousand captains of Hell's horrid house,
With thousand squadrons. They, in Satan's court,
All mustering, sink their statures; like as were
They thousand pestilent swarms of stinging flies.

Unto every Prince, of fallen angel-host,
Satan his ward assigns; high Regiment,
In burning hell's tremendous cloistered womb;
Bound within bound, in wheeling horizons,
Impassable, to more excess of anguish,

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With iron aweful noise. Whereto compare,
Base worldly thing, were like those rumbling millstones,
Pale housewives roll; nor rest, for any weariness,
To grind out, till day's end, their children's bread.

Is each hell-city, whence thick reek ascends,
And stench, full of iron bays, of smouldering death;
And whose walls compass in, of burning brass,
Rivers of rushing flames; lest, in their bale,
Souls gather head, to desperate emprise.
None comfortable dew of kindness is,
Soul-steeping slumber, nor, of pain, surcease,
Among the Lost. Who spouses were, in the earth,
Children, familiars, shoot out burning tongues,
In flaming hell, that bitterly upbraid;
And pierce, with sharp reproach, each other's breasts!

Full is that infinite murk, of impotent threats;
Chiding and hate sound in each horrid place;
And this for greater burden of their pain.
Their never-ending sorrow, which aye is
But in beginning, chastens not lost souls;
Nor purify, of hell, the impious flames.

Of every speech are mingled Earth's passed spirits,
Which of like guilt: and as loathe wavering noise,
At border of some fen, where paddocks creak,
Is their much wailing, everywhere, at once.

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For swallowed up, in that excess of anguish,
They, on sweet death, each moment, yell and plain,
Which deemed men end, of mortal miseries;
But, for lost spirits, is no more death, alas!

Yet is there one, like Hope, who, demon, seen;
That sits, in hell, on spikes, in an high place;
But hollow-visaged is, which upward cast,
And his lean hands fold, fearful, on his breast,
His heart to hold, which swells-up, in his throat.
But Very Hope departed from the Earth,
In her last days, spread his wide wings; and sits,
Like fowl on nest, before heaven's gate, and sleeps.

Moreo'er the Muse's antique scroll rehearsed,
Great Hell's dominion, over trespassed souls.
When great last Dreadful Day was on the earth,
The sun stood still, in heaven; all overwrit,
With iron brows, and spectacles of pain!
At trumpets' sound, on height, down, lightless, rained
Swift stars, to the abyss! and Time did cease.
Children of wrath were pent, with sin-stained face,
In Hinnom's vale, (abominable place,
Defiled and waste,) departed from the blest.
In marriage garments these, in the Lamb's blood,
Made white, were standing in God's Holy Place,

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Where they Him wait; and sith ascend with Christ.
Then ceased the Sun, to give her kindly light.
Totters world's frame; ruins! unbound, beneath
Their feet, that rest, in heaps. Who, in that last,
Last, dreadful breach, as the forgotten of God,
Like to untimely leaves, fell, quick and dead,
As out of a vast sieve, to dark mid-space;
Lay, as in endless swoon. Legions of fiends,
Labouring like emmets, gathered down to hell,
And made them, there, by devilish arts, revive;
And quicken to new eagerness of torments.

Though strong the once-outhurled, from heaven, archangel;
Yet dark, deprived of light, is his great being.
He no more knoweth the counsels of the Highest;
What, now in womb of time, should be brought forth.
Shall this great shining admirable hell,
Which he hath founded, without God, stand fast?
Shall God new worlds, shall He new heavens create?
His everlasting ban, shall He release?
Shall Christ, from heaven, descend for all lost flesh?

When Michael felled great Azazel, with his spear,
(For thus was Satan named, erewhile, mongst Angels,)
In plain of heaven: and from celestial court,

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Had cast out bound, with his apostate spirits:
Appointed the Thrice-Holy, unto their chains,
Of darkness, certain time and times. Lo, loost
(Their First Doom, thousand-thousand ages, passed;)
The bands of Satan! How his chief estates,
Gathered, to Lucifer, in Hell-pit, exult;
In their dread parliament! From his temple, Satan,
Warfare, proclaimed, then; gainst High Throne of Heaven!
With truce of hundred years, to souls in pine.
Went up, immane, great shout of Satan's angels.
Armipotent, Lead forth! Straightway, like wasps,
Which creep up from their combs, thick-clustered fiends,
From thousand reeling circuits, dreadful, rise.

Hell lays, on hundred chiefest dukes, command;
To pierce with battery, anon, of devilish engines,
Of burning mighty hell, the adamant cope,
Infrangible. Longwhile, they labour thus:
Till opened were wide breaches. Lo, five wents,
Whence issuing aweful swarms, in fiery tempest,
Like burning motes, that leap from stithy's blast!
Then dimly shine, in vast ætherian loft,
As kindled captive city's misty smoke.

Sith that great host of hell, leads Lucifer,
Where void is most and dark the Universe;

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To Tartarus, whose derne high-heaped, poles were wrapped,
With living flame: immane deceitful star;
The former hell! No breath of life, is there,
Of herb nor flesh: In place called Erebus,
They thither now, from their first flight, arrive.

There souls, in prison, fire endured and frost;
And thence was metal delved, of hell's vast mass.
Tremendous strife it covers, aweful noise,
Of fiery elements. Hath, from Tartarus,
Parted, at any time, of creature's lips,
To the Almercies' God, no prayerful breath!

In hell's dim thousand chambered circuits, is
Silence, since Hell passed forth. There long-pent spirits,
Their anguish ceased, in heavy dream of death,
Lie, still. Yet reek all dreadful brazen pits,
With sulphurous fume. Behold, set open wide,
Now, thousand bridgéd gates of burning brass.

From yet broad smouldering flame, in hell's deep ground,
Chimney of fire, upriseth gusty wind,
And whirling torments of oft fiery breath;
Wherein, (great were their swarms!) like to singed flies,
Are upborne souls: yet other, like scorched worms,

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From hellish holds, upcreep. And who first stand,
Now, round hell's rusty jaws, discern far radiance,
Of the lost heavens! Those, eftsoons, breathing, unwont,
Æther, faint: ascended yet, as smoke,
Of hell's immane great burning, hundred years.

Voice then of infinite wailing! gin revive,
And lift up piteous hands, vast sea of souls,
Towards high, bright, isles of yond eternal stars!
Where dwell their brethren, saints, in paradise.

Fathers of peoples, kings in world of old,
Upon whose shoulders, God laid governance,
Stand, mongst their nations' ages, like tall hirds,
Amidst vast flocks. When last those fathers, husht,
Had the infinite sea of hell-pent yammering spirits:
Like some tall palm, a mighty king stood forth;
Yared, mild-hearted, in old world of violence.
Pastor of nations: ere the sinful flood,
He stretched his sceptre, o'er the Eden of God.
But Yared missed of God's eternal rest,
By an háir's-breadth, in his fleshly lusts, cut off;
And sank, with blackened face, to hell, in death,
Whence full his body is seen of leprous sores!

Kings beckoning, that vast sinworn multitude,

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High silence keep. All hearken Yared's voice,
Who prophesies saying, That great Deceiver perished,
Dread Lord of hell; he shall return no more.
Gazed Yared, groaning, on God's stars, and prayed;
O Thou, that pleased somewhile wast to be called
Our Fathers' Father, look Alfather, sire,
On this great Death, which we, in hell, endure!
May not, for ever, we behold Thy Face?

And lightened, lo, his visage, whilst he spake;
Is come, again, his flesh, in all men's sight!
Repent we! he cries. Then all those lips impure,
Frame them, unwont, with small and chirking voice,
Each one, as leper's voice, in vast accord,
To sigh forth word of prayer, Thrice-Holy, Almighty
Alwise Lord, mercy! Hell-pent multitude, heard
Mercy, Chief of the spirits of God's breath,
From utmost hell's confines; and poised to God!
Is this Heaven's messenger, of most mighty wing,
Which far outstretched, as East is from the West,
Flies through the illimitable Universe.

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That griesly host of hell, had marshalled Stan,
In Tartarus; to vast shuddering vaporous plain,
And valley of stony horror, Phlegethon.
Whose hollow soil, cliffs hem of reeking brimstone;
Cumbered with ruin of subverted mounts,
Which daily upblown, as bladders, bellowing, rise,
With molten iron spouts, in fiery fen;
To ruin, in the same, with aweful noise.
Midst that dim star-floor, a murk sea-deep lies,
Of fleeting metal, like as burning brass,
Whose billows ride, in storm, on glowing rocks,
And toss out flaming spume, to sunless loft;
Which full of lamps of fire, and thrilling levin.

Behold, like vultures, Satan crouched around,
On craigs, where mingled fire and lofty frost,
Captains and princes, at vast valley mouth.
There lifted up their spotted wings, at once,
Above the immense din, they blaspheme Heaven.
And Satan, thrice, dread Lord of Hosts, acclaim!
Satan sees thence his battles proudly pass.

Impatient, he surviews their quadrate ranks:
Espies some backwardness, then, mongst certain spirits.
Less perverse, they; which read, in their dark breasts,
Scale the steep firmament, were vain emprise,
Should draw, on them, new weight of punishment!

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Whilst they, with drooping spears, and trembling crests,
Thus, mongst them question; and those on that wing,
Make cold their fellows' hearts, with fury, Satan,
(Works hidden awe, within him!) he who erst,
Rebelled in heaven; to Chemuel, hath commanded,
(Dread prince, oppressor, this,) yond spirits seditious,
Bring, bounden in, before him. Hell, their plea,
Disdains, that would, frustrate his high designs.
With his spear-heel, that iron ground, Satan strake;
Which yawns, amidst, with craggéd chaps, to pit
Of swimming brass; where river, Riggon, runs,
Of flame. Therein those trembling spirits, he cast;
And whelmed, on them, huge hill of iron and brass:
That might hell-without-end, those not scape forth.

Called then his chiefest captains, Macathiel,
Gadrael, dark seraph Samael, (which seduced
First earthling man,) and strong, foul Ruchael,
(Angel of lust and covetise, who taught erst,
To Eve's sons, arms:) he Azazel, (the outhurled,
From heaven,) to fleet-winged Hadarniel to guide,
(Is this who governs Hell's lost sphere,) ordains,
By darksome paths of æther's infinite steep.
From isle to isle, which, midst the trembling signs,
As stars, are seen, should be their upward flight.

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On stormy wings, Hell uprose, like a whirlwind,
With railing vaunt! Rise all, then, in a moment,
Leading their dukes, up, from that reeling plain,
Innumerable. They wheel beneath this star;
Where sheltered from the ken of wandering angels,
They, in empty silence, hear Hell's last behests.
Great is their voyage, whose end that supreme strife!
To the first precinct of the court of heaven.
Created thought, which, in an eyeblink, spans
So wide world and sea's face, might hardly pass.

A. Sax. geomerian, to lament and wail.

Long space, as hundred winters, now be passed,
Since parted Satan. Falls, in hell's derne gulf;
As sent down from on high, an healing wind,
Restores those sin-worn souls. They taste of rest;
And gin their timeless sorrows to assuage.

As sheaf of sunbeams looks through winter mist,
A living light appeared o'er the abyss.
Voice heard, on height, was, of some blesséd ones,
Saying; Holy, Holy, Holy, and keeping mercy,
Lord God Almighty! Angels, lo, of Light,
Descend, on shining wings, in starry ranks.

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Hail glorious advent! hail, whom God sends down,
Bright heavenly host. Gaze-on, men's ages lost;
And sinful nations fall upon their faces!
To those strong saving angels, their right hands,
They lift confused; and cover their left hands,
Their sinworn, ah! rebellious visages.

Like silver trumpet's voice, Uriel, archangel,
Which echoes through illimitable hell!
Spake; Unto you, in darkness, souls, outcast,
Lost deathling seed of earthborn Adam's flesh;
Peace, Mercy! And came your crying to Mine ear,
Saith the Thrice-Holy, Almighty, Alfather, Sire;
And yearned My bowels, like as a mother's womb,
In that she tiding hears of her lost son.
Lo, I, the Lord, which your first-father formed,
Your trespass, which ye trespassed, in the earth,
Blot out. Now is Mine anger overpassed.

Then cried the Seraph, Come up from this pit,

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Ye that were slain, rise from the second Death!
He spake; and souls receiving heavenly strength,
As cloud of winged ones, all were lifted up;
And hell is no more found beneath their feet!
But even as all things, to their centre, poise;
So angels them sustaining, they towards heaven.

Encompassed of light-bearing angels' host,
Those long, (as they that sleep,) mongst stars, mount forth:
Till they, to plains arrive, of lowest bliss;
Above the spheres, made like the firmament.
At a flood side, which clear, as crystal glass,
Where now they come; the Seraph bids them rest;
Whose angels lead them, mongst celestial flowers;
And pasture, with ambrosial dew, three days:
Yet one day seemeth, for is there no more night.

And lo, in sheep-pool, stands, mongst lilies white,
A mighty Hird; One like the Son of God:
Who, each one, washeth in that living well;
And gathers each one, on His bosom great,
And on His shoulders lays; on every one,
To set, that are they His, His Shepherd's token;
(Which ruddle seemed: but His own blood it was!)
Nor any there, the least one, shall go lost.

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Then bring them angels marriage-garments white;
That flock up, from that blissful watering,
Like new-born babes; and goeth before them Christ.
Hail, Herdsman great! And come forth, with loud hymns,
Bright choir, to meet with them, of holy ones,
Their brethren, which, in all the way, them wait;
With never-fading guirlands, in their hands:
Wherewith they crown that long-lost multitude!

Ah, day of gladness, that exceeds all speech,
Of earthborn souls! wherein decreed high God,
That sin should cease, and should be no more curse:
And taketh now, utterly, away the blot,
The Lord, of death and night, from all His work.

Yet formed God a new heavens and a new earth:
And for those lost, were found, on whom now named
Is name of Christ, a blissful dwelling place;
A little lower than the Paradise.

Touching that perverse host of flying Spirits;
Sore travailling now their wings, (unwearied erst,)
The Power of Darkness mounts, from loft to loft.
And they, like to a burning mist, eclipse,
Each star, whereas they pass. Of Lucifer,
Their flaming tongues chant praises, as they fly.

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Now, in that infinite ætherian region,
It pleased Alpower, the Increate God, whose Throne
High heavens, to set a Vortex terrible;
Wherein that flying host, which follows Satan,
Now fallen, unwares! With gnat-like hideous strife,
Of flickering wings, they beat that divine tempest,
Which carries from each hope, resistless, reaves,
With aye increasing fury. All, long, therein,
They stagger, vainly; and strives great Lucifer,
Mongst his strong captains, (which archangels were,)
In aid of his. He his august wings last folds,
Large as the marches of some earthly nation,
And casts his lot in, with them, desperate!

Tossed then, encompassed of huge fiery whirl-winds,
Tumultuously, they drive, at end, in view
Of citadel celestial; whose clear shore
Shines, like steep heavens' glassy firmament,
With towers and pinnacles and high walls, whereon,
Stand Cherubim, Ophanim, and bright Seraphim;
Next whom, Dominions, Vertues, Thrones, and Powers;
With glorious ranks of infinite heavenly ones,
Clothed in immortal armour of bright light.
With them enranged, and girt with rainbow light,

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Are the redeemed great army of the whole earth.
Who, shining ones, stand in vast temple porch,
Are the world's saints, which witnessed unto death.
And therein sit twelve kings, crowned, with the Lamb;
Whom, like the Sun, eye may behold, uneath.

And lo, that once, from heaven, hurled league of Satan!
With their derne wings, would cover, as they drive,
From Heaven's pure eyes, their dusk rebellious faces.
Last comes, clothed with murk cloud, great Lucifer.
And yet a little running moment ere,
Hurl their swart battles, on high heavenly towers!
Whence dasht; they fall, as stubble, all in one.
And their immortal substance lay to-rent.

Mongst all god's creatures, was not any found,
An Intercessor! Silence, then, long space!

Last the Thrice-Holy Godhead, Which restore
Would all His works, commanded; and anew,
There rose, them reaves, immane returning whirlwind:
Whence, to one place, assembled, Hell's bruised hosts;
Them winnows heavenly flame and purged their being,
Of malice; that they clear are, healed their hurts,
As lamps of light. They bow their knees, great army,
Before the throne. And shall they fall, no more.

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And made them God a lower course of angels:
But formed He, of the vast body of Lucifer,
A legion. And the Lord sent, keep, far off,
Inchoate worlds, where yet no vital breath.

Astonished I, from so dread visions, waked:
And murmur of the saints, was in mine ears,
Midst cries of fiends, which in the drowning vessel!
Abaddon calls, gods of Gaul's waterfloods;
And they obedient to his high behest,
From hollows of their hands, poured round the ship,
Their cataracts; that seem drown the very deep.
Surge sea-fiends, at his sign; which wonne beneath
Huge waters' weight. Squalid, with slimy wrack,
And stinking ooze, they rise, towards heaven's light.

When heavenly spirits decayed, from first estate;
In whom yet rests celestial light and breath,
This turned, in them, to rankling impious heat.
And as, in flesh, falls fell concupiscence,
Those powers of darkness, would new world beget;
Which might, in this low earth, frustrate God's work.
Then some with the innocent rocks, with woods, with floods,
Lay; certain companied with the creeky shores:
Insomuch, that eachwhere, of hellish seed,

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Sprang demon brood, whose chief ones called men gods,
Gods of this wretched world, forlorn and blind.
Monsters, the seas conceived, in their salt laps.
Gulfs brought them forth, with roarings; and out cast,
On the shole strands. Were even their sires ashamed,
Angels of darkness, so were dread their shapes:
Heaven-fallen gods abhorred their countenance.

Whence, taking counsel, some, in deep sea-ground,
To skerry rocks, they chained: that to the sun,
All-seeing, beneath this bended firmament,
Is their misfeature, as the Night, uncouth.
With these there coupled, sithence, strange sea-beasts,
And other, many, brought forth cruel kinds;
Which stain, with lukewarm blood of scaly flocks,
The silver waves. Of whom some lie, in wait,
For prey of souls of hapless mariners;
That cast, as rocks, their shapes in a keel's course;
Or rise, dim mist, or run strong-ebbing currents.
So have they drenched ten thousand gallant ships.

With brunt, some fiends, of huge sea-shouldering whales,
From billows roaring, rush on the bruised vessel!
Totters her hollow bilge of beams and boards.
Some, mast-great serpents, thresh the boiling deep.

173

Other, with storm of wings, stoop, airborne spirits,
Sea-crows; and with fell shrieks, the board possess,
And all defile, with ordure horrible.
Were these of kind, that wait for souls impure,
Them to depart from grace. And who is there,
Of sinful flesh, those demons, waking, sees,
Farewell his hope, his dread shall come to pass.

Yet, on that board, descend new baneful brood:
Are they night-dreams, vain spirits of illusion.
Like masque, before the slumbering eyes, they pass,
Of those sad passengers. Most, they grieve the sense
Of the Phœnicians, Ithobal and Phelles.
In guise of wailful sea-mews, with men's faces;
They seemed bear in, on bier, their late dead pilot,
Whose buried festered flesh falls from the bones;
Whom, follow on, a sea-drenched fellowship,
Like men their shipferes were; with dropping hairs,
And rotten looks, as risen from a sea-grave.
And gurgling much salt humour, murmurs one,
Foundered their longboat, nigh Isle Iranim:
Few, hardly, saved were grappled to sharp rocks;
But them great poise, of waves, bruised soon to death.

174

Evil them waits, (they cry out, with one voice,)
In Underworld; which fathers' gods forsake.
Can Yahwah, battle-sun-god of false Jews,
Deliver them from torments of this Tomb?

The saints now lie twixt deadly wake and dream.
If rockt, on troubled sleep, their sense, a moment,
Then thousand strange misshapes, forms without substance,
Such as man's dry afflicted brain can fashion,
To mock himself withall, with empty pain,
Afflict their being. Thus far Victory hath
Hell, o'er their feeble flesh, which in the ship!

Bethought him then the homicide Abaddon,
(To come to speedy fine of this emprise,)
Of the hydra of the cold Emingian seas,
God of the skin-breeched witches of North parts;
Tremendous monster, like huge serpent, rolled
Her nether parts, about sea-mountain's root.
So lies she, a hidden pitfall, in sea waves.
Is this great Ran, most horrid offspring dread,
(Corse-greedy Eagor's spouse, Ran also is!)
Of sea-gods' monstrous seed. Are hundred horns,
Mast-great, set round about her hellish face.
But for she grown, in view of other fiends,
So heinous was, they Ran, the whiles she slumbered,

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Bound unto mighty millstone's mountain mass,
That Taran, from swart thunder-cloud, outrolled;
And fell in that sea-deep, of rime and frost,
Far from men civil, and the altared world.

Ran daily her hundred snaky arms outlayeth,
Greater than oaks, about her, furlong forth;
In cold salt tide. And all are full of mouths,
Each able suck the blood of a whale-fish;
And though such thresh to dust, the billows wild,
With fearful bellowings, to some remote coast
And sullen shore. Her cast bewray Abaddon,
After the sun; when drowsy, wanting light,
To her devilish cruelty, sinks the hydra fiend.
Might of all fiends, should hale her by the horns;
Or else, they drive, under her baleful hold,
The Tarshish ship. But lo, an holy Angel!
From heaven's steep, descending in the West;
Whose charge is; draw-down dying day to rest.

Under wide-setting rundle of the sun,
Discerned God's Messenger, now o'er Ocean's stream;
Cloud, as some sea-fowl gathered to dead thing.
He saw, in mist of demons' shapes, Abaddon,
Shadowing the main. Then the Lord's angel sounded,
Above the twilight, to the Seven Watchers,
In the empyrium and clear wandering stars.

176

Stoop, from their see, in heavenly radiance,
Above the blot of night, those blesséd ones:
And bearing lamps, as stars, through the dim sphere,
They, swiftly, the dark sea-plain, overfly;
To succour souls. Run-on their wingéd feet,
O'er waves' unrest, vast watery wilderness.
Their lamps of inextinguishable light,
Pierce the main sea's dull flood, to her deep ground.

Now shine those glorious beams, about the ship,
Quickening the saints, that swoon in dying sleep.
They dream then, deep-sweet blissful things of Christ.
They, in vision, see that Galilean Lake,
Whose pebble-shore, with laurel guirland, crowned.
Again their dear Lord stands, on those clear brinks;
Who teacheth them to pray. They pray in sleep.

Like unto scudding stone, that crops the waves,
Is driven the sore bruised Cyprus ship, of fiends.
Camped gainst that demons' cloud, uphold the carrack,
The heavenly Watchers. Mighty Albion stands,
Where lightning-winged exalted Seraphim,
Before the seven spirits of the Most Highest,
Singing God's praises, answer one another!

The prayer, yet in the hearts of those few saints,
Is heard in heaven. Albion, as sunny ray,

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Down-glanceth, sudden, from the glooming skies,
To sea of Earth. That mighty angel strains
Torments and heaven's lightnings, in his hands;
And snares upon those demon-swarms, he rains:
As when he fought, ere worlds, in plains of heaven,
A prince in the Lord's host, gainst Satan's angels!
Wherefore, (whom he then overthrew,) Abaddon,
On whom new-fallen hell-pangs, not more enduring,
To look on Angel-Albion's lightning face,
Flagging cloud-wide, his baleful wings, wherewith
He tempest raised had round the Syrian ship;
Hastes forth, where deepest night, himself to hide.

Who with him demons, then, were scattered, part
As fowl. Is fiery wake seen, in night loft,
Of their dread rushing wings. Part, fishy fiends,
From heavens' lightnings, fighting with sea-billows,
As fry from stone-cast, in some fenny pool,
Flee, through dark watery paths. Nor of these aught;
Remains, save waves subverted, in huge heaps.

Then Albion called a spirit of South wind,
Who gathered thick clouds, poured out rain, all night;
Wherethrough, was purged the vessel's board, and laid
The waves. He called, then, for a clear North wind,

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Which the infect timber drieth; sith, on them, brings
He, all day, as a sweet breath of Libanus.
But, on the eyelids of the saints, he laid
Long healing sleep. Forth, on their course, those fleet;
New calm diffused, divine, about the ship.

179

BOOK VIII

Fabula visa diu, medioque recondita ponto.
Roman epigramma.

180

ARGUMENT

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.

181

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:

184

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,

185

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,

186

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,

187

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.

188

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:

189

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,

190

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;

191

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!

192

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,

193

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.

196

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,

197

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.

200

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.

201

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,

202

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.

203

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!

204

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.

205

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,

206

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,

207

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;

208

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;

209

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,)

210

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.

211

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!

213

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.

214

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.

215

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,

216

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!

217

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,

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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.

BOOK IX

ARGUMENT

Duneda, king of Duffreynt. Mormael, his nephew, is slain by angry gods. The Master of the Armoric ship's tale. Bladyn's lay, in the king's hall.

Duneda's dream. Ithobal's words among the Iscan shipfolk. Tegid, waggoner. Miracle of this man's corn multiplied, at Joseph's word. The king sends for the strangers. In the king's hall, they see Aesgar sitting, the great Dumnonian druid. Aesgar, with bitter accusing words, burdeneth the shipwrecked strangers. Two men, eremites, disciples of Eryr, come in. Lords of Dumnonians, faring to war, take an oath together, in the hands of king Duneda.

Certain of the brethren, which went forth to pray, enter in a sacred wood. The madman Llys. Druids lead them on to Aesgar's hall. Shalum reproves Aesgar's malicious questioning. Departing thence, druids bring them forth, in a path, whereby are dens of some wild beasts; which are loosed out upon them! The saints behold the Lord's angel, standing, to save them. They return hastily to the king, in Isca. Aesgar publisheth the druids' ban. Duneda disposeth him, to send his stranger-guests, unto sanctuary Avalon.

At afternoon, approach, in shining chariots,
Lords of Duffreynt; whom called forth king Duneda,
Entreat of warfare, with his enemies.

They sit, in moot-hall, soon, round the high walls.
Tall be, long yellow-haired, these Duffreynt lords;
And shine, on all their necks, wreaths of red gold.
Each lord bears, in his hand, a silver cup;
And sits, by every one, his land's high druid.

Was king of fair Duffreynt, before Duneda,
Stout Kamloc; who, (his father's son,) in fight,
Fell slain, what day Silures, enemies,
Harried, to Isca walls! Not bearded, yet,
Duneda, riding in the royal chariot,
Covered him, with his body, as with a targe.
Wounded, to death, fell Kamloc, from his war-cart
Duneda leapt down, on the bloody grass,

With furious spear and glaive, great slaughter made;
And heaped, with slain chief foes, his brother dead.

Duneda hath no son, his brother's sons,
Are the king's heirs. His daughter, he espoused,
To the elder, Morag, come to manly years.
But Mormael, younger, that was nobler born,
Unto their father's royal seat, aspired.

Perfumed, unprofitable, the young prince,
Like as a gilded bowstring unto war;
Mormael enflamed, one eve, among his peers,
With treacherous mead, cried Tanist, truculent!
He would be, in spite were even of the gods.
Word which doth sound, (in speech of these West Britons,)
A king's companion; that, under him, hath
Power of the sword, and word of the king's mouth:
And should succeed, hereafter, to his room.
Heard gods, offended; and decreed his death!
And was that night the eve of the New Year.

Lo, in to-morrow's pomp, he foremost rides;
Which conveys Aesgar, chief Dumnonian druid,
To that cave's mouth, where, yearly, like one dead,
He, lapped in a beast's hide, mote enter in,
Offering himself his nation's sacrifice,
To die, before their god: whilst all the folk

Cry out, Another it might please the god!
Then, suddenly, all years, was wont some one decease.

But Mormael's startling steed, at that great voice,
Was taken with fury; and were it heaven's wrath,
Which him oppressed, there durst no man approach;
Nor his high kin, to save the prince's life:
(For Morag was, that moon, in Verulamion,
Which, for his germain, would his life have given;)
Whose steed is on him fallen. All bruised to death,
Fool-hardy Mormael lies! Whilst stood still Britons,
Amazed; was Kamloc's son laid, of priests, druids,
Yet warm, in that year's grave, already made!

Duneda called then Morag, from Caer Verulam;
Where he, in court of king Cunobelin,
Learns noble thews and martial discipline.
King of the royal tribe of Catuvelaunians,
Now is Cunobelin named, the Lord of Britain;
As, whilom, was his grandsire Cassiobellan:
And, lately, when, to Cæsar, sent Cunobelin,
An embassage; went stout Morag, with his son,
Prince Togodumnos, unto sovereign Rome;
For friendship was twixt the young noble men.

Soon fetched-in, the lord's servants, little boards,
They set-on meat, before Duneda's guests;

Unto each his portion; sheep's flesh in the broth,
Seethed chine of boar, and loaves, in bascads white.
The Master, eats, of that Armoric ship,
With them, in the king's hall and audience.
And, after meat, he tells, asked leave to speak;
How, to Gaul's shore, arrived new Roman army!

He saw Rome's legions ordered at sea strand,
In battle ray. He saw Caligula Cæsar;
With whom stood that Icenian Bericos,
King, whom expulsed his people; and Red Adminius,
Fugitive, which base son is to king Cunobelin.
The madding Roman emperor, then, commanded;
That sound loud clarions, onset of the legions,
And shout, to battle, soldiers; and with arms,
Of Rome, they smite sea-billows, insolent:
And sith, they gather cockles, longs the strand,
Spoils of Isle Britain! Then, Caligula, Cæsar,
Was rowed, in gilded barge, of hundred oars,
In triple ranks, some little from the land;
Where, standing on the poop, he cast in chains,
And cried; I bind thee captive, sea, to Rome!
And bade his lictors, smite salt waves, with rods.

In gold and purple, then, upstanding, clothed,
In all their audience, he oration made;
Lauding his legions, now victorious, arms;
Exceeding all before them. Sith, his steed,
Caligula, (having temple-priests ordained,
That should burn incense to his godhead!) steed,
Which wont him bear, a god, o'er land and seas;
He, emperor, aha! a Roman Consul made.

Mad Gaius turned, with dread of all, to shore;
That steed's proud crest, with whelky pearls, behanged:
And men, in his imperial name, with store,
Ride post; to consecrate, unto Rome's chief gods.
Wherefore, of all men, now is scorned, fell Cæsar:
And who, allies, marched with him, mock Rome's nan
And there be, mongst his captains, which conspire
Caligula's death. Moreo'er, left certain cohorts,
Mad Cæsar, in that place; he them commanded,
To build, in memory of his great conquest,
Unto all succeeding ages, tower, whose walls,
Framed, to similitude of high sieging engine,
Standing on neck of the vast ocean-stream,
Should threaten still sea-waves! And he, who Cæsar,
Now, Husband-of-the-moon! himself proclaims,
Wills, that new star thereon, to ships, should flame.

He Britain deems, another world subdued;
Because that Island's princes, fugitives;
In Rome, submit them. Is Caligula he,
Who, erewhile, bridged a sea-gulf, with strong argines;
And guised, like blue sea-god, thereover, rode,
In four-horsed chariot: and his soldiers bade,
Thrust down Rome's togate rabble, in salt billows!

The Duffreynt princes, silent, sit, good space;
Because none first would speak. All dread great Rome,
Which mastering now the arms of the whole world.
Whilst yet they sit, drinking brown dulcet mead;
Duneda's scouts come in, with word from Severn,
Silures marched; with whom joined neighbour tribes,
In arms; whose hostile spears them seemed a wood.
The king sends runners, then, to his allies,
Stout Durotriges, dwellers by sea-waves;
And Dobuni, bordering nigh great Severn flood;
To join, with him, gainst swart Silures' threat.
And day, and place, he sets where all should meet.
Then part Dumnonian lords, in shrill, bright, chariots.

The people of Dorset.

The people of Gloucestershire.

Bethought him, after supper, king Duneda,

Of those few shipwrecked strangers; and bade Kamlan,
Them call anew. That steward soon the brethren,
Brings in; and leads, to sit, in honoured place,
Before the sire: and should interpret Pistos.

Then Kamlan mingled mead, it bears to all,
Who, chief ones, sit on polished stools, the walls
Around. And, longs the midst of this moot-hall,
Burn hearthpits: hall, whose roof-tree stained and crowned,
Hath hospitable smoke of many days;
And shields thereon ben hanged, and helms and arms.

Bears king Duneda mantle royal, white,
Of wolf-whelps' skins; which fastened, with broad brooch,
Like to a golden keel, on his large breast,
With silver sail; for he is lord of ships.
The king's high stool, with ivory of whale's white tooth,
Is fair inlaid; whose arms be carven heads,
With eyes of pearl, of gaping strange sea-beasts.
The boards are graved, with many a quaint device,
Of panting hounds and flying harts and snakes.

At the king's hand, stand young men, seemly dight,
Champions of stature; whose long tawny glibs,
Ben, helm-like, knotted on their comely heads:

Are runners, which, with ready looks, await,
Leaning on long war-spears, their lord's behests.
Two great white alans couch, at the king's feet.

Duneda, with mild voice, asks of the strangers,
Lacked they aught, in their lodging, mead or meat?
What is their nation's name, their trade of life;
And what that far-off strand, whence they outsailed?

Stands Pistos, to interpret; and he spake,
Praise to the Father of all worlds and gods!
Whose servants ben these men. Their land, is Jewry,
Duneda, in East half of wide-lying Earth.
And with the Son of Righteousness, these conversed,
Therein, have, many days, as friends with Friend:
And breath is in them, of the holy gods.

Their shipfare he records; how hurled from land,
And covered of great waves: in winter season,
Through Midland-deep, their starless ship was driven;
And buffeted, sith, in windy Gulf of Gaul:
And how, in whelming waves, the storm-chaced vessel,
Had seemed go down the waterfloods, beneath;
And lie in deep sea-ground, midst fearful beasts,

Amongst the dead. Yet them their mighty God,
Thence, took; and saved forth, to Armoric haven:
But were they, soon, compelled, to sea, again.
Sith, came we, wafted to the island Sena;
Where weary were our hearts. To other isles,
Arrived, sea-currents cast us o'er to Britain.

Thus he; and whilst he spake, the king Duneda
Looks, kindly, on the strangers. Seems him, sit
They, in radiance, such as bards sing of the gods!
He bade then Pistos tell them, in their speech,
How might they alway, at their liking, dwell,
With him, in Isca: (and seeing, now, so far-off,
Their home lies.) Else, with hospitable gifts,
He would them send soon, to Gaul's Continent;
Whence Romans might translate them, to their Province.
Upspake that Master of Armoric ship;
And also we put in to Corbelo;
And heard, from point to point, these things rehearsed.

Then one stood forth, in the king's lower hall,
Among the people; man, by his smirched face,
Some smith seems, and come in that vessel was.
He wrought at Corbelo, and there mended pots,

What time, quoth he, the strangers' ship drave in,
Covered with salt; and lay aboard our staithe.
He saw those shipwrecked: and heard crying out,
Upon them druids: that, from the Bourne-of-Night,
Dread spirits, were those arrived unto their coast;
That banes should bring in on them, blights and death.
Loud spake that smith, then, for himself; he taught
Is, to smite arms, and every work of brass;
Would aught the king Duneda of metal work.

Questioned; that Master of the traffic ship,
Responds; In all ports of Armoric coast,
Is this opinion found; that certain spirits,
Wont beat on doors of fisher-folk, by night;
That needs must rise; and down, to strand, wend forth;
Where see they, deep-fraught, ready, their own barks;
And mote those, as compelled, them enter in;
And, else, they seeing right naught, with oars, row forth.
And this is Ferry-of-souls, to the Dead-isles;
And sitting, at their helms, ben gods of death.

Heavy are the waves, wherethrough, those swiftly pass,
Unto a Land-of-mist; where, toucht to shore,

Both names and voices of dead wights, they hear;
Which there, out of their loaden keels, disbark.
Did not they bear, thus, Death out from mainland,
Should Death, those deem, with them, alway, abide.
Yea, and certain have seen gods, stand on that strand!
Supposed the men of Corbelo; for their hew,
And uncouth keel of strange Phœnician vessel,
And reverend countenance; that those strangers were
(And seemed whose faces shine as the twilight,)
Some gods of death! Duneda bade, then, pour
Out mead, and call chief singer of the bards;
That, with some new thing, he might glad their hearts.

The king's young men bear mead round, and brown ale,
Unto all who will. Whilst yet these Britons drink,
Bard Bladyn, son of Rohan, is come in.

His locks, as flower of broom, raught low adown,
Unto his girdle-stead. His tunic lawn,
His rotchet gaudy green. Before him, bears,
A child, his shrill-stringed, trembling, instrument.
At the king's footstool, stays the royal bard;
Where, twixt two pillars, is the singer's seat;
And, turning to Duneda, Bladyn drinks
The proffered cup, of golden mead, full, out.

Tempering his well-taught hand, the dreaming wires,
Then Bladyn quoth, in the Dumnonians' ears,
Is meet, that kings, which, sprung of heavenly seed,
Mongst men bear rule, show bounty unto strangers;
Whom send, oft-time, just gods, to prove our hearts.
Yea, and somewhiles, lords, unwitting, at their hearths,
Have entertained, as guests, those blesséd ones.
He stayed, and on the shipwrecked strangers, looked!

Hath Bladyn heard of their long voyage; he toucht,
Anew, with cunning hands, his speaking wires,
Which thrill the hearers' ears! and dream their hearts.
He Sena sings, isle fleeting in Gaul's seas.
Which from old time is sacred to Night-god,
And the clear moon: whose steepling cliffs abode
Of mocking aery Spirits. To man who cries,
From sea; whereby his bark doth pass, Farewell!
Yell Farewell! hundred unto him again.

There ceased the bard; for many from without,
Noised that the king, for Bladyn, sent, to-night,
Throng in, to the mead-hall, with shoveling feet.
But seeing, would sing the vates of vain gods,
Pistos asked license, for the weary strangers;
Who risen, Duneda bade them, well to rest;
Good night! And Kamlan! give them, daily rate,
Of all things, which behoveful to king's guests.
And this hears, nothing loath, his lord's behests;
For, since the strangers entered in his house,
Him seemed, some blesséd gods healed his old griefs.

Took Bladyn then his crowth, anew, and toucht
The warbeling strings; and weaved them, with his hands.
He chants, of valiant Cloten, prince of Kent.
To see his royal kin, in Gaul's mainland,
And visit foreign nations, Cloten sailed,
With warlike navy. But the prince's keel,
Whose pilot, in thick mist, had lost his course,
Was parted from the rest. Howbe, was this
Suspect, of treachery; in that king of Kent,
His son, for grievous guilt, had judged to death.

Driving, at misadventure, they were met,
Of Frisic yawls, full of fierce weaponed wights;

And whose long weather-boards shingled with shields!
With these, that pirates were, they fight, for life;
Few, against many. And he, young valorous prince,
Hurt of a grapnel, which was hurled, inboard;
Being now his most men slain, was taken, uneath;
By might of many inthronging champions.

And when those all, in the king's ship, had spoiled;
They Cloten, did, on thwart row-bank, compel,
To drag an oar. But, displeased, the sea-gods
Loosed a main-tempest, on those pirate keels;
So that o'er-beat, the rugged risen waves,
Their boards. Nor labouring they, at sea, all night,
Might win to any haven. When gainst day, was;
They, fallen mongst breakers, split on some sharp skerries:
And every pirate soul drenched on their boards.
But Cloten, from the row-lock, who washt forth
Was, with his oar, whereto those bound him; rides,
It embraced, all that day, the windy surges,
(And he yet lives, by favour of some god!)
And the next night. Nigh noon, of second morrow,
Last cast the Cantion prince was, where, mongst rocks,
(That tempest ceased,) more gently runs the tide.

Young Cloten seemed, all swollen, some cold white corse,

Which ebbing waves, on that shole sand, depose.
There warms him summer's sun; and turns, with pain,
A flickering life, unto his deadly flesh.
Like worm, he creeps, then, on the steepy strand;
His cords sith frets, and severs, on sharp rocks;
So finds, where fallen, together, two cliff-craigs
Make a sea-cave. There, gathered much salt moss,
Now in that hold, lies Cloten warm and sleeps:
That day outsleeps; and yet the long night sleeps;
Till murmuring, at his feet, mongst pebble stones,
The rising tide affrays him, in the gloom.
But pitying, gods; to whom young Cloten prays,
Bade Sleep, anew, his heavy eyelids close.
He slumbers, till a new sun climbs in heaven.

Prince of the noble youth of warlike Kent,
He dreams, he walks, yet, in his father's court;
And sees there maiden, like to goddess bright,
Daughter of kings; for she, with gold, is crowned.
Him thought, he followed her, then, with long grief;
Because, how swift soe'er he moved his feet,
He might not her attain, through all the world!
He wakes, of all things, bare, and sighs; but joys,
That he is free, alwere on forlorn coast.
So went forth view, what this were for a shore:
And if, therein, that human kindness were.

Before the dawning ray, was Esla risen.
She, with sweet birds, hath sung her early lays,
To Sena's god; and beet his temple-fires.
By steepy headlands, thence, lo, she dismounts!
Like to a falcon gentle; so is light,
Or like sleep-walker, who none peril sees,
Adown the high-ribbed rocks, her virgin tread.
Would, after tempest, Esla, yet a child,
For a sweet incense, gather amber-stone,
And whelky shells; and play the strand along.

Esla is priestess, of the moon, in Sena;
And daughter to a king of Gaul's mainland.
Her garments, long, up-gathered, of white lawn;
Now, on this shore, sweet maiden, she paced down:
So skips, from stone, on her white feet, to stone;
And run salt waves, those gracious steps to kiss.
And, oft, in her disport, she, virgin, stoops,
On the white sand, to take up carnalines,
Or shells, like rosebuds, hid in coral moss.

Then, half-adawed, she stands, like hind, at gaze;
And looketh her about! She weens, she heard,
As moan; or the wind was, mongst fallen crags?
And for that sudden fear, she would have fled.
Like startled roe, yet listens! To her ears,
Then comes of plaint and song, as mingled voice;

Yet nothing like to her weird sisters' voice;
Though quake her tender joints, she nigher draws:
And spies some quick thing, like herself, in cave;
Save that, seems, this hath face of some sea-moss,
O'ergrown; and middle girt of tangle, hath;
For, in the sun, the prince had cast his cloth.
And, from a child, hath Esla seen no man.

Whilst marvelling yet, she shrinks, as fowl, from hawk;
Lifts Cloten suppliant hands, as to a goddess!
For, such, he deems her, of this unknown coast.
He, of grace, her prays, she tell him, where he is?
Makes answer Esla; This is island Sena:
Whereat he dreads the more; and, by the gods,
Bewray him not, conjures! whether she nymph
Were, of these shores; or, else, her nourisheth bread,
Which brings forth foster-bosom of earth's ground.
And saith, how hath he twice died, in these days:
Once, in salt-waves; once, by his enemies.

And, piteous, promised Esla. She, sweet child,
Abhors her insane sisters' murderous mood.
Nor this, as they, one wrinkled, hideous;
But fairest wight, which she hath seen, on ground:
Such as, records her thought, her father was!
Wherefore, she kissed him; and did melt their hearts.

The prince, then cheerfully beholding Esla,
Her heavenly aspect, knew to be the same,
Which him revealed was, in his long night vision.
Yet deems he her, surely, of some celestial seed.
Him Esla warns, keep close; lest startled mews,
With shrieks, and the wild terns, bewray his life;
To her weird sisters, peeping from the cliffs.

Like as sand-piper runs, at the salt brinks;
So dancing she, on her white nimble feet,
To gather, hies, as the weird sisters wont,
Some wild meat. Cometh then, soon, again, sweet Esla:
And, to him, brings, her lapfull, of sea-eggs,
Salads and samphires of the windy cliffs:
And now mote she return, lest she were missed.
But she, at even, will come unto this place,
With weed and meat. A little thing, then asked
Cloten, which came into his sudden thought:
(He óf some, here, cast timber, would knit float;
And night-time, scape from Sena, and this sea-death;)
Where might he any willow-withies find?

From him, by sharp wild crags, she lightly upclimbs.
And seemed, on those steep cliffs, some hovering bird,
That mounts! To sacred pool, is Esla went,
Round-grown of sallows, by their temple-path.

There, with sharp flint, she severs golden rods,
So, running, hurls her bundles, from the rocks.
Then certain her weird sisters chanced to pass;
Turning, towards noon, from Sena's sacred hearth.
They, seeing her do so, gan Esla call!
But she, a divine madness feigned anon;
Taught of some god, which her, to-day, bestraught,
Leaps mongst rough crags. As guileful lapwing lures,
Feet of crude fowler, from her fledgelings' nest;
So them she leads, so them misleads; as danced
She merry round, (whose murderous meaning is;
Seize on her tender limbs, and rend, and cast
Them, to sea's running waves, from these dread brinks!)
They hoary women, past now age and spent,
By cranks and windles, from those perilous rocks;
Aye crying, like to one wildered, were those wands,
Whence she a lattice to her bower would frame;
But that aye turn to serpents, in her hands;
Wherefore, for are they worms! she flings them forth,
Which eat the bramble-buds and whortle-berries!

Nor fears death Esla: she would die, to save,
Whom her soul loves. Have outstripped her light feet,

Their cold lean joints. And now this passion past,
There fell a blindness, on them, from the gods.

Wakes Esla, all day, so she impatient is,
To keep his life, which hid under these brinks.
When erst, from heaven, the molten stars look forth;
After the sunny rays, she ready is;
Nor fears, where, like to walls, downhangs the cliff,
Descend; and seemed, by day, none footing was.
She hastes, for marked she mount the tide, beneath.

She goeth down, by sharp scaurs, such force hath love;
And lightly oft she depends, by corded roots:
So that sea-gods, beholding, bate their breaths.
The chilling wind, her golden hairs outbloweth.
She, bound about her, long fringed-mantle bears;
That sea-cast One, to cover from the cold.

Like as who finds some fallen fledgeling bird,
Out of the nest; or weanling of hedge-beast,
Uplifts, and home, in pious hands, it bears,
And cherisheth: and aye, twixt doubt he is
And hope, to nourish up; that such not miss,
Of kindly life, whereto born on the earth:
Much more, thou child, thing goodliest having found,

On sea's waste strand, tremblest and durst, uneath,
To him thou lovest, now call, for uncouth dread.

O joy, when dimly, at last, beholds each one,
The other's semblant, in this doubtful gloom.
Then whispered speech, sweet knitting of true palms,
Already knit their hearts. Her mantle, warm,
Of wadmel, then she splayed about them both.
They creep together, in that fear and cold,
In dim sea-cave. Smiles out, in firmament,
The hoary girdled, infinite, night of stars,
Above them: like as when, in sweet spring-time,
With wind-flowers white, some glade is storied seen;
Whereas, from part to part, like silver stream,
Shine hemlocks, stichworts, sign of former path.

To her innocent bosom, she him gathers, warm;
And girded, each, of other's arms, they sleep.
But Cloten, waking, spread, to heaven, his palms,
Calling high gods, to witness of his truth;
His being, knit to this nymph, for life and death.
O'ermuch she travailled hath, to-day, and run;
Nor, child, wist, risen, she hath known a man:
Yet feels that new in her, as were unmeet,
She as tofore, on Sena's sacred hearth,
Wait; wherefore gan she weep; but fears him wake.

The moon's clear lamp shines, o'er wide silver deep;

When, kneeling, from first sleep, upon her knees,
On the pure sand, she purer Esla prays.
She morrow nigh sees, by these heavenly signs;
So, priestess, went, to bathe her gentle limbs.
Before her, fleeting, lo, in the dark tide,
Lies thing uncouth. She gathers then to her,
Her garments; and calls Cloten to the shore;
Upon whose eyelids sleep, sent from the gods,
Yet heavy lies. That timber float, it is,
Which waves uplift, the prince, at eve, gan knit,
On the shole strand: and now apparelled is,
With well-tressed bulwarks of those golden rods;
A work, the whilst they slept, for love of Esla,
Of the sea-nymphs; ready with helms and oars!

Come, from sea-cave; and standing by loved Esla,
Feels Cloten whole his hurt. In all these things,
The heavens show favour to his enterprise.
Though Esla do these justling waves affray,
Her liever were die, with him, in the sea,
Than live from him apart; she wots not why.

Then, embarked Cloten, in his manly arms,
His love, his spouse. Anon, the prince thrust out;
The whilst they pray, both, to the watery gods.
Quaked Sena's cliffs; for wakes the island-god.
Rose the weird sisters nine, in their 'lone bowers;

And to the everbrenning hearth, they run;
Where taking count, (low burns the sacred flame!)
There faileth none of them, but Esla, alone;
Whose name sounds, from the rumbling oracle.

Then course they all, with fearful yelling cries,
To the cliff-brow; where, turned to barking hounds,
Those, frantic, leap, upon the utmost crags,
Making, as would they cast them down, from thence.
But ever as they fall, from steepling cliffs;
To lapwinged plovers changed, they, wailing, rise;
Which tossed and buffeted are, in madding blasts,
O'er sea and soil. Kindled the island-god,
Himself, a flaming beacon on his rocks,
Gives Cloten light to sea! and Sena's spouse,
Clear goddess of the moon, hath Esla blessed.
Though toucht the prince, to Sena's sacred coast;
He was, mongst fallen crags, the sea-god's guest.

The same hour, spake the oracle, in isle Sena,
Weird nun interpreting; his priestess-choir
Be, henceforth, nine, should ten be told no more!
A king of Gaul offended hath, that gave
A changeling, to the god, for his own child.
Now lies, at point of death, that royal maid,
Guilt of her sire; but Esla did no wrong.

Like little cowering bird, in fowler's snare,

In every dainty limb, yet trembles Esla,
Mongst tumbling billows. Come forth, from the rocks;
Cloten rows strongly, on the silver flood.
This jeopardy past, smooth lies large watery path,
Under sheen moon; which comforts their cold voyage.

Their nimble withers undersetting, draw
Manloving dolphins, forth, their bark, in teams.
Whilst then, on the salt tide, twixt sleep, they swim,
And wake; a bridal lay, sing aery spirits,
Till morrow's break: then night-born dawning ray,
(Like to a bride, white-clad, glad eyed and mild,)
Mounts on sea-throne; and cometh forth soon the sun,
With rainbow, crowned; wherein, as would they grace,
From heaven, this marriage, set have holy gods,
The hew of every flower of the spring mead:
And rose the morning's wind, with a sweet breath,
On them that wake, of daisy-hills from land.

O, joy! before the opening eyes, appears,
Of Cloten, his own navy; (it late, dispersed;
Had gathered, under Gaul, a strong sea-god,)
Making their merry flight, with wingéd breasts!
Seven rushing prows, divide much sprinkling flood.
Is their approach like Cantion chariots.
Bowed down, they stride before a clear East wind.
In their foretops, flies dragon of his sire.

How vails her sails, the foremost keel, and luffs,
Now, among the billows wild, up, in the wind.
And surely, of those, is marked their little coque.
Her shipmen let down barge; which to them rows!
And is it Cloten, those behold alive?
Sailing with one, that goddess seems; and drawn,
Upon great water's face, of finny teams;
Whose ship, men weened, was lost, not come to land!

Then immense joy; then shouting very great!
Almost was, in strong tumult, over-set
Their bark, wherein they now ben taken up!
Prince Cloten is indeed, none other is;
Live Cantion's prince! And, to the royal ship,
Those hastily row. Now mount they, on her board!

When was this seen, in their next consort ships,
Come sailing with square yards and wind apoop;
Which loosed, last flood, from Gaul, with blackened sails,
For the lost prince; that Cloten founden is!
The air, with trumps, they rend, and mighty shout.
Lie-to Kent's fleet: and who had, in cold billows,
Leapt down, in this first joy, to swim to Cloten,
Were taken then up, in their ships' skiffs, uneath.

Loost now broad sails, again, to merry wind;
Kent's keels, like coursers, spurn the clodded waves.

So run they all day on, towards Cantion cliffs.
Cloten, Kent's royal prince, which lately thrall,
Was bounden, naked, lost; now, in tall poop,
Sits, noblest, mongst them all, with godlike looks;
Girt in white-shining lawn, garded with gold.

By Cloten, sits; wots no man what she is,
Some maid. Who look, fain, on her heavenly feature;
Deem they behold one of those blesséd ones!
For long gilt wounden locks, like sunny rays;
And purple-fringéd shining priestess-weed,
(White lawn, with ceint of gold,) Esla the bright,
Thing seemeth more fair than daughter of the earth,
Like goddess, clothed with grace. Who gaze, on her,
Think, that consent of music they do hear;
When sounds an harp, from heaven, of the sun-god!

Though she herself, be daughter to a king;
Her love, yet, took none thought of his estate.
Amazed she is, so many living wights,
To see; well pleased, see Cloten, who hers is,
Be in this chief regard! For many lords,
In boats, with long row-banks, arrived aboard;
Sit bowed before him, reverent, with bared heads.

Blows aye the wind, in their full sails, forthright;
Under their feet, rush on the winged sea-steeds.
They nigh to haven and wide sea-strand, at length,

Of Dubris; neath white-shining Cantion cliffs.
Much people hie down, soon, to salt wave-brinks;
On Kent's returning fleet to gaze! Ere days,
Word come was to their ears; how Cloten's vessel,
From hence outsailed, in that swart tempest, perished!

Run-in, with half-furled sails, they anchors shoot.
But when, who stand longs shore, see Cloten's barge,
(Wherein rowed forth, known by his shining weed,
The prince!) those cliffs wide-ring, with joyful shout.
Toucht to the chisel-banks, Cloten outleaps:
And bears his bride, to land, in his strong arms,
Esla, the bright; and gives his gods high thanks!

Now Britons all, in their best garments, trim,
With guirlands on their heads, of the green oaks;
With songs, bring Cloten forth to Dover gates:
Where, eftsoon, ready-made the royal chariots;
Unto their journey, lo, the princes mount.

Cloten, lest any messenger him outride,
Doth put on, till set of that happy sun;
And without pause, save often change of steeds.
The speedy wheels thus erst were to arrive,
In dim light of the moon, of happy Cloten,
Before Kent's royal dune, fair Durovernion.

Loudly of the porter, Cloten gan enquire;
What-ho! What means this wailing, that I hear,
From river meads? Answers the drowsy ward,
(Who drunken seems of ale, that he discerns
Nor horse nor chariot, at his city walls;
Nor more knows Cloten's, his own king's son's, voice!)
This town is all went forth to funerals,
Which makes the king, for the drowned prince, to-night.

With Cloten, Esla alights; she weary is,
To chariot-riding all unwont. He bids
Who followed fast with him, here, silent, wait;
Whilst they twain, only, to the meadow, pass.
Eftsoon, they, from green hill, to Cloten known,
Look down; (and issues, clear, the labouring moon,)
Over much people's confused multitude.
Hark, how the king loud calls, on his son Cloten!
Thrice calls the sorrowing sire, with choking voice.

Cloten, an empty pyre, sees, in that place!
Druids blow embers, on an altar's hearth.
Sees Cloten young men, his familiars, stand,
Of even years; and each one armed, his hands,
With a sharp bronze, to smite himself to death.
(For such, mongst weeping kin, their custom is.)

Behold, some father kiss his loved son's knees;
Nor can his stubborn will he bend, from death!

One cries; he heard now noise of trampling steeds!
Shout other; they heard more than mortal voice,
Saying, Cloten lives! Then moved is all the press.
Leaps Cloten's heart, with bitter sweetness pierced.
Left Esla, a moment, sitting on dim grass;
Prince Cloten, cleaved thick back-turned multitude;
Comes, straightway, where the mourning old king is!
Murmurs the sire, who now, with dust, defiled
His royal hairs; how wot the only gods,
Where his son's life became, in vast salt deep!
Tables were cast to strand, of his ship's wreck,
The royal father sobs. Sudden, young Cloten,
Kisseth, closed in his arms, his wintered cheeks!
So turns, that light might shine on him, his face,
Light of bleak moon, that goeth down soon, to rest.

Quakes the hoar sire; and feels his knees to sink:
And feels his heart, was shut up in distress,
With fearful joy, oppressed. As saw he a spirit,
His voice sticks in his throat; and he lost breath.
Last his old tears, with hollow groans, break forth.

How stand astonished all! But him, prince Cloten

Had withdrawn privily. And, soon, ah, the glad prince
Returns, now leading, happy, by the hand,
On, weary, gentle Esla, in clear moonlight!
Then kneeled down both, at king Cocidius' feet;
They kiss his hands, and feeble knees embrace:
And quoth the prince; This lady saved his life!
Who wept, for sorrow, erst, weep now, for gladness:
And went up a great joyous people's shout!

All follow then, the princes from the field;
With mirth, returning, thence, in mourning weed.
Men enter carolling, in the city's gates;
And throng, together, to their market place:
Where sacrifice shall be made, they hear, and feast.
Are soon great bonfires kindled, in their streets.
Heralds cry up and down; In the king's hall,
Is meat and mead, to-night, for all who will!

Canterbury.

But come, with immense joy, the princes home,
To the king's house: the sire Cocidius,
(Who chief of the four kings of noble Kent,)
His son and Esla, leading, by the hands;
To that derne bower, forlorn of hope, of late,
Declines, where Kerriduen, mother queen.

She, when went forth the king, with funeral train,

Was fallen, in a stupor, on the floor.
Then seemed those like some revellers of the night,
Which, full of mead and impious, towards the gods,
With their untimely cries, and glare of lights,
Trouble this house of mourning; and whose noise
Wakens, for now she slept, the sorrowing queen.

How silent is this inner house, and dim!
Where dying embers glimmer, on the hearth,
The women's bower; that all this day resounded,
With woeful shrieks and baleful funeral wailing:
Where, with long loost locks, sate the sorrowing queen,
By empty bier, in mourning stole, among
Her women; which, displayed their fruitful paps,
Them cruelly did wrong! She bereaved queen,
Continually, did outrage her blubbered face;
And rent, with nails, her royal cheeks alas.

Her risen, behold, all trembling cold and wan,
At the king's voice. But, kindled, round the walls,
Soon, many torches; she Cocidius sees,
Turned, jocund: and smiles Cloten, like a dream!
Aye, and, with them, one that nymph or goddess seems.
And yet her long shut-up and straitened heart,
Unfolds, uneath; and still is like to break;

Impatient, whilst tells of this happy case,
In few rapt words, the sire Cocidius.

She, to her mother's breast, her son embraced;
And, fixt, beholds! to her, returned, alive!
Whom weened she, journeying now, in sunless paths,
In swart hell-wagon of the dread death-goddess.
Almost, stood still her heart, and swoons her sense.

But come queen Kerriduen to herself,
As one long lost, in sun-beat wilderness,
Slakes, at some well, his burning infinite thirst,
Long kisses drinks her mouth of her child's flesh.
And, dearly, hath Esla, sith, this queen embraced.
But, when they see her heaviness gin to pace;
From women's bower, as meet to their estate,
The kings wend forth, to sit in audience.

Hastes Kerriduen, washt her tear-worn face,
To put-on queen's apparel: and her women,
She bids make ready, that they sup, anon.
Sith, when they sit, at board; she, come her spirits,
Mother, o'er this new daughter, smiles and weeps.
Yet, hollow-eyed, she sighs, as wanting breath;
Like one whom hellish fiends effrayed, of late;
And scaped, (which certain seemed,) from some dread death!

Yet, whilst men tarry, in the king's hall, and sup;

Dights Kerriduen, now, thrice-happy queen,
Unto her bridal bower, Esla, the bright.
Combing her locks of gold; she, on her story,
Museth; which, shortly, had rehearsed Cocidius:
And Cloten said, This lady saved his life!
She marvels, and oft Esla all-new embraced;
And looketh, oft, in the maiden's heavenly face.

Great wonder is, in Esla's gentle breast,
Who priestess, from an isle, in Gaulish seas,
Is scaped, with Cloten, now, all evil hap!
The queen, (unclothed her bosom, ivory white,)
Some birth-mark sees, neath this dear child's left pap
Much like to berry of holy misselden!
With trembling fingers, Kerriduen, queen,
Uprents her tunic, of fine lawn. Ah, gods!
She another token finds, which, there, she sought;
Twixt Esla's gracious shoulders and white neck,
Much like to bee! For Gaulish Gwenneth, then,
She shrilly shright; was whilom her own nurse.
That old wife cometh, soon, hipping, on her staff;
And Gwenneth wox dismayed, at this sweet sight!
So quoth, when she, again, had caught her breath;
Queen, and dear daughter, nursling of this breast,
Doubt not, thy sister's very child is this.

How is her image glassed, in this sweet face!
How yearns, beholding her, mine aged womb!

The tokens, thou seest, ben those, which I marked well,
What night, from twixt my lady's knees, in Gaul;
(My foster-child,) these hands, thy sister's babe,
Received. With amorous groans, then Esla embraced,
That ancient nurse, dear, to her withered paps,
With greedy great affect; and still she kissed.
Dear queen, she cries, our very child is this!

Strain Esla, an hundred sithes, both, to their breasts,
Those weeping women. Gins then Esla weep,
For ruth: and as Spring-sun shines, after rain;
She smiles, for love, between. Like snowdrop, pale,
Heavy, with dew, at dawn, be her bright locks.
And, haply, these had wept forth, the long night,
Forgetful of the spouse; but that hoarse trump
Souneth the watch! from Durovern's ancient walls.

Behold! in royal ray, the mother queen,
Changed that late winter sadness of her face,
To summer's smiling pride, and springing gladness,
Forth issues, from her bower, leading bride Esla;

Where train of noble maidens of the town,
With joyous chant, receiving her, around
Her, cluster, bearing firebrands their white hands:
So pass before, to the bride-chamber door.
There stand, with mystic boughs, of misselden,
The white-stoled druids; that sprinkle all the floor,
With holy water dew; the whiles they bless,
With many a murmured spell, this marriage.

Cocidius, king, there, his bride-daughter kissed.
The sire, that tiding, glad, tells forth, of her;
That, this is the queen's sister's daughter dear,
Which Cloten saved, beyond the seas, from death!

Lo, come is happy Cloten, mongst his peers;
Which (his soldurii, ) would have died, to-night,
To be, in death, companions of his spirit.
With mirth and minstrelsy, those him, now, forsake,
At the bride-chamber door; where, enranged, wait,
The maidens, which, around bright Esla, sing!
For gladness, shedding piteous tears between.

Oath-brethren; thus in Cæs. a Gaulish word, (which is still of difficult interpretation.)

Bladyn, then, chants; how, sister to the queen,
The lady Havisa, wedded Ligorix,

Lord of Armoric Curiosolitans.
Gainst Allorix fighting, then, Aulercan king,
Ligorix, in sally, from gates of his town,
Fell. At day's glooming, Havisa, the young queen,
Groped forth, to save his body. Stripped of harness,
She, ah! Ligorix, in the high-starred, ghastful, night;
Found, mongst slain corses, fallen all him around.
Was none there, with her, but a little maid.

Then, long, they, on her back, great poise, assayed,
To hoise; such power hath love! Aulercans' watch,
Heard stir, in field, which waited nigh the walls:
And flew a roving arrow, out of the night,
Of bow drawn at adventure; and Havisa it pierced!
She fell: were the swan-feathers wet, alas,
With her heart's blood; and fled that little maid.
Lay Havisa a corse, beside king Ligorix' corse:
Where Allorix found them, both, at morning light.

Next eve, when taken was Ligorix' burning dune,
Leapt, from amidst red flames, down, from high walls,
With Havisa's babe, her nurse! She, ah, bruised to death,
Lay still; and murmuring, soon, from her hurt flesh,
Her spirit flitted forth: from whose dead arms,
It rude Aulercan warrior taking up;
(That, from the woman's lips, heard, ere she passed,

Was this indeed the babe of Ligorix,
Wrapped in fine lawn, with precious needlework;)
Looking for meed, should help his needy life,
Bare to the royal booth of Allorix.

Unto whom, that innocent offspring, cast her arms,
Of his slain foe! and smiled the weeping child.
Then he, moved in his spirit, received the babe;
And, childless man, it cherished for his own,
And Esla named. Was Ligorix, in his youth,
His peer, sometime, among those princes' sons,
Clothed in white lawn, and dight with torques of gold,
Which learned the chanted discipline of pale druids,
At Genabon, in great dim Carnutian wood;
Which sacred is. A man may enter, there;
And eat of all wild fruits, before the gods;
But blood he shall not shed, of beast or bird.

Sith, wedded a new wife, king Allorix;
Unto him is born a daughter, the third year.
Thereafter being a nun deceased, in Sena;
When sacred lots were cast, of Gaul's chief druids,
Was taken that only child of Allorix:
Who, moved, by a father's pity, in her stead,
Supposed sweet Esla; and shorn were her bright locks.
But to deliver her, with joy and honour;

Conspired, had even the high immortal gods!
Now, on her father's knees, hath Allorix' child,
Slain the moon-goddess, with far-flying arrow!

Now Orleans.

There Bladyn ceased, to chant, in the king's hall.
The people praise him, with tumultuous voice;
Whose lay hath pierced, with pity, their rude hearts.
Men say, have breathed the gods, in Bladyn's breast,
A chant, that sweeter is than the brown mead.
The king, anon, him sends his own full cup;
Bidding him drink, and keep the silver bowl,
In guerdon of his song. And he charged Kamlan,
Give the bard a beast's burden of bread-corn;
And yearling of his rams, and certain mead;
That might make Bladyn merry, with his friends.

And joys the noble vates, to whom given,
Like to sweet birds, that chant in the sheen leaves,
With blissful voice, no substance of the gods.
Then, uprose king Duneda; uprose they all,
After the king; and draw them to their rests.

Duneda dreams, this night, he drave in chariot,
Whereas none stable soil; and none there was
Abode of any wight, nor grass nor woods:
But seemed his winged cart, on thick skies, to move;

And under him, was immense sound of waves!
Duneda called, then, on his saviour god;
But turned the day to murk, and sun was not.
He called on moon and stars; but they are hid:
Beheld then one; that fares, with him, in chariot;
Whose countenance like some of the blesséd gods;
And like that stranger Joseph. Lightning the heavens,
He cannot rule his team; that swerve aside.

Then king Duneda, cedes the reins, to him;
Who guides, by higher path, the royal steeds,
Full of disbodied spirits; which fly, from the earth,
Seeking themselves some starry new abodes:
Mongst whom, on mountain spire, sith, they hold fast.
Thence, like to rushing wind, dismount his steeds.
But Joseph putting, on his hands, his hands;
He skilled, by slow degrees, to rule them right.
Sith he beheld, dim Mona, end of land,
Beneath him; from whose cliffs, his team did leap,
Into a further isle. Duneda awakes;
And, lo, the sun upmounts: and knew the king,
This dream of sleep, him sent his father's gods.
So rose; and saie hastes, of fine lawn, do on,
Over his tunic, hemmed with needlework,
Of line; and girt to him, with royal belt.
Sith soles, the hammered hide, of a wild ox,

Bound on his feet; with buskins of the spoil
Of mountain broc. Then, took he, from the wall,
A polisht spear; so went the hero forth,
To sit in Isca's morning audience;
Before the Britons, in their market place.

This morrow, fair, by their account, is feast,
Of the full moon; which first they see, in Britain:
Wherefore, with holiday in their hearts, Christ's brethren
Now issue to the springing river's mead;
Praising Him, Who, out of vast deep, them saved.

They pass, before the haven of Isca's ships!
Where gather sea-folk to them, on the quay.
Mongst whom, by Pistos' mouth, gan Ithobal say:
Shipfare 's an image of our life; O men
And brethren, that wont trade forth, on the Main;
Seldwhile in lissom weather, smooth and still.
Ware, steady at the helms! aye ready to shift sail.
And where we furl, in haven, or lie in road;
Eftsoon, we must prepare us to depart.
But, shipferes, we have found, in our late voyage,

The true lodestar; whence, lightly, we account,
Of our ship's wreck, and all our charges' loss!

Come to the silver-streaming river's brinks,
Under bee-murmuring boughs of linden sweet;
In raiment clean, upon the daisy grass,
They sit; and cheerful hours spend, till high noon
Nigh draws. The saints, then, rise up, to turn home.

Yonder, mounts, from the ferry, some poor man;
Lo, is Tegid, teamster, to the brethren known;
Which lately drave their wain; from Amathon's dune.
And, as this wends, he weeps: was laid arrest
Now, in the water's ford, on those few beasts,
Whereof is all his children's livelihood.

Tell forth, who follow with the swonken wretch;
This morn, they his poor goods, saw strained, for debt;
His babes haled to the merchants, to be sold.
Lifted, this weary wight, his eyes; and seeing,
Where pass before him, by the river's brink,
Those strangers, to them runs; and panting asks,
Of help, (and they might aught,) in his distress;
With whom was power found of some healing god.

Is Tegid's caban this, without the walls;
Whereto they now arrive. Is there none voice,

Of wife or child, to welcome his come-home.
It empty is, from roof-tree, to the floor.
And Tegid, who, a little corn, not hath;
(Whereof, before men strangers and hearth-guests,
He might aught set, which his poor threshold pass,
As custom is,) amongst them stands confused!

When Joseph, voice of Britons, understood;
Moved with compassion, servant strong, in faith,
Of Christ; and lifting holy hands, towards Throne
Of heaven, he bade sweep forth the waggoner's cote.
Then charged he Tegid, pour, (his beasts' meat,) out;
What little rests of grain, in his poor wallet.

Falls forth the corn; nor ceaseth it yet to run,
From Tegid's hand! till that poor bower and hall,
Is full, like garner, to the very door.
Before the threshold, neighbour women sweep:
Then, joyous, spread their mantles on the street;
Whereon, eftsoon, outrun are new great heaps!

Then Joseph spake; Enough! go sell this good,
Which gives thee God. Parts running that poor man;
And with glad heart, the brethren saints wend home.
He, with blithe cheer, hies to their market street,
Under the hill; whom seemeth all, yet, a dream;
His wife and children small, to ransom home.

Try, who corn-masters, samples in their palms;
And it, in measure, hew and poise, appraise
Best grain of all; whereof each one some buys;
Numbering to Tegid silver rings and bronze,
Or tin. And whilst those merchants question still,
He gladly, and like to one beside his mind,
His wife and children small, for price, redeemed.
And very beautiful is his poor spouse;
Was evil his intent, which on them seized.

But noised this wonder, in the street, anon;
Came voice, from mouth to mouth, up from the town,
To the king's ears. Bethought him of his dream,
Duneda; and sent one of his guard, to call
Before him, Tegid in: who, come, eftsoon,
The sire requires, and, with that poor wight, questions;
What is that new thing, which of him, he hears?

The men, lord, that us seemed some ship-wrecked strangers,
Quoth Tegid, are come, surely, from the gods!
He, also, yester, saw, was their wain-path,
Whereby, from Amathon's dune, the strangers passed,
(Even as wont footsteps of the holy gods!)
In wide green field, grown fairer than the rest,

With new-sprung grass! Like gods, those came, unwist
From whence, Duneda, and they healed Kowain's wound.

The lord liked of the waggoner's bold speech.
He sends, call Amathon's son. His messenger, Kowain
Finds not: nor yet returned that prince; who ridden
Was, home, to gather wains and armament.
He sends, again, then, for those shipwrecked strangers.

All yield them room, when they come in, with Kamlan.
They see then sitting certain, in mead-hall,
Before Duneda, in rotchets of white lawn;
Men of dark looks, and much like Corbelo's druids;
Whose foreheads bound with the sheen leaves of holm.

The gravity sits, lo, on an equal throne,
Beside Duneda, of the high-druid Aesgar;
In the mid-bay; where burn, with rushen wicks,
And fat, two lamps, hight Con and Cran; whose bowls
Inlaid, (renowned smith's work,) of fretted bronze,
With gold. Them Camlogenos, king in Gaul,
Sent hither, with his son; ere Roman wars.

Hearers of Aesgar sit, round these high walls,

Mongst white-stoled druids; lords' sons, some of West march,
And Deheubarth; but are the most ones strangers,
Young noblemen of Llydaw; (which, Part-of-Gallia,
Comata, is now named, of all-conquering Rome!)
Their wont is tarry, in Isca, one year's space;
To learn the chanted arcane discipline,
Of Aesgar's druids; and are they, there, king's guests.
Wreaths shine of gold, on all their haughty necks.
Beyond them, sit, who chief ones of the town.

And now is eve; when kindled be long hearths,
In the hall's midst; and hanged round on these walls,
Be brands of cloven pine. The people husht;
From his high stall, erst Aesgar, slowly, speaks:
Touching a wonder hath, to-day, been seen;
Are we now come together. Shipwrecked strangers!
I you appose; by what power or strong spell,
Ye do these things? King of Duffreynt and druids!
Deathworthy adjudged are, by Dunwallon's laws,

Who bring in other gods. I ask of these
Strangers, what deem they, of Isle Britain's gods?

Before them all, stood up then Aristobulus,
Kinsman of Jesus; and by Pistos' mouth,
Spake; Princes, elders, people of this town,
Know that our God, He who upholds the world,
Whose Throne, yond starred high crystal firmament;
Who gives, to all men, kindly life and breath,
Hath wrought this sign, which ye, to-day, have seen.
Who being Himself invisible, yet All-seeing,
Is Everliving, Infinite, as the Sea;
Which closing-in the world, is closed of naught.
Before all-thing, (which He hath made,) He was;
The infinite, only, God. He Father is,
(He One,) of all: and is His Heavenly Voice,
That Whisper which is heard in every place,
And in all hearts! So, with an angel's face,
The saint sate down. Sith king Duneda spake;

Was Dawn divine named, Firstborn of the gods.
Thing incorruptible, also, undying is;
Whence, being, of one celestial fire, our spirits;
(I speak to druids,) they shall not, utterly, perish!
With the vile sloughy garment of this flesh.

But answered the dark gravity of Aesgar;
Who sits, at his right hand, with lowering looks:
Methought, Duneda, arrived, in evil hour,
These uncouth strangers, men that shipwrecked were.
Behold their swarty favour; such as wont
Be pirates' looks, and men of wicked life!
Expulsed, abhorred of all men, these have sailed;
And broken have gods, of this sea-deep, their ship,
(Gods, whom most worship the Dumnonians!)
Were such not, peradventure, homicides;
Whom angry heavens have ever since pursued?
Ben not there jugelours, men, whose whispered spells,

Have power even to compel the wavering winds;
Aye and even the stars of heaven wrest, from their courses?
Have not such made snow fall, in Summer season;
Other appearance shown, in the air, of ships;
Some, Summer fruits, in days of Winter-feast?
And yet I say; if those blasphemed our gods,
Should such not die? Wherefore my sentence is,
Be banned these men from borders of Duffreynt.

But answered Cadvan, grave and ancient lord;
Next him, who sits, with reverend beard and looks;
(Nigh kinsman, to Duneda, and Amathon's friend:)
Why proffer railing words, gainst the king's guests?
But, aye, thy wont was, Aesgar, to despise
The poor. And if heaven's lightning burned their vessel,
They hallowed are, according to our laws.
Ween'st thou, there ben none other gods, than ours?

But what and if, (which, these men's deeds, declare,)
A breath be in them, of the holy gods,
Which Eryr saw, in his prophetio vision.

At this word, rose displeasantly the high druid!
As smoke unto the eyes; and smell of corse,
Is in men's nostrils, such, is name of Eryr,
In Aesgar's ears; who, midst king's hall, goes forth.
Follow sourfaced disciples of these druids.
The people open lane for their proud steps;
And those, no man saluting, stately pass.

The king commands, Mix, and bear round sweet mead,
And barley-ale! And, whilst the Britons drink;
Was stir, at door, now in the lower hall:
Where two men, running-eremites, be come in;
Whose knees, kiss, reverent, and their lean hands Britons:
Men lean of flesh and blackened, in the sun,
And without garments, save some woollen cloth,
Wound round their loins; unkempt their long hair locks,
Their beards, like Autumn leaves. Upon a lace,
Depend, of silver, on their panting chests,
Bright crystal stones, from Avon's river strand:

Whereon, they looking, image of clear souls,
Recomfort still their hearts. And, on the stars,
They gaze, by night, and seldwhiles on dark earth.

Impelled their feet, as by some god, to-night;
The river, to Caer Isca gates, these passed.
Eremites, unwont, in any town, to tread:
They will not sit, nor eat bread, nor taste mead;
Though brought in crystal cup, to them, is mead.
But, gazing on the saints, anon, they ask;
What message bring these men, of heavens' light?

Then Pistos answered; they had heard God's Voice,
Saying, Love your enemies, Blessed be the pure
And lowly, in heart: be children of that Light.
An eremite spake, and bowed him to the hearth;
O thou that sittest on throne, lord of Duffreynt,
Son of high sires, descended from the gods!
Holy are their words; and like the words of Eryr,
The eagle-borne; who naked, without bower,
Lodged in sharp cliffs; where, brought him, each day, meat,

The fowls of heaven, wild berries, in their beaks;
And were all forest-beasts, to Eryr, meek.

Much Eryr spake of washings, which should purge
Our soul, from death: and, daily, in water-brooks,
He dipped his flesh; and prayed, bear down his guilt,
From God's remembrance. Dwells, he said, our spirit,
In darkness and disease, the body's guest.
But purged from the vile raiment of this corse,
It shall, to stars, of new, ascend from death.
Till then, our body should be like to lamp,
Wherein do shine our souls! His fellow, quoth;
How shall a man, born of man's unclean seed,
Attain, dread gods! to pure immortal stars?
Whose wretched days are strife, for weed and bread:
Whose perplext path is darkness; and whose end,

His fleshes death, and griesly rottenness!
He ceased; and those both turned them, to go forth.

Arose then, in moot-hall, new grave discourse,
Of war toward; and Duffreynt's power and chariots:
And what allies should, with Duneda, march;
And how would Hafren, soon, Silures pass.
Yet other make debate, of signs and omens;
Wherein men, of the blindness of their hearts,
Ween; should foreshow them, things to come, those gods;
Which their own thoughts imagined, and hands wrought!

Whilst long they sit by louver, of the thatch;
Where stars, in night's swart deep, erst, shining forth;
Pale light falls, on grey embers of their hearth.
Lo, dawning ray! and mingled sweet consent,
Already, of early birds, is heard, without.
The morrow brings new thoughts: uprose Duneda;
The king goes forth. Uprose, then, all the rest:
The brethren also; on whom Britons gaze,
Some kind, some with fell looks of adversaries!
Duneda beckons, friendly, with his hand.

Llyd-aw, (that which lies along the water;) now Bretagne, and part of Normandy.

When now this morrow's light is, well-nigh, wasted;
Chief lords and captains of Dumnonians;

With pomp and retinue of shrill painted chariots,
Come by the river's ford, again, to Isca:
Chanting old warlike deeds, as they fast ride.
Those enter, soon, in mead-hall to Duneda:
Kamlan them fills great horn of the wild bull,
Whose lip of beaten gold, with the best mead.
Those all then standing round the king Duneda;
Each, dipped therein his finger, he makes oath,
In words of the king's druid; to witness called,
(Whilst drink they all thereout,) the holy gods!

Early at morrow's day, depart those lords.
How shine their running wheels, against the sun,
That mounts! The third eve, with their bands of warriors,
They all shall gather armed, to king Duneda.

Nigh to the town; (above that river-field,
Where daily march, to warlike exercises,
Forth Isca's youth, the effort of their strength,
To prove; and learn skill of manslaying arms;)
Is grove, whereas no common foot may tread;
But druids, with Aesgar, have, therein abode.
Some all unwitting of the Syrian brethren,
Seeking, where might they pray, sequestered place;
Now enter, singing hymns, with a glad voice.

Saw them one Llys, a brain-sick sorcerer,

Of demon-gods; which, after them, aye crieth.
So that their hearts were straitened, in their breasts:
And gaze men after Llys, in Isca street;
Marvelling, so lewd a servant have the gods!
And yield him room, whereso this, muttering, goeth;
Most like an hound, without companion.
Foul is the wretch, and gore-stained, aye, his face:
For, where this cometh by shambles, he, with both
His hands, like to kite's claws, stuffs his fell chaps.
Durst none deny him, were he lief or loath.
And, as he goeth, Llys howls, to his dire gods.

Upon the awry shoulders of this wight,
A wolf's spoil hangs; and else he wears no cloth.
Through the wolf's gape, he looks, with grinning teeth.
Now hath this Llys, great adder found and tamed;
Which, on his arm, his scaly boughts upwreathes:
And threatens, still, the worm, with horrid crest,
Who nighs the loathly wight; that, with foul hands,
Smites whom he will, and buffets with his feet.
Thus him, dread mockery, his demon-gods have dight;
And egg, with dire outcries, to vex Christ's saints.
He foams, when they are seen; and his lewd tongue
Defiles the innocent air, with blasphemies.

The saints had little gone forth, in that grove;
When certain meet with them, men of the druids.

Then these invite them, with deceitful looks,
With them, to wend; making as, further, aught,
They would enquire, touching the strangers' gods.
So, led of those, they come to Aesgar's hall;
Whereas, but from the threshold, shines dim light.
Of good and human kindness, void; that place
Is full of demons, which their hearts oppress!
Young men sit, on the floor, with dangerous looks;
Chanting dark lays, lip-discipline of vain druids.

The saints salute them: none, again, them greet.
Who bring them in, (was froward their intent,)
Them lead, in murk, to sit, in place unmeet;
Where ashes of their hearth. So cometh-in Aesgar,
Hound-faced; who makes as though the saints he saw not.
Then he, on splayed ox-hide, under the wall,
From them, apart, sate down; with heinous cheer,
Of priest, in whose heart dwells no power of love;
But seems he prophet of some evil god!

He of those shipwrecked strangers, after pause;
Speaking, through an interpreter, requires
Name of their god; and touching the soul, both
What thing they deem; and of this body's death.

Then fell the Spirit, on Shalum; who, for burns
His heart, rose-up; and spake, by Pistos' mouth;

Allfather, to low circle of the earth,
His Son sent down, to save our souls from death:
Nor can they ever die, which, in Him, trust;
For, in them, liveth the everlasting Christ;
Though die and, even now, doth fade our flesh.
And Aesgar hear! Shall broken be, God saith,
Your idols vain, cast out in places waste;
Defouled, and trodden, under, of wild beasts!
But forasmuch as, in thy froward malice,
Thou askedst, the Lord's Name, of all the earth;
It may not uttered be of mortal breath!

Shine, in that gloom, the angry eyes, as snakes,
Of druids, men which would slay those saints of Christ!
Heard, then, hoarse clamour of mad Llys, without;
But even who druids abhor his loathly looks.
They thrust aback, they put him from their place!
When, after this, the brethren would depart;
By way, those lead them, from the druids' hall,
Where opens, namely, a little wicket gate;
So low, that uneath, creeping, might they pass.

Beyond, lo, a paved court, full of bees' hives;
Where, chest on chest, is all the air ahum,
Of the sweet honey-flies. Thence, to great gate,

An alley leads; wherethrough, they, needs, must pass,
By certain cabans; whence comes confused voice,
Unto their ears, as yowling of wild beasts.
Then, were they ware, of some climbed by the thatch;
Men of the druids, and of beasts' sties, beneath.
Straight, those draw hatches up! Wolves, hideous,
Outleap; ramp horrid bears, with open throat!
Yerning, with dreadful teeth, upon Christ's saints;
That lift to God, All-seeing, their troubled hearts!

Their eyes being opened, they, again, the Angel
Behold, which saved them, fleeting in vast deep;
Standing to save. Saw him the beasts: they crouch
And whine, for dread; they creep back to their dens!
Albion uplifts the gate, of immense bars,
From off his hinge; and beckoning to them, bade
His heavenly voice, (like multitude, that sounded,
Of waves!) they haste to Isca, on swift feet.

Touching those forest beasts, were wont tell druids,
Did Sarron take him whelps, of several kinds;
That might, by such, be known what man's kin was;
Ere tamed, by laws and worship of the gods!

So come those brethren, to the rest, in Isca:
And all-thing they, from point to point, rehearse.
Then Joseph deems, were meet they sought speech, erst,

Of king Duneda. Brings them Kamlan in,
Before the king; to whom they them submit.

Duneda sitteth long in doubt; nor spake
Yet word. Then cometh in one of his armed men;
Who tells, how Aesgar loosed the druids' ban,
Forbidding, to these shipwrecked, fire and meat,
Of any, to be given. And, should be none
So hardy; and that, on pain of the great curse,
Aid or abet them. The king sends for Kowain!
Who come; he gives him charge, with thirty spears,
To place of safety, to convey these strangers;
Knowing, that Aesgar now intends their deaths.

But sith, the after-morrow, he from Isca,
Himself should fare, unto Silures war;
To holms of Avalon, hath devised Duneda,
(Garden of apples named, in chants of druids,)
Those shipwrecked send. Isle Avalon, which named Alban,
A Sanctuary is, mongst all tribes of South Britons;
Where none may enter in, with weaponed hand.

BOOK X

ARGUMENT

Kowain conveys the brethren, with guard of spears, by night-time, for safety, to deep woods. The third even, he brings them on, to king Duneda, in the field. Lay of Melyn, the king's bard. Duneda, parting, dismisseth the shipwrecked strangers, with kindness, to their journey.

A grange of the king's husbandmen. The body of Llys is found rent, by wolves. The brethren come to Avalon. The outlaws' hall. Keth one of the Silures' captives. Keth's tale. Hyn the outlaws' magistrate; who gathers young men to build, the strangers, hall and bowers. A water-hamlet, in the lake. Blind Sigon and his son, Cuan, singer to the harp of Erinn.

Word is brought, to Avalon, of the king's warfare. Shalum ears and sows. Story of the lady Keina. Ithobal builds an hall of prayer. Malchus languishes, in Avalon. Story of his life: his death and burial.

Carvilios, noble bard of Gaul, sings in Caer Verulam. After Togodumnos, Caratacus, his other son, is sent by Cunobelin, Lord of Britain, ambassador unto Cæsar. Bericos and Adminius, princely exiles from Isle Britain, dwell in Rome; where, Caligula slain, is emperor, now, his uncle Claudius.

Adminius, in Rome, lies sick of a fever. The dying prince asks forgiveness of his father's house. Embla, (daughter of Briton Dumnoveros, and friend of Octavia, Cæsar's daughter, is borne homeward, in the twilight, from Claudius' palace. Her litter's train, being riotously molested, by revellers, in the Roman street: she, noble Briton maiden, is saved, by the strong hand of prince Caratacus.

Dumnoveros and Caratacus are made friends. Embla, unveiled in her father's house, cures the prince's wound. Death of Adminius, and his public funerals.

Late, the same night; when sleeping, now, the dune,
Kowain, according to Duneda's word,
The saints leads forth; and that with guard of spears;
Convey them, erst, to certain forest place:
The second morrow, bring them to him on;
Where he, in field, at sanctuary holm,
Doth purpose sup. Kowain, passed Isca gates,
Them upland leads; till goes the moon to rest.

Weary the holy women, then, to wend;
In holt they lodge; where sweet green hazel boughs,
Be them, for bowers. They, without fear, there pass
That day and morrow next, till afternoon.

Through wood-glades, then, prince Kowain brings them on,
To croft; where well and cragged holy holm;
In whose old arms, hang, (superstitious gifts,
Of Britons,) horns of beasts and fluttering clouts.
Beneath that large pavilion of sheen leaves,

On mossy mould, lo, hassog mats displayed.
And here should come the king, to sup, from Isca.
Where now they halt; there lies, already slain,
A four-years' steer; and pleasant smell goes up,
Of roast; for cooks broil, yonder, at long hearths,
The fat. The saints here safe, till set of sun,
Await. Day glooming, shouted is, the chariots
Of king Duneda; and lords, with him, approach!

The sire now lights, in a war-glittering harness,
And kindly greets, (that him salute!) the strangers;
And calls, next him, to sit, in honoured place,
Among his captains. Sit, beyond, ringed round,
Duneda's champions, hundred men-at-arms.
Bear sewers in, then, loaves, in bascads white,
And flesh, on burdock leaves. And the king eats,
And lords and saints. And when, sith, on their hands,
Have water poured, the king's young men-at-arms;
They curmi and metheglyn, unto all, bear around.

In this, in the twilight, are nighing seen,
With speckled hoods and cloaks of gaudy green;
Men, bearing shields and spears: some Duffreynt bards,

Are those, that purpose to Duneda's wars.
Who leads them, is bold Melyn, royal bard;
That can both chant and fight. Of kings and warriors,
Each eve, should these sing the proud battle deeds;
In mortal tempest of swift shields and spears.
The king, to call those bards, to sup, sends Kamlan.

Sith, when have those well-drunken the lord's mead;
Duneda spake to Melyn, one whose arm,
Bears brazen targe, his right hand two sharp javelins;
And are his hardy looks, to warfare, stained,
With woad: yet, backward, hanging, at his nape,
From silver lace, a gentle crowth, behold.

Well couth he it touch, with heavenly piercing note,
Before Dumnonians, entering into fight.
Yet hath a warrior's praise, this, to hurl darts;
And lightfoot, to outrun the enemies' chariots.
But passing all, is, (the gods' gift, to few,
Whom they much love,) his skill of making well.

Duneda spake, that Melyn sing some lay,
Which breathed, in him, the gods. He would it were,
Of Avalon's isles; and namely of sacred Alban.

When Melyn took his rote, from off his neck,
Trembled the strings, stirred of a warbeling wind.
Then swelled the vates' breast, wherein there falls
Prophetic murmur, spirit of sweet song.
Of all the bards, whom nourisheth king Duneda,
First named, and for he elder is, is Bladyn;
But none, of Britain's bards, is more than Melyn.

Now husht sit Britons, when the valiant hands,
Of Melyn, who stands leaning on his targe,
Strook the bright chords, which gave a silver sound,
That thrilled the hearers' ears; and dream their hearts.
Gins Melyn, emuling late chant of Bladyn,
Record, how, in old days, days of the gods,
That wonne, now, in high glassy firmament,
What time, gods dwelled yet, in the world, as kings;
Their divine children came to Avalon god's
Fair garden of apples: unto banquet called,
Of Lîr, who lord is named of the five seas;
Expecting the return of his twelve sons,
That, wooers, in twelve ships, were sailed from Alban.
And set forth was that navy; to bring home,

The twelve affianced daughters of bright isles,
Of Brigida, daughter of the golden sun.

Then was dark spirits of the aery deep,
(Grudging, because they were not called to feast,)
Transfigured them, to rushing tempests, rive
Their broidered sails; and having numbed, by spells,
The mariners' hearts, amongst vast tumbling billows;
So that the oars fall from their idle hands!

To an isle of strong enchantments, they them cast
That deemed the sons of Lîr, was this the isle,
Of Brigida; and they leapt, in haste, to shore,
Out of their keels. But swallows up that deep,
The sand, beneath their feet; and from their ships,
Parts, which behind them burn, that sailed from Alban.

Red flames, before them, seen; of the sun's isle,
His crown of rays, they deem: and, with stout heart
Assay, those brethren, break through to their loves.
But kindles all that soil, with glowing heat;
So that they do consume away, as mounts
The sun, with anguish of their mortal part!

The same hour, in their isle, from thence far off;
Those divine daughters, from their bower of grass,
At dawning ray, already dight, dance forth,
To welcome in their spouses and their loves;
And still, unto their island strand, they watch.

But the envious spirits, which have no power, at all,
In the sun's isle, made seem, by magic spell,
The appearance, in the sea, of ships that sail:
And falsely, of cloud, made seem a clodded strand.
And limned therein, as princes which ascend.

Them veiled the divine maidens, that with joy,
Then, singing, hand in hand, in gracious wise,
Begin, with tinkling feet, dance to their loves.
Till, from cloud-cliffs, them seeming a fast ground,
They, with dread shrieks, fall headlong, to deep shore!

Dagda, (who father of all gods is named,)
That sees the world, in rundle of his targe,
Like a steel glass, these extreme haps beheld;
And sate, somewhile, in doubt. Then Dagda changed,
His son Lîr's sons, to swans of mighty wing!
The daughters of his daughter, Brigida,
To wailful curlews: (whence, are lapwinged fowl,
And swans, held sacred, mongst all tribes of Britons.)

Then Dagda sent forth, bondman of the gods,
Creef, seed of giants old. Creef was not slain,
In their destruction, being yet a child;
But pity found, at hearthstone of the gods.
Those spirits sleeping, after wicked deed,
Creef, (Hundred-handed, for his immense force,
Named,) took in a sea-cave. Creef, o'er them, cast

Inextricable net of subtle brass!
Which Goibniu forged, artificer of the gods.
Creef, in a sack, them bare forth, on his neck,
To those false isles, and that deceitful cliff;
And hanged, in midst of windy flames, whereas,
Aye-wrathful god of tempest daily breathes,
On hooks; that divine smith, with angry heart,
Wrought; and sith clenched, with sledge of adamant.

But riding, the next year, with his swan-sons,
In his cloud-chariot, Lîr, mongst watery gods;
To visit Lug, (thus hight is the sun-god,)
With divine cry, that isle spurned with his foot;
And billows overran the magic rock:
And whelmed, wrath of grieved gods, immense salt deep.
His garden of apples, sith, the god defaced.
Riding before salt billows, Lîr them leads,
O'er Alban's plain; and made it mere and fen.

On Alban knolls, sith, dwelled huge Yotun brood,
Till they, contemners of sky-dwelling gods;
Fighting gainst neighbour giants, of Mendip hills,
Ebar and Chedar and Eriol, soaked with blood,
The soil: and yet gore-stained, that fenny ooze
Is seen; whence Taran them, with venging lightning,
Off-slew. Their corses sunk to the mere's ground,

Half-quick; and sometimes, like wide-flickering flame,
Their ghosts ben seen, yet, flit, o'er the foul fen.

There ended he: all clashing warlike arms,
Applaud and say; it was a golden story.
Reached forth his own war-spear, the king's high hand,
That seemed, with silver rings, some serpent sheen;
Whose gilded tongue, athirst for enemies' gore,
This purple-glooming air doth gride. And sent
It, to the warlike bard, the king, by Kowain;
In sign of his and all these hearers' praise;
And gold, for his dispense, in the king's wars.
Joyed Melyn, in his valiant hands, receiving
The lord's war-gift and purse; and to swart Camulus,
His battle-god, the warrior-bard prays loud,
Might this dart drink, first, the king's enemies' blood!

A certain railing young lord, friend to Aesgar,
Hearing those went to Avalon, under ward,
Quoth, looking on them, still, in 'sdainful wise,
Well were those watery holms, to such, assigned;
Which come from far o'er-seas, gainsay our gods.
In Alban's infect air, might those soon perish!
Mongst barking frogs and outlaws fugitives.

Welsh hesg: a kind of sedge.

Welsh cwrw, Old Irish cuirm: a kind of beer.

Welsh medd, mead; and llyn, liquor.

The parts of Avalon.

Now rising the moon's lamp, part the king's men;
And with chief captains, king Duneda, in chariots,

Mounts. He commits, to Amathon's son, again,
Lead-on these strangers, to the holms of Alban;
So beckons, kindly, to the saints, farewell!

With easy and slow pace, the brethren wend,
For follow, feeble-kneed, the holy women.
With the king's spears, prince Kowain softly rides,
Before them. Comes then to the Syrians' ears,
In the night air, grave din of gentile rites:
Druids keep, nightlong, bloody sacrifices!
They cover their pale faces, as they fare.
With bending knees, is sorrow in their souls;
That any should be lost, for whom died Christ!

Day dawning, at poor stead, now, they arrive,
Of husbandmen, whose these round, wattled, bowers;
Strange in the Syrians' eyes! a royal grange:
Where barn of beams and reeds and cattle-byres.
Are thrall-folk those, saith Kowain, of Duneda.
Fierce Briton hounds are meek, when they approach.
That barn they enter, by an upper floor;
Whereto, upon a bank, ben wains updriven.
There come Duneda's thralls, to salute Kowain.

The Syrians sit down, weary, amongst heaped halm.
Poor bondwives bring, new-baken, to them soon,
Loaves, of their barley-grist; smooth morrow's milk,
Butter, and honey-combs, of the king's hives;

That seen are, many rows, in this poor place,
Which for purveyance of the royal mead.
Till afternoon, they rest: sith, that poor folk
Bring in their sick ones; for those understood,
Now, of the men-at-arms, the strangers have
A power to save. On them all, Joseph lays,
His healing hands! Plough-oxen stand without,
Yoked unto two light wains. Lo, this one, dight
Is, for the women: that shall bear their stuff;
And corn, in sacks, behold Duneda's gift!
Which may suffice them, till some mean might find
The king, to send those shipwrecked to mainland.

And being now ready, part the men of prayer,
Thence, forth, with blessing of those Britons poor;
To whose gross ears, not come was Aesgar's curse.
They journey, in a fair coast, as Libanus;
By clear brooks, coombs, fresh cowslip lawns, blue woods;
Where bowering, under brier, pale primrose blows.

Late now is eventide, in Utmost Britain.
How shrills the lark aloft, in lightsome heaven!
What hour were longwhile fallen, in winter season,
Night-murk, on these sheen fields: yet amorous chant,
Of merle, sounds, from yond twilight underwoods!
Fades, the day, dies: seems then to mourn the ground,

In dusky weed. Weary, wayfaring, thus,
Chanting their temple-songs, the Syrian brethren;
To place inhabited, come, another grange;
Stedding of poor herdfolk, Duneda's servants.
They in hall of wattled boughs and crooked studs,
Enter; where bondwives roll the rumbling millstones.
These pause, then, rise up, to serve the king's guests:
Sith, set before them pulse and milk-meat. Sup
The saints, remembering Christ; and so they rest:
But wolves howl, nightlong, dreary, round that place.

With the new sun, uprisen, they drink smooth bowls,
Of morrow's milk; so, on their journey, pass.
They were not gone forth, on the dewy bent,
A mile, when word comes shouted back, to Kowain!
Man's poll, (by the hair, ah, horrid sight, he it holds!)
Hath one now founden of his men-at-arms:
Who it casts, then, loathing, to the young lord's feet!
And all men know, that gory grinning face,
That it was Llys! Come running, from nigh knoll,
Men herding flocks, to see this sight, and tell
Thing they had seen: even now, rent his lewd corse,
In pieces, on the field, when they led forth;
Nor gnawed had wolves, at all, his carrion flesh.
Yester, they saw this wight, alive, that passed.
He came and drank of their ewes' milk and quoth;

He sought to kill some enemies of the gods.
The madman bare a great skean, in his belt!
Night fallen, some wretch ran, yelling, by their lodge;
Whom howling scour of wolves, coursed in full chace.
Then, outran all the hinds, with bats and hounds;
Yet might they not that wild hunt overtake,
Nor fray the bloody wolves, with yelling voice.

Llys, when he heard those shipwrecked went safe forth,
On whom was that crude ban of Aesgar loost;
Waxed mad, outfared with great snatcht shambles' knife.
From stead, he stalked, to stead, from grange, to cote;
Asking, eachwhere, had men seen, in their path,
Such outlaws? whom might any, finding, kill!
Marked well their wheels' tract, Llys, to slay them, cast,
At unawares; and the innocent oppress!
His mind was, steal upon them, this last night;
When slumbering the king's guard. But the Eye sleeps not
In heaven, which is above the starry night!

And yet they fare, three days, in upland Britain,
With Amathon's son, and the king's guard of spears;
Shunning, for that ban's curse, all village-steads.

Are cragged these green bents; where their wains, oft,
Might hardly pass. Seem the wide-shining heavens,
Vast golden womb; whose infinite breast low earth;
Where Spring-time's medléd nation is brought forth.
How shining be these lawns, with blissful flowers,
Gladdening their hearts. They view, gainst afternoon,
Mendip; whereunder misty wilderness.

Deep way and foul, before them, lies, henceforth;
Where golden king-cups blow, and marish lilies.
How, to the Syrians' eyes, yond sallows, dim,
Seem olive yards! Shows them, then, Amathon's son,
Broad-gleaming far-off mere, and holms of Avalon!
Towards eve, they come to bourn-stones in the fen;
Whereat, with Kowain, all depose their arms.
They leave the wains there, also, under guard:
Strange smell their nostrils smites, of peaty reek!
When they ascend, unto the outlaws' hill.

Of halm-thatched wattle cabans, lo, poor street;
Echoes to the saints' tread! Few wildered wights,
With rusty glibs, men careless of their good;
As who their hope have, in this deadly place,
Lost, look forth at low doors; and fugitives,
Under blood-ban, are many from their tribes.

There some, in mire and slough, come, barefoot, forth;

That view, with wondering looks, the strangers pass,
Whom sends Duneda, lord of their poor lives.
So all they wend, to the poor outlaws' hall,
Of clay-cast wattle work, and daubed with lime,
On ground-wall of green sods: where-midst, burns hearth,
Of fenny reeking turves; which squalid wights,
With hollow looks, on peaten stools, sit round.
These all, uprisen, about him, greet prince Kowain,
And some, straw down fresh rushes, for the guests.
Behold, with Kowain, sit, mongst outlaws poor,
Those men of prayer. The Syrian brethren muse,
To see so many of them, with trembling joints!
Whom racks a daily fever of the fen.

With murmur, as of famisht hounds, those watch
The barley-cakes, which gin prince Kowain's men,
Out of their wallets, hungry, take and eat!
Sith, being those given some of their bread and flesh;
Did gnaw even on the bones. Then sends back Kowain,
Unto the wains, bring in the strangers' stuff.

He in Duneda's name, the shipwrecked strangers,
To this poor folk commending, the king's word,
Leaves said, for Hyn, (who, Avalon's magistrate,
To-day was ferried, in the rushy lake,

Unto another holm;) to entertain
These, as becomes his guests; and measure land,
For them, in the king's field; and seemly bowers,
There, build them. Kowain risen, then, takes his leave.

To the caterfs, he must, before him marched,
Towards Severn, ride with speed. His part it is,
Standing in king Duneda's battle-chariot,
To bear his targe, before the royal breast.
To Alban brow, the saints now bring him forth:
Where, parting, Amathon's son, of wonder-working
Joseph's healing God, a blessing asks;
Of Whom they much had communed, in their path.

Uncheerful fenny damps, sink on their sense;
When they ascend, again, to Alban's hill;
And wend back, lonely, to the outlaws' hall:
Yet not alone, for, in their midst, is Christ!
Where come again; they, with the holy women,
The lady Keina, (veiled in long white stole,)
Find; priestess she of Brigida, light-faced goddess;
That daughter of all-seeing sun, is named.
And as wide-shines the sun, on all the earth;
Strangers, at Brigida's ever-burning hearth,
Are guests; which, three days, there, may eat and rest.
And reverence Keina this poor Alban folk.

Sith, brought-in Keina, waterhens' wild eggs,
And flummery and fish, the best of their poor diet;
Them sets before the saints. The holy women,
Moreo'er, bids Keina, to continue, with her,
Till day when builded were their bowers and house.

To those poor outlaws, which, before them, sit;
Through Pistos' mouth, speak words of life and peace,
The brethren: and how from a far-off coast,
To Duffreynt, they arrived, in broken ship.
Upspake then one, whose polled head fugitive
Him shows, saying, These were they which healed our wounds;
And when we 'scaped, opened our prison doors,
In wonder-wise, man like the stranger Joseph!

Was he of the war-captives, which thus speaks,
Keth, yet, with fading woad, his warlike face,
Stained. Keth tells, briefly; from the falling stream,
They, gone to shore, them hid, all that day's sun,
In a sea-cave. They, sith, raught Moridunion;
Where Durotriges' king, stout Golam, dwells;
Friend to Duneda: of whom, they being afraid,
Before the dayspring, entered in the house,
Of certain chapman, that, for hides and wool,
And beasts, wont traffic to Silures' coasts:

And, this foreyear, had one of theirs him saved;
Tempting, in storm, a freshet stream to pass.
Wherefore the man them hid, under neats' hides,
And fleeces, there, two days. He night-time, sith,
By twos and threes, had, privily, sent them forth.

Then they, like wild boars, wallowed in a fen;
Whence, ochre-dyed, them knew not any man.
By hill-side, moor and forest, went they on,
Till light of day. Sith parted, in three bands,
By only night, they passed, through places waste.
Last, all they reached, with hard and evil hap,
Through Durotriges' wilds, to craggéd cave,
Which in high Mendip; whereas, other days,
Like wolves, they lived, by nightly stealth of flocks.

One morn, night to sea-coast, they descried ship;
Them seemed, much like some pirate-keel of Erinn.
They saw men row, to land: and drawn, sith, up,
Their vessel, an armed folk ascend from strand.
Then hoping, we, quoth Keth, to save us home,
By sea, fell on their ship's guard, from nigh wood;
With stones and staves, and slew them: but in fight,
With those, there fell two, by their arrows, slain,

Of ours: and I, third, thrilled of hurled iron spear,
Was left, for dead, fallen, bleeding, on that shore.
The rest, (which, hastily had launched, and climbed aboard;
And hoised-up leathern sail,) bare forth the wind.
Which seen, came again running, to that strand,
The pirate sea-folk: one of whom me smote,
With cudgyl, out of sense. Waked, in night cold,
From swoon, I, in bleak moonshine, saw no man.
Training, in hostile land, these limbs, the third
Day, I, little lack of dead, raught Sacred Alban!
Keth, touched then Joseph's healing hands, besought,
He would assuage this his much rankling smart.

Loud named the name of Jesus, Joseph said,
In looking up to heaven, Be whole! and was
Healed the man's sore. Then cried out some poor Briton;
The gods be come, in our days, unto Alban!

Dawing new morn, this people's magistrate,
From making circuit in the rushy lake,
Comes, in a bascad boat; which, on his back,
To door, Hyn dripping bears, of their moot-hall.
He, erst, cast, towards the brethren, troubled looks;
Strangers and shipwrecked, from far unkenned coast!
But heard the words of Kowain, he salutes
Them, come from king Duneda: and Hyn assigns
Them, daily rate of fish, out of the lake.

Come morrow's day; Hyn, through the holm of Avalon,
Gathers young men; which bowers should frame, and hall,
For those strange guests. Made even, then, a fair plot,
In the king's orchard; they, in circuit, pight
Lopped alder studs; whereon, with osier-wands,
They weave round bowers; and tress, as Britons use,
A seemly hall: conducted to man's height,
They raise, and underprop, the hollow thatch;
And, with thick sedges, bind; and sith clay-cast
The house. Now, towards his setting, the sixth sun,
Before the Sabbath rest; the Syrian brethren
Enter unto their own, and God give thanks:
And that loud temple-chant, in stranger tongue,
The outlaws throng to hear, which they intone.

Conversing thus the saints, in fenny Alban,
They give themselves, to learn the Britons' tongue.
The holy women labour, weaving wool,
Prepare them winter cloth. To priestess Keina,
At her much bidding, Syrian country skill,
They teach; gainst winter, (which, here, rude and waste,
Wherein this people faint,) press curded milk,
To cheese; and cure their marish fish, with salt.

Is there a water-hamlet, in the lake,
Like to an holm; but laid, (the guise of Erinn,)
On thick pile-work. Their fathers, in old days,
Came hither, from o'er seas, in wattle-barks;
Led by their bards; guests of the Alban gods.
But when, no soil, to them, for seat, was given;
Those, (taught, is fame, of beavers in the fen,)
Hewed sallows; and, with mauls, their sharp pilebeams,
Beat, in a shoaling ooze, by the mere's side:
Whereon, they timbered, of the shining reeds,
(And did clay-cast within,) round fisher-bowers.

In their hands, is a dyers' art of Erinn,
In line and wool. They mingle the swart hews,
Of alder rind, the yellow, of sambuc berries;
The ruddy, of crottle-moss. Howbeit, most set,

In music's sacred skill, is their delight;
To weave the trembling chords of Erinn's crowth.

Probably now Seaton, in Devon.

Is this that Avalon, (Alban of the gods),
Holms of the dead; being those accounted dead,
Which therein dwell, men outlaws, fugitives.
But, in the hallowed precinct of the place,
Pale of the gods, may there none dead be laid.

Sith healed was Keth, their sick ones, Avalon Britons
Bring, daily, to the hands of stranger Joseph.
Tremble the most, with agues, and a spirit,
They say, besets them of the rotten fen;
Like hag, with yellow teeth and baleful eyes:
And flickers forth, on deadly wings, the fiend,
By night. That water-hamlet, in the lake,
Men call Cranog. Sigon, who father is,
Of all the water-dwellers; from his youth,
Day hath not seen, but all his world is dark.
Behold his son him brings, in wicker bark,
To Joseph: who him, taking by the hand,
Spake; Be thou of good comfort! The saint toucht
His eyeballs old; and they see heaven's light.
And, without succour, sith, went Sigon forth;

Confusedly murmuring, to his gods and Joseph,
Thanks, gladness, (seeing!) unto his bascad boat.

But who his son continues with the saints,
Gazing, with reverence, on their heavenly looks.
He hears them marvellous things, of Christ, relate!
And this is Cuan, singer to the harp.
Sends aged Sigon, back, from the cranog,
A present, from his hand, wild honey-combs,
And linen cloth, unto the men of God.

Or Crannog; from cran or crann, a beam, pile.

After these days, by certain fugitives,
Come in to Avalon, have the brethren word,
Of the king's warfare. Dobuni and Durotriges,
Assembled, with their kings, unto Duneda;
Towards Hafren, thence, had marched. Silures stood,
With their allies, all, on the counter shore.
But rained incessantly had the winter-gods:
So that might neither pass vast rushing flood;
And each host troubled many adverse omens!
Then fortuned a new case, Cunobelin's son,
With whom ride Verulam lords, by night-time, come,
With thousand spears, that river's ford beset.

One lord of war, sith days of Cassiobellan,

(When Julius passed Kent-seas, with conquering legions,)
From sire to son, have all tribes of South Britain.
Also, his grandson, great Cunobelin,
(Who king in Catuvelaunian royal Verulam;)
Now Warden is, and warlord of South Britain.

Caratacus, lo! Cunobelin's other son,
(The elder, Togodumnos, went to Rome,)
Is this tall prince; who, twixt two watchfires, stands,
New kindled, at swift-streaming Severn's strand;
Mongst young lords, lighted from their long-maned steeds,
Now arrived, with him. Hark, then, as day springs,
Loud cry, to the two camps, Cunobelin's heralds!
Caradoc, O kings! Son to the sire Cunobelin,
Word, of the Warlord's mouth, brings from Caer Verulam!
That were observed, on both your armies' parts,
Which would contend, these days, a sacred truce!
Till may be called, and holden parliament,
In the Sun's plain, of all tribes of South Britain!

Came to him six kings, then, each with his druid,

And ward of spears. Caradoc, Strongarm, declares,
Saluting them; how lately word Cunobelin,
Received from Rome; that, this year, should the legions,
As in old days of warlord Cassiobellan,
Pass o'er to Britain. Merchants from the Main,
The like affirm, which lately came to Cantion.
Wherefore Cunobelin, by their common gods,
To amity, adjures all tribes and Britons' lords;
And to let sleep all forepast enmities.

Thus spake, with warlike countenance, and stern voice,
Caradoc; whose stature, and wise warlike worth,
Persuade all hearts. First, rose up king Duneda;
Who, father, prince Caratacus, embraced,
(Son to his ancient friend Cunobelin,) quoth;
He would the hest obey of the Land's Ward!
Uprose Moelmabon, stern Silures' king,
Hoar-haired: and took prince Caradoc, by the hand;
Thereby, assenting to the king Cunobelin.
With these three, joined those other kings right hands,
Two of each part, which came as adversaries.
Drinking together, then, one sacred cup,

Before the gods, kings swear, (one people of Samoth,)
To wage one war, gainst new-invading Romans.

A certain noble bard, with Caradoc, rides,
Of Belges Gauls, Carvilios, far renowned;
Guest now of Britons' lord, in Verulamion.
He, after knit, with solemn feast, accord;
Wherein those kings make common sacrifice,
Touching, with well-taught hand, his golden wires,
Gan warlike lay to chant, with a great voice.
He quoth; Great martial Gaul is thrall to Rome!
Romans, whom oft o'erthrew our fathers old;
And held their town to ransom, Briton Brennus.
What infamy it is, that, now, Gauls serve to Romans,
Their fathers' freedmen! in whose tongues, as women,
And not in warlike deed, lies their most force.
For Romans fight, with wiles, which Gauls despise;
And all in hammered plate, their bodies closed;

And hired men are their soldiers, for base wage:
Gainst whom our naked youth, in vain, contended.
O warlike Brennid kings, O Island Gauls,
What day, embarked Rome's legions, from mainland,
Shall bridge your narrow seas, with thousand keels;
Except all Britons, ready, as one man's sons,
Stand fast in arms, to ward their foster strand;
Look that the like befall this soil of Brennus!
There ceased the Gaulish bard; and Briton lords
Stare on the ground. Sith those six truth-plight kings,
From Hafren's strand, march homeward, with their warriors;
And with Duneda, Caradoc rides to Isca.

Summer is ended: gins now season sad,
When nights increased, and weary is the ground;
And hoar dew lies, all day, on the cold grass;
And falls the flickering leaf. Then Shalum ears,

On crookéd plough-beam leaned, (plough which, in Alban,
His Syrian hands had wrought,) chill-breathing field:
And shoulder two wain-oxen the tree forth.
And lay of Zion this, in his travail, sings!

And laid up, is his hope, in heaven; that when
Lent-month's smooth winds shall fill, with tepid showers,
This furrowed glebe, should spring his Briton grain;
And, come to Autumn, yield of corn enough,
That eat the brethren might the blesséd loaf,
In a strange land, of Christ's remembrance, both;
And have, for alms-deed, mongst poor heathen folk.

Winter long twilight, all by day, in Britain,
With stooping mists, seems to those Syrian brethren.
And, Southing, still, the sun, to a spear's height,
Attains uneath: then seems, in heaven's dim light,
As shrouded corse; whose pale beams shot askance,
Down, on wide-withered field, weak shadows cast.
Then rage out, o'er waste bent, blood-curdling blasts!
Which blow the poplars bare. Silent, from spray,
The small fowl flits, to covert; and all beasts
Go lean and weary, in the empty frost.

Hungry, the outlaws crouch then, in poor hall,
Christ's brethren part to them Duneda's corn,

That rests; nor they have less. Christ's love they teach,
And heavenly light, which shines in their own hearts;
And a New Life, to come, on the wide earth.

Whilst all, without, lies cold and comfortless,
They pray and heal the sick, in fenny Alban.
And made is whole, now, of long languishment,
The lady Keina, by the hand of Joseph.
She with the holy women, priestess pure,
Converseth, and still, daily, asks, to hear
More, of Christ's Love. Among the noble maids,
Was Keina one that waited on the queen,
Spouse to Duneda, when she came from Erinn.

After the queen, (the white-armed Havisa,)
Fairest, in Isca, was accounted Keina.
Then she, to Flan, nigh kinsman to Duneda,
Being joined, in happy marriage, mother was
Of sons. Sith widowed Keina was, alas!
When leading Flan, in battle, the king's warriors,
He foremost fell. In Keina's desolate house,
Sith was; when each one nighed his manly age,
A pining sickness took him, and increased,
In all his limbs; insomuch, that, ere ended
A full year, he, too, in her arms, deceased!

And yet did her remain, an only son.

Then, Keina, all days, for this last, the sun,
Besought; she, all nights, sought the starry gods:
And as the needy stretch lean palms, for alms,
So she upcast, to heaven, her tear-worn face!
And to soothsayers, sought Keina, and to wise druids.
From whom returning, to her desolate house,
Departed her son's spirit! She, in night-murk,
Then ran forth, frantic, from abodes of men;
Till, last, in wild moor, she fell down, aswoon;
And lay till dawn: when driving, that way, down,
From the hills, their flocks, some herdfolk poor found Keina!
And they her bare in then, as dead, to Isca;
Where languished, longwhile, Keina, in Havisa's bower;
Aye driven in spirit, as one beside her mind.
And for she most, of women, hapless was;
An extreme passion, on her, daily, seized.
Duneda, at Havisa's asking, after this,
Made Keina Brigida's priestess, light-faced goddess.
Healing, from heaven, now, all her harm allays.

Longtime, might, not suffice the wicker hall,
Where the saints dwell. Must, on the Sabbath days,
Britons, that come to hear the strangers' hymns,
Stand oft in mire; when snow, or rain, without.

Whence taking Ithobal thought, with reed and line;
He casts, how of just stone and timber work,
To edify a new hall, of prayer, for Christ.

When, to the people of outlaws, this is known;
Men wend forth, gladly, o'er the frozen mere,
For stones; some other to the mount ascend,
To hew down wood. But, delved the frozen ground,
And steined; and laid, of well-trod clay, up walls,
As that shipmaster showed: (his helpers, Phelles,
Pistos and Alexander,) with keen bills,
He, and hoarse saws, then frames, by just assize,
Roof-tree; and Britons lay, of hurdle-work,
And sedges of the lake, thereon, up, thatch.
All brought now to good point, pargets the house,
Ithobal; and limns, with ochre, and pourtrays,
With cunning hand, in his Phœnician wise,
Ships, stars, eyes, rudders. And that star is Christ,
The ship His Church, whose rudder is the Spirit;
That guides souls, into Truth, through world's dark waves.
But the Eye is token of High God above.

At length, lo, in her time, returns the stork!
Now is the old year's winter-sorrow past.
Ewes yean, in pinfold, green-grown is the grass;
And every ewe hath twins. Is lenten month,

When early riseth day; with liquid voice,
Of throstles, in the thicks; and swallows flit,
From Britons' eaves, o'er Alban mere, aloft.
Then noised, Caligula was, in Rome, cut-off:
And as shire waves dance to a summer strand,
Was heard the nations' laughter, to far Britain!

Son of Cunobelin, noble Togodumnos,
Returned from Rome: but the Red Prince, Adminius,
Yet fugitive dwells. And fled had that Adminius,
From Britain; where, despised his father's age,
Envying his brethren, the king's royal sons,
He cast supplant them, and their sire depose.
Dwells also, in Rome, Icenian Bericos,
King, whom his folk, (strong nation of East-march,
Of the Isle,) expulsed, and warlike Antethrigus,

Now had conspired those twain, bewray to Cæsar,
Their foster soil: but, still, did Togodumnos,
Being, that time, in great Rome, frustrate them both;
Who went up, bearing, to Rome's temple-hill,
The gold-rayed vowéd crown, which king Cunobelin
Sent, Lord of Britain, to the Latin gods.
For had those, with their traitorous hands of gold,
So wrought, with greedy senators, that a day
Might not be named, wherein should sit the senate,
To hear cause of Cunobelin's embassage.

But slain, Ire-of-the-gods! Caligula Cæsar;
Parted from Rome, repassed prince Togodumnos
High Alps; left, in his room, Caratacus:
Whom had the king, their father, after sent,
(Ere few days, to the city, arrived that prince,)
Finish Cunobelin's business and prefer,
For Britain's peace, a new request to Cæsar;
That he would send back Britain's fugitives.

Summer is in, when the dear brother Malchus,
Freedman of Mnason, but now heir, with Christ,
Of God's eternal kingdom, languishes,
In misty air of Alban. Malchus, child,
Keeping, (then Mati named,) in stony field,
Of Edom, kids, was reft of Ishmaelites;
Which him, loud weeping, on a camel, bound.
Then driving on, before, their cattle-preys;
The third day, lateward, in East wilderness,
Those robbers, to their hungry booths, arrived.

Next moon, when sent those down, to buy breadcorn,
(Selling what camels they had reaved and captives,)
To Mnason's father, merchant-man of grain,
At Gaza, was the bondchild Mati sold:
Who orphan; having none, of his nigh kin,

Which might redeem him; many faithful years,
Served forth his master's house, at the sea-side.

Past now is Pentecost; and have gathered in
The saints, their harvest, which is tardy, in Britain;
But yieldeth, to these reapers, hundred fold.
They, kneeling, all, his lowly bed around,
Anoint, with oil, now night-time, brother Malchus;
Who speechless, dying, them beholds and smiles.

At eve, they bare him forth; and his dead face,
Seemeth, even as this sun's setting, radious.
And say, communing mongst them, the Lord's saints;
How, in his ending, had the Lord, to Malchus,
Revealed Himself; showing, that should His kingdom,
Be established, erelong, even in Utmost Britain!
Wherein, (among them, first,) should rest his flesh.

Follow his bier, the outlaws, to lake side;
Where all take bark, with Hyn, the magistrate:
And row, over the mere, to certain croft;
Where lawful is, to lay who dead in Alban.
Britons, which loved the man, have digged there grave.
Then Pistos spake; how, like to precious seed,
Is this dead corse, till that great day of Christ;
When shall our brother Malchus be upraised!

Lo, closed is this first tomb; and all fare forth.
And, hark, how singeth, in his measures, sweet,

The son of Sigon, the high heavenly Rest,
And Malchus, father, gone to blissful place;
Where neither thirst, nor hunger, cold nor aches.
And all take up the burden of his verse,
That o'er the moonlight mere, row, drooping, forth.
Some think, they see stand spirits on lake shore,
And Malchus clothed, in raiment of white light!
Then ferries, each one, silent, to his own.

But harvest past; when wane the pleasant days,
And wasteful winds make bare the russet woods;
And herdmen fold, in stovers, sere and rough,
One noon, with many more from the cranog,
Again, comes, in frail bark, that agéd Sigon.
In the boat's stem, sits, chanting, his son Cuan,
Of the New Life. And all these wend, to Joseph,
To be baptized. They washed, then, rise from death.
Thus, for one dead, were many made alive.

Read, divine Muse, which, from the shining spheres,
Beholdest, like to dark clot, this Middle-Earth;
And us, man's sinful seed, indwelling flesh;
How Fortune, demon-goddess of proud Rome,
Outstretched her arm, to smite our foster Britain.

In Britain, chants the warlike bard Carvilios,
With oak-leaves, crowned, the hazard of the time;

And stirs men's hearts, as stormwinds of the North,
Hurl forth vast waves. The bard sings, in Caer Verulam,
In the king's hall; where, till each night far spent,
Sits, mongst his lords, the sire Cunobelin;
Consulting, for the safety of the Isle.

Was Caradoc come, in season of most heat,
Through Gaul Cisalpine, unto gate of Rome;
Whence, after few days, parted Togodumnos;
Whom calls their father, home, to Verulam.
Then days, then many weeks, long moons, they wasted;
Seeking, in vain, an audience of the Senate:
Nor might they, once, come, to the ear of Cæsar;
Who now is Claudius. To Campania, Cæsar
Soon went, by ship, the Summer heats to pass.
And now, in Rome, be left few magistrates:
And Bericos them hath hired, with Britain's gold.

Erst they in Autumn, to Cunobelin's son,
Respond, by Cæcina's mouth, In Island Britain,
Should answer be returned, to king Cunobelin.
Discerned the People of Rome have, and their Senate,
To send an army, to require that tribute,
Withheld; (which they allege had imposed Julius.)

These words declared, with loud injurious voice;
He bade, The legate of the Lord of Britain,
Part, within space of thirty days, from Rome!

Deliberate Rome's proud consuls, and the Senate;
Should all the world be Rome: that no more Rome,
Through wild irrupting nations, from the North,
Were brought in peril. Chiefly and it behoves,
Cut off the seed of Brennus; whence sprung dukes,
Of barbare hosts, which have o'erthrown Rome's armies.

Moreo'er, then gan incense, in public audience,
The Romans, crying out, one Caius Marcius,
Their tribune, of the house of Marcus Manlius,
With his right arm, their quadrate temple-arx,
Showing; and those same hard outstanding stones,
Whereby climbed, yore, into Tarpean rock,
The Sénones Gauls, Gauls, namely, of Briton Brennus,
Brennus, that burned this City of Romulus,
(Whose sons, then, them redeemed, at price of gold!)
And gore-stained heaps, left Rome's razed streets and walls.

Hail, double-headed hill Capitoline!
Which sempiternal Destiny hath named,
Head of the nations. Hail yond triple fane!

Hail, august images of great Rome's trine gods!
That angry, erewhile, last weary of their pride,
Cast out, again, from Rome, those Sénones Gauls.
Nor is, I say, even yet, that old reproach,
Redeemed, whilst Isle of Brennus yields no tribute.
I say, no tribute to world-conquering Rome!

Moreo'er marched other swarms, after those swarms,
Cimbers; whose dukes were nephews to old Brennus;
That, slain your consuls, overthrew your armies.
We owe it to our sires, to Rome's great gods;
That pest out of the North, that Cerberus,
In Gaul now tamed, in Britain, to subdue.
Go up, great Roman gods, before the legions!
So shall our prætors lead, in chains, to Rome,
Britannic kings; that, with joy of all Romans,
From yond cliffs, were they hurled! which besieged Brennus!

Mongst Britain's exiles, which are, now, in Rome,
Is Trinobantine, noble, Dumnoveros;

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Dubnovelaunos' nephew, whom great Julius
Restored to antique reign of Androgorios.
Him Cassiobellan, Catuvelaunian king,
Had conquered, in old wars, and slain. His son
Sith, Tasciovant, all marches, beyond Thames,
Subdued of Trinobantine Eppilos:
And, save the isles, all Cantion coast he wan;
Isles, whither merchants sail, in Summer ships,
From Gaul, the Britons' tinny ores to lade.
Seized on those isles, then, climbing base Adminius,
By fraud; and ever since, withheld by arms.

Found refuge the expulsed lord Dumnoveros,
Erst, with an Almain king, beyond the Rhine;
Where was his daughter born. The Almain queen,
Her Embla named. But white-browed Melusina,
Her mother, died, in birth of their sweet babe.

Sith Dumnoveros, to the duke of legions,
That river passed; whence sought he sovereign Rome:
Where mad Caligula Cæsar him received.
And Gaius sware; as late he bridged sea-gulf,
He Ocean flood, to Britain, would o'erride;
Displeased, that any, therein, should wear diadem,
Without his license. But scorned Dumnoveros
Mad Gaius; and rejoiced at his swift death.

101

That imperator, lately, in a full Senate,
Expounded his intent: in subdued Britain,
Fierce Gauls to plant. In further isle of Erinn,
The German tribes: that, hemmed of boisterous seas,
Those truculent nations, no more, might brast forth.
Had Xerxes hardly bridled Hellespont,
Which liker river is; but he, Rome's Cæsar,
Tyrrhenian seas. Only his godhead's self,
That great Earth-serpent, Ocean's stream, he vaunts,
Could tame. Should he not more be titled Great,
Than half-Greek Alexander, Philip's son;
Which did but women-nations, of the East,
With Macedon's long phalanxed spears, surprise:
But he vast seas, which flow betwixt two worlds;
And Island-Nation of men-giants subdued.
Then, Scythians would he fence, with mighty wall;
Whom none can tame, not even the immortal gods.
For such, quoth he, he would this People and Senate,
Discern him some new honour; as to name him,
New Heracles, or else Second Romulus.

His cares, that Cantion king, to brain-sick Cæsar,
Exposed, responded Galage; he his prayer,
As god, accepted: and, as imperator,
Would vindicate his right, by arms of Rome.

102

But, in his private art; wherein he, thrice,
Was crowned first driver of imperial Rome,
The Briton king, from Isle renowned for chariots;
He challengeth run, with him, a career.
Howbe vain were vie with him, which hath steeds,
Immortal seed, of swift Sicanian winds;
Such being, that able are his matchless teams,
And he, as Phœbus, standing them to rule!
Through heaven's vast steep, draw day-cart of the sun.

Among the princes, exiles from Isle Britain,
Did first fell Bericos persuade mad Cæsar,
Like thunder-god, with lightning in his hand,
Rise, subdue Briton kings. But Gaius slain,
On Rome's new lord, fawns Bericos; and is Claudius
Well-pleased, to hear like words of Red Adminius.
At the imperial knees, they wallow, both!

Gaius, Roman emperor, was surnamed Caligula.

The same word as Caligula.

Already Rome's new Cæsar, Claudius, dreams,
Beyond sea-waves, to conquer a new world.
Were named, these days, what legions should invade
Britannia: and merry of his foolish thought,
Waxed Claudius; but Rome's Britons sad and weary;
Even those which late conspired, gainst their own state;
Foreseeing, that, (like as Gaul,) subdued Isle Britain;

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Their children should be subject unto Romans.
Britons whom parted their tribes' enmities,
Draw now together; that, at least, might sound,
In their dull ears, sweet homely speech, in Rome.

Adminius, who was wont, at Camulodunum,
To drink, in wide-mouth horns, the dulcet mead,
Mingled with poignant juice of quicken-berries;
Now drinks deceitful cups, beyond the Alps,
In season of most heat, of blood-red wine:
Drinks drunken; and still drowseth forth his time.
He felt, then, all his inward breast aflame.
Sick, with a fever, on his bed, he lies,
Now, and deadly dreams. Against his fearful soul,
The angry gods send furies, serpents, chains.
He ofttimes cries out, for his father's son,
Caratacus; who, he hears, arrived in Rome.

Past skill of leech, past hope; last, sends, Adminius
For Caradoc: and of him, who comes, anon,
With sighs, embraced; the prince forgiveness asks;
Confessed, he compassed had his brother's death,
Amidst his voyage; when he, from Rome, should part.
Wherefore, to take his journey, Adminius warns,
By other paths, till he, vast Alps o'erpass.
Then, groaning, he laments, he dies in Rome;
And shall, in Britain, he betrayed, be named,

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Of Britons' renowned sire, ignoble son!
(There was a fervent greatness, in his soul,
Though it unrighteous were!) With faint voice, then,
He prayed his brother, his last message bear,
Beseeching pardon, by the saviour gods,
Of their king-father, sire Cunobelin;
That, after funeral flames, were not his soul,
To wander, with the ghosts of parricides,
Condemned, ah, in most dread and darksome place!

Then godlike prince Caratacus, a purse,
Takes from his bosom; and he bids Adminius,
Be of good comfort. This, their father, sends,
To signify, for his rebellious part,
Forgiveness, lo, his signet! It receives,
With joy, the dying prince, and long beheld.
So prayed of Caradoc; might be borne, to Britain,
His shorn hair-locks, home, to Caer Verulam:
That laid their father's hands, on them; Cunobelin,
Pronounce, might, the remission of all curse!

And, (with this ring-gold, on his finger,) burned,
His body; his cinders might, closed in an urn,
Be sent, to be mound-laid, in foster Britain,
Slow-streaming Ver beside; where the chief druids,
Sprinkling the blood, on them, of sacrifices,
Should loose, at length, his soul from punishment.

105

And, yet, forgiveness of his father's sons,
He, dying, asks: then charged, warn Dumnoveros,
The City he and also Italy, anon, depart;
For cause he did accuse him unto Claudius!
Sith gan he, spent his spirits, some little sleep.

Then went forth, softly, Caradoc, to the street;
Musing of these things and to breathe the air,
With the companions of his enterprise,
Kevin and Iddon, lords of Verulamion:
And oft those turn, to listen, at the stair!

It fortuned, that same tide; from Cæsar's palace,
With torches' light, a litter is borne forth,
Of purpled servants of the imperial house:
And they returning, from the lady Octavia,
Which daughter is to Claudius, yet a child;
The daughter, Embla, of Briton Dumnoveros,
Should convey home. Their wont, is daily, thus,
To meet: for the young noble virgins, both,
Are entire friends. And, with the damsel, is
Her Briton nurse. Now, in a neighbour street,
Were risen, from supper, riotous young lords;
That full of wine and surfeit, with great cries,
And ribald song, their wilful way gan hold.

These meet, at a cross-street, with Cæsar's servants;

106

With whom they, by their torches' reeking light,
Espy veiled women; one, of excellent beauty,
Borne in her litter. Look, then, ruckling, cries
One of the revellers; these Minerva bear;
Out of her temple, have they stolen her!
Or, Herc'les! fellows, gracious Venus is,
Goddess of women's laughter and love's mirth.
Unbuckle slaves! Set down, ye robber knaves,
Undo this curtained casket. Any Roman,
May temple-breakers slay, his fellow cries;
And he those bearers smote. What thing, is this?
Or here is living maid, or virgin goddess;
Yet virgin wot not I, wot only Jove.
I, therefore, I; since both are Wots, am Jove!
But what pernicious thing, thou old Leandugs,
With whimpled leer, art, that, like ambling jade,
Upon three legs, before thy goddess, goes?
Fellows, since all, (he cries,) we cannot have her,
Cast lots, now! Then he laid, who foremost was,
His ribald hand, upon the virgin's litter.

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They stagger, lo, together, and contend,
See her veiled beauty. Trembles Embla; is nigh
None to deliver, in her sore distress.
Gin beat those, which resist them, Cæsar's servants!
Small reck they of Claudius, in their drunken mood.
Shrill calls the nurse, then, on her Britain gods,
Red Taran, Belisama, and Camulus!

The Britain woman's cries happed Caradoc hear.
He snatched the staff of Kevin, old lame lord,
And ran, fleet-foot, among them, in a moment;
Where few and heartless slaves make weak defence;
Men which have half their souls and manhood lost.
The cause perceived, anon; prince Caradoc
Vowed to Mars Camulus, battle-god, an horse.
Hath stiff and mighty brawns the Verulam prince;
Who on those Romans, falls, with Britain oak.

They then descry him, in that flickering light,
(Who goodliest man, long-haired Caratacus,
Mongst the bracati, strangers, now in Rome,)
And call him Briton hound, whom will they beat;
Aye, and slay him, if he bite. And swear great oaths,
Those revellers, they would bear away the women,
For that withholden tribute. What, by Fidius!

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Hath not more wives, a man, than one, in Britain,
Or twain, or ten? or else lied godded Julius.

Why should this, with the wooden glaive, them envy;
An only Briton maid, among them all.
Nor this the rightful heir is, but Adminius,
Of him, who called is, lord, or king, of Britain;
Adminius, that come, drunken, in our Senate,
Was hailed, Friend and Confederate of the Romans!
Unto whom all lordship should revert of Britain,
To be established, by the Roman arms:
Who promised, seized of Britain's diadem,
To send his brethren, hostages, to great Rome.

Another cries, Is not this oak-staff youth
The same, of whom decreed was, in our Senate,
He void the City of Rome, in few days' space?
Jove Father! Romulus' seven hills, to-night,
Shall Oak-staff quit, leaving, Ædepol! his corse.
Have at him! fellows, play we now mad druids.

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Bind we this calf; and, sith, with rusty knife,
(Call we it golden sickle,) carve his throat:
It shall be a game, (me Hecate!) now, to see,
Like some night-crow, breeched Briton ghost flit forth!
Venus! or will this slay us all, to-night!

Ware lord! (in Britons' tongue,) shrieked that old wife,
Their secret steel! She seen had treacherous gleam,
Flash from their bosoms. Turned Caratacus,
And a young Roman smote, smote on the pan.
(He whom Caradoc smites, shall not soon speak again!
Dead-slain, such lies, or else a broken man.)

Two, felled, lie without motion, on the stones.
Then he, assembling all his matchless force,
Against the remnant, goes. So cometh lord Iddon,
Old man of war. He caught a torch, lets drive,
At one who steals, (and heavy is his hand,
Stern witty hands, to handle nigh and sore!)
Behind his neck, to stab Caratacus.
In that, to Britons' gods, he breathed his prayer;
That might, to his shrunk limbs, one little hour,
Return their antique pith: as when his spear,
Made of a trusty tree, (in Gaul, that war

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Was; he to horse,) bore through stout Roman captain;
Whose harness he, in Hesus' grove, uphanged.
Heard that grim god; new strength, in him, infused,
Immortal! Iddon falls on murderous Romans,
With shout, that seemed, in Rome, of barbare armies.
They scatter, from him, fast. Prince Caradoc,
From lewd profaning Roman hands; in this,
That noble Briton virgin hath released.

Many, from solers dark, of neighbour houses,
Are crying to the watch! Now the night round
Approaches; hark, with heavy hasting tread!
And, from the nigh wine-taverns, come men forth.
Unto whom, cry mockers, from above; Is Brennus,
(Because were torches fallen, at their stairs,)
That kindles, with his Gauls, again, proud Rome.

Who fight, then cease. Would, sobered, those young lords,
Take up their fallen ones; and 'scape through the watch.
Departed, from them, is the heat of wine:
But the street's end, the round, with chains, have shut.
There are they taken. The watch, Caratacus,

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Find standing over some new-fallen young Roman;
Rolling, like a roused lion, his angry eyes.

He bleeds! They know him, in whose other hand,
A bloody staff, is prince Caratacus.
But who this one, seems dead, on the cold stones?
Are these slaves Cæsar's! those, young Senators!
And, in yond porch, were found the trembling women;
Saved from this litter, here, lies overthrown!
Is Iddon, with fierce looks, which them defends.

The rest they hale then, slaves, with torches spent,
From shadows, forth. Who captain of the watch,
Discerns them all, with lanterns: their device
And livery is Cæsar's; and this litter Cæsar's!
And he, among, enquires, with an hoarse voice;
And bending-to their lights, men of his guard;
What be these fallen, and why this one lies dead?
And lies that other, wounded, without speech;
Both plainly, and by their weed, of noble house.

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Some other revellers sought, where, in foul place,
To hide them; but, on them, is laid arrest.
Sustain, commands the captain, who have wounds:
Some bear the dead; the rest bring on, to ward.

But, for all this, is none injurious hand,
Laid on Caratacus, Britannic legate;
Whose person sacred is, by Roman laws.
Only that officer bids him, to beware
Of kindred of the slain. Some, his armed men,
This sends, with lanterns, ward the damsel home.

Caradoc and Briton lords, with Embla, who sighs,
What, for past fear, and to have seen men's deaths;
Follow to house of Cantion Dumnoveros.
There giveth now, softly, thanks the royal maid;
Her voice like flute, for sweetness, when she bids,
Come to her doors, the prince Caratacus,
Goodnight! And would have parted the prince thus;
Because was foe her father, Dumnoveros,
To king Cunobelin, called the Sire of Britain.

But that old lord, misgiving him his heart;
For so long tarries Embla, issued forth,
Was; and in shadow, waits her, of his porch:
Unto every sound, he bends his listful ears;
For this is Rome, and all, in Rome, he fears!

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Unto whom, then, hieing, on her aged feet;
Begins, from point to point, with panting breath,
The nurse, as yet dismayed, thing happed to-night,
Rehearse. That old, this young lord, saved her lady.
Britons both, by their speech; and seem some lords,
In far-off Rome. But Embla spake, anon;
Father, is this the prince Caratacus,
Unto whom we owe, for our saved lives, all thanks!

His right hand, to Cunobelin's son, advanced,
(Alwere he a little loath,) then, Dumnoveros.
Right courteously, it take those lords, again,
Of noble Verulamion. Dumnoveros
So brings them, through his porch, into his hall.

There sit they on Roman stately thrones; and sees
Prince Caradoc, son unto the Lord of Britain,
Embla, unveiled, like daughter of the sun:
When she, yet trembling, for the fear forepast,
Cast about her sire's neck, her virgin arms.
Seemed then, to rain down, from the maiden's neck,
Like to sun's summer beams, her golden hairs;
Part glistering yet, what, for the late distress,
With teary droppéd dews of her clear eyes;
That, weeping, shine, as the blue gulf of heaven.
For dread, is, somedeal, cruddled, in her cheeks,

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The maiden rud, like roses, ivory white;
Whilst, hark, the message of her virgin spirit,
She óf those twinnéd coral lips, sends forth!
(Which hedged round, as with clear pearls of Isle Britain,)
Like silver descant upon harp of bards!

And Embla sees; and wist not, that she loves,
Her godlike saviour, of an hostile house.
Yet feels she jeopardy, would her gentle life;
And might she save thee prince Caratacus!
Now and she, alone, perceives, such eyes hath love;
How hidden hurt, under his cloak, he hath.

Cries Embla, hastily, anon; Bring hither nurse,
The pots of salve, in store, with linen fine,
And sponge and ewer! Albe the roses flush,
Of maiden modesty, up, in her cheeks;
Frank and courageous, she, approached the prince,
Him made to sit down, in her father's stall.
And on his flesh feels Caradoc her pure breath,
She kneeling him beside, from maiden breast;
Sweet as, in spring mead, is the mower's swathe.
And whilst the virgin's hands him wash and bind,
The Briton prince wox joyous of his wound!

Bade, with new solemn thanks, good Dumnoveros,
Those lords come oft, and prince Caratacus.

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Of former variance, will they naught record;
But only of sweetness of their foster-soil.
Be not all Britons, kindred, in great Rome?
But taking, soon, his leave; Caratacus,
Joyous, in his heart's sadness, thence outwends;
To wot, if yet awakens sick Adminius.

Approaching; comes, then, to their careful ears
Sound of lament, shrill outcries, in the house;
Plaint of the woman-thrall, which was his wife:
And, in that point, some great man's retinue,
Arriving, stands, with torches, at the porch.
It is, they hear, the Senator Hostilius,
Whose sire was hospes of old Tasciovant.
To him, gives answer, one of the house-servants,
The Lord of Britain's son, now passed from life!
Who, dying, called them, in his last access;
As he, of weight, had somewhat to impart.

They hear, in his sick frenzy, yelled Adminius,
Of snake-haired furies, in hell-wain, pursuing
His soul, with scourges, down to murk abysm.
He mad, then, ere there any might withhold him
Raught knife, which lay hid, under his bed's head,
(As all his life was base and treacherous!)
And did, with eyes aflame, riving his breast,

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Fordo himself; and so, uttering thick curse,
Died presently. Low, lies Adminius' corse,
Dreadful to look on, bloody, on the face;
Fallen from the bed, where his last throes him cast.

To the death-chamber, mounts Caratacus.
He looks with heavy cheer, on dead Adminius;
And those lords with him! And they, sith, cut off;
As he, the dead, had promised, his long locks.

There, left the Roman Senator Hostilius,
Caradoc turns, sad, to hall of Dumnoveros.
Then take they counsel, far into the night,
With that good sire. In fine, concluded was;
When have they quenched Adminius' funeral flame,
And gathered were his ashes, in an urn;
That all, in some disguise, should part from Rome.
They hear then, hath Hostilius lodged request,
That were just funerals made for dead Adminius,
Tomorrow-even, at the public cost;
For cause he was Confederate named of Romans.

God of Thunder.

Goddess, with attributes of Minerva.

God, with attributes of Mars.

Now is that morrow, and the evening hour.
And, lo, a stranger dead, Adminius' corse,
Through Roman street, on purple bier, borne forth.
Black-gowned, the public lictors go before.
Shrill funeral pipes, then, slow and mournful note.

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Few Britons follow, to that burning place;
And of those few, few loved Adminius.

Now be they come, without the city's port:
And halt before walled court; behold, where is
The builded pyre. There, taking up the herse,
The public servants bear it on the wood;
Which Caradoc fires, then, with averted face;
As custom is! Hostilius, lastly, cast
In parfumes; whilst the raging flames upmount.

Few linger, till consumed the stranger's corse.
Sprinkles, with olive-branch and water pure,
The Roman priest, already, them that part.
Sole, rests Caratacus; who then the same night,
Upgathered, hastily, in a Roman urn,
Adminius' yet warm ashes, did bear home.
He, Briton prince, a cypress-bough set up,
Then, sign of Roman mourning, at his gate.

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BOOK XI

120

ARGUMENT

Caratacus and Dumnoveros journey to Britain. In the long way, Embla is betrothed to prince Caratacus. They passed the narrow seas, come to king Cunobelin, in Verulam. Caratacus makes known, to his father, the ill success of their Roman embassage, and Adminius' death: and how Cæsar's legions will now invade Britain. Cunobelin and Dumnoveros are made friends. Marriage of Embla and prince Caratacus. Cunobelin sends his heralds, to kings of South Britons; calling them, to solemn sacrifice and parliament, in the Sun's Plain. A grievous pestilence is, in Verulam.

Cunobelin journeys, to precinct of the Sun, and that god's great temple of the Hanging-stones. Carvilios chants to the there assembled Britons. Story of Gaulish ship-king Divicos; who vows himself, before the gathered Britons, to death, for destruction of the Romans. Captive Roman legionaries contend, with a like number of chosen young warriors, of South Britons. Aged king Cunobelin deposes the warlord's belt. Caratacus, yet pale from sickness, now arrives. Dumnoveros girds prince Togodumnos, with the warlord's belt. Cunobelin's last behests. Tiding of that king's death. Deceased, in his journey, he is borne to Verulam. Togodumnos and Caratacus divide their father's kingdom. An old war-ban, from days of Cassiobellan.

Caratacus and Embla ride to Camulodunum. An Almain pirate-fleet is lying in the town-hythe. The pirate shiplords, men of insolent carriage, drink in the king's hall.

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Other Almain keels are come in to Branodunum; and with them is the ethling Thorolf. Thorolf rides, with Hiradoc to the parliament of kings, at Verulam.

Volisios assembles parliament of North Britons' kings. Velaunos is chosen, to lead their warfare, against the Romans.

Carvilios cometh to Mona. Priests of the temple-cave, in vain, persuade him, that he should not pass to Erinn. The Gaulish bard embarks, with two disciples, in a wattled skiff. Wafted of the wind, they touch, the third morrow, to the Sacred Island's shore. Salvage guardians of that coast, bind him, at the sea-brinks; and hale to doom-hill, whereon sits the land's king, Palador. Maelunni, that lord's high druid. Carvilios speaks of the nigh coming of invading legions; and chants an hymn of the sun-god. Palador gives beasts, to sacrifice, for ransom of the strangers' blood. He, himself, leads them to his royal hall.

Manannan, master of traffic, man half-divine, repairs to Britain. His far voyages, great bounty and passing riches. Caratacus parts forth, with Manannan, in chariot; to visit all the kings of South Britons.

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At day, sent an apparitor, the consuls,
Indict; from City of Rome, Caratacus,
Legate, son to Cunobelin, Lord of Britain;
Depart, within days three; and, without tarrying,
From Italy pass; for he hath slain a Roman!

Night fallen, went Caradoc forth, the Prince of Britain,
From Roma's Viminal gate, with lords of Verulam:
Where, as, betwixt them both, accorded was;
Him Dumnoveros meets, from other part,
With Embla and Cantion women. Nigh that place,
Is to the college of Rome's Fetial priests.
They, in hired covered carpents, thence, set forth:
So journey on together, all that night;
And see, no more, great Rome, when morrow breaks!

Henceforth, by long paved way, Flaminian,
That noble Britain-company forthride,

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In fellowship; and is daily more increased,
The lovely bond, twixt Caradoc and bright Embla.

Then gins devise, in heart, Caratacus;
Prefer the antique right of Dumnoveros,
Before Cunobelin, to the isles of Cantion.
And each part should forgive all injuries,
Forepast: so were Kent's isles, after his day,
His daughter's dower. To him, her father dear,
Those lords assenting hath, now, promised her.
And gage prince Caradoc is, for Dumnoveros;
When they shall have arrived, again, in Britain.

With good adventure, they, o'er mighty Alps,
Now passed, their journey hold forth, through Main Gaul:
Till last, they, come down to that Ictian port;
Discern, thence, long white loom of Cantion's cliffs.
And found there ship of Kent, ready to pass;
They mount her board. So, having prosperous voyage,
The same day they, to Rutupiæ, arrive;
Where a glad people welcome Caradoc.

Lat. carpentum: a covered cart; perhaps, (as crate-work cart,) of Celtic origin.

Portus Itius or Ictius.

Richborough, in Kent.

Thence Cantion's noble youth, in vestures white,
Them bring forth, on their way, with pomp of chariots;
Wherein his mastery every one would show,

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On rushing wheels, in gentle Embla's view:
So she is fair, like goddess heavenly bright.
Now, at Durovern-on-Stour, they bridle draw,
Old city of Cloten and of gentle Esla.
Where grassy mound, to-day, their tomb, is seen.
Next sun, they, tardy, arrive at Verulamion:
And find, the warlike sire Cunobelin,
Hath, long, lain bedrid, sick, in heavy age.

Being falsely noised, of late, the great king's death;
Were stirs and tumults, mongst all subject tribes,
Whose kings are, namely, of old hostile house,
Of Commius; whence, with power of Catuvelaunians,
Was, from Caer Verulam, yester, issued forth,
With rushing chariots, royal Togodumnos.

Kevin and Iddon, with Caratacus;
(Returned now home, from Roman embassage,)
Enter before the king, that, on his bed,
On pillows, sits upstayed. The sire, they greet;
And, kneeling, kissed his father, Caradoc.
Then they rehearse, at large, their ill success;
And namely that proud answer of the Senate!

And, after this, restores Caratacus
His signet royal, unto king Cunobelin;
And shows, with troubled voice, Adminius' death.
This Tuscan urn, which halting Kevin bears,

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Under his cloak, his cinders doth enclose.
Lo, wounden, on the lid, his tawny locks,
Cut-off, in Rome. The warlike, agéd, sire,
Moaned, at that sight; and, trembling, on his bed,
Fell back, dismayed. Was longtime Red Adminius,
His only son; for Guenthia, royal spouse,
Was barren certain years. Recovering breath,
The sire him bowed, those yore-loved yellow locks,
As, yet, sheen head were of his little son!
Once more, to kiss. Sate up then king Cunobelin,
And, in his palsied hands, that urn receiving,
Pronounced, devout, the lord of royal Verulam,
(To witness, called his Catuvelaunian gods!)
A father's last forgiveness of all wrongs.

He sent, then, for chief Catuvelaunian druid,
Mempricios; who, come in, before Cunobelin,
Clad in blue amice, like the Summer heaven;
With groans, the king commands him sacrifice,
At morrow's eve, for dead Adminius,
Swart beves, one for each year of his son's age;
And be there, supplication, in Ver's mead;
Where all should eat, to memory of the dead.

Companions of Cunobelin, in old wars,
Of Catuvelaunians, with their neighbour tribes,
Then commune, with the king, Kevin and Iddon.

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They tell; how, longtime sojourning, in great Roma,
They might not come, to Cæsar's audience.
Last menaced them the consuls; and their threat
Is, Rome will send her legions into Britain!

And how much sickness was, in Rome; in days,
When they arrived, of the hot summer star:
And taken, with a fever, was Adminius.
And, in what night he passed; they, nigh his house,
Heard sounding women's cries, in a dim street,
In Britons' tongue: whither, they, running, found,
Women, of their own speech; that wept, beset,
Of Roman young men, in their wantonness.
And how them Caradoc succoured; whose strong hand
Slew one or twain, to ground; wherefore denounced
The consuls, they should part, anon, from Rome.

And, newly, was come forth, from Cæsar's palace,
That noble Briton virgin, which was saved.
And how she washed and salved, they tell, and bound,
Prince Caradoc's wound. Moreover they record
Words of Adminius, how, that dying son,
Message of peace, to king Cunobelin,
His father, sent. They, also, Dumnoveros,
Found, well affectioned, towards this royal house.

But, when were those went forth; speaks Caradoc,

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Privily, in his father's ear, of Dumnoveros:
Was, Dumnoveros, with them in their voyage;
And how his daughter is that noble maid.
And of the dear accord made, twixt them both.
And how his soul loves Embla, above all being.

And, still, made Caradoc semblant, as that were,
Those lingered yet in Gaul. Cease Caradoc's lips
Then speak; for yearns, within him, brother's heart,
Speed, with armed band, and war-team and scythechariot,
To field, anon; in aid of Togodumnos!

But comes, with rushing steeds, lo, early, at morrow,
That prince again; in their sire's bronze-axed scythecart.
Follow his army, afoot, more slowly on.
Hath, noble bard, (Cunobelin's guest,) Carvilios,
Riding, from tribe to tribe, twixt hostile camps,
Prevailed, with Briton lords, for Britain's peace:
All, now, shall turn their hostile arms, gainst Rome.
Omens announce nigh coming of the legions.

How joys each prince, then, see his brother's face!
Caradoc sith Togodumnos draws apart;
To tell him his heart's hope. The elder went
In, to their father, prays, even for his sake,
Restore the Cantion isles to Dumnoveros.

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And well it were, all breaches to be healed,
Amongst the tribes, ere coming of Rome's legions.
Should not strong aid send well-affectioned Kent,
Of thousand matchless scythe-wheel chariots?

The like, Gaul's noble bard persuades, Carvilios;
With words, which on his tongue, inspire the gods.
Cunobelin grants, that would, before his death,
See stablished, his loved son, Caratacus:
Alwere, is, from old days, in his heart, left,
A little wrath, gainst Cantion Dumnoveros!

Bring-in then the king's sons, as newly arrived
Wayfaring guests, that king and royal maid.
That those are noble, under simple weed,
Their very countenance showeth. Before Cunobelin,
Father of her loved prince, Caratacus,
Lo, Embla kneels, those kingly hands, to kiss.
But that stern lord, when he beheld her face,
So like the hew of Guenthia, his spouse-love,
Deceased; and whose chaste womb did bear his sons,
Loved Caradoc, and, ere, martial Togodumnos;
Being inly moved, covered with his two palms,
Awhile, his brows! then, stooping, kissed her cheeks.
He greets, sith, Trinobantine Dumnoveros;
Whose long constraint, even in his enemy's court,

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Now ended is. Ends sadness in all hearts;
And each looks, gladly, upon the other's face!

Come the twelfth night of the new moon, from this,
In Catuvelaunian royal Verulamion;
Prince Caradoc, son of great Cunobelin,
And Embla of Dumnoveros were made one;
With gladness of all hearts and bridal feast:
And all the people, dancing in her streets,
Whose brows, with guirlands deckt, them loudly bless.
Pomp of his men-of-war, leads Togodumnos,
With blowing joyful trumps and martial shows.
The warlike bard of Gaul, Carvilios, chants,
His forehead crowned with holy misselden,
Whose leaves, (the old king's gift,) of beaten gold,
The berries are fair pearls of Island Britain;
(Gracing their bridal, sleeps his sterner note,)
Lays of sweet love, to-night, in the king's hall.
And seemed his words, (heard mongst cups of sweet mead;)
That fall, on listful ears, a chain of gold.

But danger instant of the Roman arms,
Cunobelin, Lord of Britain, in swift chariots,
His heralds sends, to all kings of South Britons;
Bidding, to temple of the hanging-stones,

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That stands, midst Belin's plain, lord of the Sun,
To sacrifice and common parliament.

In Cassiobellan's Verulam, after this,
Was grievous sickness; and soon sore increased.
Then heard oft funeral wailing, in her streets:
Dies flower of valiant youth, were like have done
Proud deeds, in war with Rome. That ill on prince,
Now heavy lies, beloved Caratacus;
(Druids it ween, infection brought from Rome;
Derne whisper runs, in Red Adminius' locks!)
By him, the beauty of Embla wakes and weeps;
And watches, with her, martial Togodumnos.
Then made Cunobelin solemn sacrifice,
For his loved son; and Caradoc revives.

But come day, when Cunobelin, lord of Britons,
Established had, to set forth, from Caer Verulam;
In wicker litter, is the sire, infirm,
Borne, on men's shoulders, towards the sacred plain;
With a great pomp of chariots, slow, ensuing;
Wherein ride lords, chief magistrates and high druids.
They journey: and his shield-bearer the king's arms,
And dragon-targe, lo, in the royal scythe-cart,
Upholds. They lodge, next eve, nigh where fenced dune,

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Calleva, on yonder woody hill, is seen,
City of the Guledig, swart Segontorix;
Who, mongst all Belges' kings, most war-renowned,
Which nephews are, to antique Commius.
Rides forth, salute them, king Segontorix,
And sheep he sends, to the king's camp and beves;
And mead and bread: for, midst his sacred voyage,
Cunobelin were not lawful, lodge in walls.

Thence marched; they, three days, journey and now approach,
In that wide plain, to precinct of the sun,
Where great choired temple of the hanging-stones;
Which, fame is, giants had poised to the day's god;
Mongst grave-hills, where dead nations lie around.
They find Duneda, and lords of the West tribes,
Already arrived; with whom much people and druids
Assembled: mongst whom, on tall Gaulish steed,
Carvilios sits. To him, with listful ears,
All throng. He cunning hand, to dreaming crowth,
Applies; and lifts, to heaven, great clarion-voice.

From throng to throng, Gaul's noble vates chants,
And Britons follow him, from how to how,
Like sheep-flocks. He them coming of Rome's legions,
Foreshows: and how more in malicious arts,

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Than manly valiance, lies proud Romans' force;
Men hewed like thralls. Plate-clad, the legionaries
Sally, stand fast, keeping, aye, even ranks;
At one man's word; or launch forth sleet of darts:
Whose hauberks bronze, and sallets on their heads;
That Gaulish glaive and spear, might hardly pierce,
Nor their thick battle-ranks, the scattered brunt
May break, of naked warriors, though more valorous.

At morrow, arrived Armoric Divicos,
One who is called a king of Summer ships.
Pirates, those wont reave, on some Roman coast,
Steeds; whereon mounting-forth, they harry and burn.
His winter wonne is with free kings of Almaigne,
Beyond the flood of Rhine. Five captains, Divicos,
(This Gaul,) hath slain, with his right hand, of Rome;
Not without scars seen on his hardy face.

Being lately, in stress of storm, come Divicos in,
With ships, to a South haven, in Island Britain,
He heard; how parliament, warlord king Cunobelin,

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Had called, of all South tribes, in Belin's plain:
Whose lords convene there, to consult, with him;
And that, concerning Rome's invading threat.
With guides, rode Divicos, thither, then; and leads
Twelve bounden captives, that were Roman soldiers,
Taken in a longship, with their arms and harness.

On startling Gaulish steed, borne in his vessel,
Stern Divicos rides. Before the temple-gates,
He, lighting, joins hands with the Briton kings.
Hang, griesly, at Divicos' saddle-bow, five polls,
Namely of those captains he had slain of Romans;
Pitched visages, that have silver scales, for eyes;
And on whose grinning teeth, spread leaf of gold.
Stern Divicos mounts, again; and all men marvelling,
He a green mound ascends. Thence, with main voice,
That seemed of battle-trumpet's throat, he cries;
Britons, when I behold your warlike face,
Methinks, ye should, full well, contend with Romans!

Probably Silchester.

Was Divicos of Armoric royal house:
But fallen in an outlawry, his lordship lost,
Captain of desperate men, he dwelled in woods;
Till day, his wife and child, by some of his,
For numbered silver, were betrayed to Romans.

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He hardly himself pursued, by marsh and heath,
Had 'scaped, by only fleetness of his horse.

Bethought him Divicos, then, take some chief Roman;
Whose life should ransom home his wife and son.
But, with forged words, came certain messengers,
To him, as from the Roman magistrate,
Granting, laid down his arms, he should have peace.
Let him come in; and on Mars' altars, swear
Fealty to Rome, and promise to pay tribute.
But an eavesdropper of the Romans' talk,
Old client of his house, warned Divicos,
Of their intent, him secretly to slay.

By covert night, he went to soldiers' camp,
With one young warrior, kinsman of his wife,
And bearing, neath their mantles, secret glaives.
They then, the wall o'erleapt, surprise and slay
The Roman watch; without or noise or ruth!
And, sith, he finds her, which was his loved wife.
But, ah, with deadness, now, she him receives!
Tears hang, in her pure eyes, as icicles.
Is empty of joy, her faithful breast, henceforth.
She, with a whispered wailing, him reveals,
The rapine of her beauty. Their young son,
Wrestling to save her, Romans' thrice-cursed captain,

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Caused, to be scourged with rods. The noble child,
Yester, in anguish of his soul, is dead.
Low, in dark prison-vault, he murdered lies.

The ravisher's pavilion, her white hand,
Sad, shows, from thence unfar, in clear moonlight.
Then, thrice, she adjures him, by Gauls' deathless gods!
Draw now his glaive, and slay her wrongéd flesh,
Were but in reverence of her father's house;
Whence was she, issued to him, a clean maid.
Ah, when in greenwood and uncertain place,
They dwelled together, more that goodly child
Was, to them both, than land and lordship lost.

How, sleep the gods! Why heard they not the voice,
Of that true wife? Creeps nightmare, in his blood!
Sudden, snatcht her white hand skean of his glaive;
She, ah, smote herself, riving her constant breast!
So whispered, faint; I, once more, may thee kiss!

He turned; and, groaning, pluckt the crude steel forth!
He lulled the dying, in his arms, and oft
Vowed Divicos last destruction of proud Romans.
He, as beside his mind, kissed her pale lips:
He kissed a corse; for she is, now, a corse!

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Then, as one mad, laid from him her warm flesh,
He, with his mantle, covered his dead spouse.
So went forth, with fell heart, stout Divicos.

Lynx-like creeps he: the lecher's curtain draws!
On purple sleeps, lo, Rome's foul magistrate!
By whom, is dead and outraged his loved wife;
His crime hath made them, ever, childless both!
Dim burns Etruscan lamp. Him seems, in dream
Of lust, this lies, and wine. Him Divicos caught,
By the throat-bole, anon; and slew with knife,
Whereby his innocent died, that impious!
And sunk, to hell, his ever-damned ghost.

Hackt the tent's cords, they course through Romans' camp;
Firing, with embers of his smouldering hearth,
Then, halm-thatcht cabans of, now slumbering, soldiers.
Returned, soon, with new thought, sad Divicos,
He took, upon his shoulders, his wife's corse.
And that young warrior, made, of Roman targe,
Breastwork; before him, goeth, with long drawn glaive.
So, ere yet day, they wan forth, to green wood.
There, Divicos, mourning, digged his dead wife's grave;
Whence, parting, he passed Rhine, to freeborn Almains.

To hear that noble Gaul, flock press of Britons.

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He cries then, Brothers, of this soil of Brennus!
Swear, by yond august temple of the Sun,
This foster-soil, which gave your sires Gaul's gods,
Defend, from the base servitude to Romans!

When ye, in Britain, have repulsed Rome's legions;
Your, brethren, in Main Gaul, will slay all Romans.
Then warlike nations, that beyond Rhine dwell,
Shall risen with us, in arms, send their young swarms.

Divicos looked forth! and a foreseeing spirit,
(Which shines, oftwhiles, in men's eyes toward their deaths;)
Him shows! and Divicos spake, with hollow voice;
How main and island Gauls' new mingled armies,
Leading them Brennid dukes, like the war-gods;
And, with them, Heremod's Almains, mighty Alps,
Should pass, again, to purge the world of Rome!
From fields, beyond, their scornful tread should march;
Fields where lie legions, by them, battle-slain.

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In pledge whereof, men of this soil of Brennus,
Trample now underfoot, these jowls of Romans.

He said; and, with loud battle-cry; he hurled
Them, from his saddle-bow, down-forth! on green grass:
Which Britons, with loud mocking chant, receiving,
Spurn with swift feet, thick reeling multitude!

But he, on whom come fury of Gauls' war-gods,
The scaly bronze pluckt, from his hardy breast,
Whereas shine glorious scars, as one possessed,
Now direful, looks, with eyeballs staring, strange:
Hark, then, with swelling voice, he vows his blood!
To Island Britain's high safe-guarding gods:
With prayer, they smite thus Roman enemies!
This said, drawn Divicos skean of his broad glaive,
(Shines in the sun!) he it thrust, ah, in his bowels.
And fell that hero, from his tall horse, forth.
He wallows, dying, on the trampled grass;
To green mound's foot! so gave, with groan, the ghost.
Gaze-on, fast thronging Britons, all amazed!

Come eve, they, three times, march, round his cold corse;
Which priests, then, helmed and hauberked, as he is,
Bury, in what place he fell, unwashed the blood;

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For sacred is his body: and the sun's druids,
Did, sithence, loose forth Divicos' tall war-steed,
To pasture, aye, in precinct of the god.

But what shall be of his twelve captive Romans?
Is sentence of Cunobelin, They contend,
Shall, with like number of lot-chosen Britons.
Whereby might them foreshow sky-dwelling gods,
The fortune of the war, toward, with Romans.
Next noon, proclaimed, with great voice, a king's-herald;
Whoso would him adventure, gainst those Romans,
In battle, to contend, before the gods,
To death; that, from his kindred, he stand forth!

Lo, an hundred then advance them, in the plain!
Young men, of stature, with their arms. Lead druids,
Before the people, one Erm in, by the hand;
Whose eyeballs seared had lightning's sacred flame:
Howbeit, wont, with oft visions, his dim being
Illumine Belin; and here, daily, he hath
His sustenance, with the priests of the sun-god.
That purblind dreamed, this night-time; Must last ruin
Begin, even at his hands, of all blue Britons!
Wherefore, whilst dark, to sense of other wights;

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He stole him forth; and groped to priests' grave-place,
League's way, in the wide plain. There, laid him down,
He prayed that god, to take his weary life.
But, at his druid's word, hath sent Cunobelin;
And Erm was fetched, again, in the king's chariot.

Oft as this, (who goes knocking, with his staff,)
Then stays: he it, raught forth; to some young man, toucht!
And should, mongst these, be cast the battle-lots.
Helm-clad, the captives shall, as legionaries,
And harnessed, fight; bearing their Roman arms.

Declining, now, the sun, to afternoon;
Before the tribes, which sit on the green mounds,
Six Romans, lo, opposed to six tall Britons!
Each Briton armed, in guise of his own tribe.
Lifting their eyes, towards Belin and the gods,
Loud pray the island people, with one voice,
Give victory, unto their young men warriors! Heralds
First blowing horns of bronze, of a grave note,
Proclaim, aloud, Cunobelin's ordinance.

Being measured lists, with line and hazel-rods,
Cunobelin gave the sign. Then, of both parts,
Outleap those champions, to the battle-dance:
Britons and Romans, shouting, each, their gods!

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Lo, under Briton's glaive, first, falls some Roman.
Is pierced a Briton, then, of Roman javelin;
He, dying, on his knees, stays on his hand.
Yet falls a Roman. Failed, then, Britons' hearts;
For he, who foremost of the island part,
Grief of all eyes, is smitten down, to death!
As numbed, they wait, on judgment of their gods.

Druids some signs, in this, of birds, beholding,
Speak to Cunobelin. Pious the Land's Ward,
Beckons, with his high hand! His heralds, then,
Their sceptres interposing, part the champions.
Those, leaning on their weapons, blow and sweat!
But when, not lawful were, read Belin's druids,
Renew the battle, in a dying sun;
Chanting loud funeral lays, from the green mounds;
In worship of their dead, the folk descended.

Dawing new morn, on plain of the day's god,
Measure new lists the heralds, oak-leaf crowned,
And that, by new-made grave of Gaulish Divicos.
Nine young men stand, lo, Britons of stout looks,
Gainst nine that rest of Roman harnessed soldiers.
Then silence made; warlord Cunobelin,
Through his interpreter, (an exile from Gaul,)
Those Romans bade, require what grace they will,

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Towards their deaths. Promised the sire, moreover,
Who should 'scape with his life, might freely pass
O'er, to the Continent, in some Gaulish ship,
With safeguard and with gifts. Naught, of their enemies,
Ask Roman soldiers; but it were, to taste
Some little meat. Eating, each exhorts other;
Quit them like Romans! One, who best could speak,
Quoth, Fear we not this nation's barbare face;
Nor the dread shout of hostile multitude.
Bellona and mighty Mars, guardians of Rome,
And divine Julius; (if to any gods,
May come our prayer, from this far island coast,)
Favour our arms. In vertue and martial skill,
We our foes, and Roman fortitude, excell.
Fellows, though few, yet enranged, foot to foot,
And helm to helm, with shout, first rushing on,
Hurl we our darts: then, take we to our glaives.

Lo, long-haired, naked striplings, without harness!
That, woad-stained now shall fight, gainst plate-clad soldiers:
As poplars should contend, with stedfast oaks.

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Britons, above, sit on the green grave-mounds,
In rows, around. Cunobelin gave, then, sign,
Smiting his hands, together! On both parts,
Who fight, with dreadful counter-yells, outrush!

Those, which in ordinance are of legionaries,
Erst thrill, with darts, the Britons' bulls'-hide shields,
Distempered of the rain. Ah, fallen four Britons!
There fall three, with them, slain, of plate-clad Romans!
And leans one on his targe, is hurt to death.
Lifted, lo, hand, to slay him, with broad glaive!

But, in that moment, (a vast thunder roars!)
Sky-rending Taran, then, a quivering lightning,
Athwart men's eyelids, darted to the ground.
At druids' new cry, his royal hand, uplifted
The white-locked sire. Their sceptre-rods cast heralds,
As yester, then, betwixt that strife of champions.
Quoth Belin's priest, That god, whose glaive the lightning,
Is angry in heaven; and wills this battle cease.
On him, who reels, of Romans, with death's wound,
(As sacred to the gods of underworld,)
A mad priest seizing, slays, with altar-knife.
Druids make divination, by his fall!

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Priests bury, where they fell, the Romans slain,
Laid, on their breasts, great stones; lest they should rise,
To trouble Britain. Lay, in chambered mound,
A mourning people, without wailing cries,
(Old royal tomb,) their woad-stained glorious dead.

Wreathed collars gives Cunobelin, of red gold,
To those five Briton champions, which survive:
Gives freedom, to that remnant of proud Romans;
Gold rings and money coined, wealth of Isle Britain.
And, for an angry nation them enclose;
(Till found were mean, to save them to mainland;)
The king, lest any slay them, gives them guard.

When now all kings, to morrow's sacrifice;
(Which daily is slain, at the great temple-stone,)
Are come; Cunobelin, that both sickness hath,
And heavy age; and may, no longer, bear
The sovereignty; his belt-of-strength deposed,
(That glittering girdle royal, of burned gold:
Which ensign is, since days of Cassiobellan,
Of who warlord, o'er all tribes of South Britain,)
In ancient Mogont's hands; priest, purple-stoled,
Midst choir of leaf-crowned druids, of the sun-god;
That, in his holy temple, dance and chant.

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Received it, reverent, goeth, lo, Mogont forth,
Before them all, with solemn dancing foot;
Through the great temple's midst, till come to place,
Where fire, (which fell from heaven; the sacred hearth,)
Burns. He, then, (three times, turned to West, from East,)
Lays, on sun's altar-stone, that golden belt!

Whose chariot-wheels shine, in this morning sun?
Caratacus; he, it is, so swiftly arrives!
Yet pale the prince, from sickness nigh to death.
With whom stands riding, in white glittering war-cart,
With antique targe, old Cantion Dumnoveros.
And when, at porch of Belin's mighty house,
Those light, all Britons, standing round, applaud!

Devout, then, in wheel-temple, of the sun,
All enter; where, when Dumnoveros hears,
(Who next, in Samoth's house is, to Cunobelin,)
In reverend age; how he, mongst kings, deposed
That golden belt, ensign of the Land's Ward;
He it shining lifts, and girds, with loud accord,
Of all their throats! the loins of Togodumnos.

And Togodumnos feels, in him, infused,
New strength and vertue of his saviour gods.
To heaven, shout Britons; when, with pomp of druids,

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Kings bring him forth, to morning parliament;
That shot-down sunny beam, from covert skies,
See rest, mongst lords and druids, on Togodumnos!

Was marked Segontorix wry away his face;
And how he paled, in temple of the god!
Being changed to gall, his ruddy countenance,
When girded lord-of-war was Togodumnos;
And he, with mantle, covered his stern face.
Nor went he, thence, among the kings, to sit;
But drew him to his tent, apart; where blaming
The heavens, that any were, before his worth,
Preferred, that lord did wallow on the grass.

There no man durst, then, to the Guledig, call;
Till his strong passion, for he noble was,
Towards eve, subdued; the Belges' sire uprose,
Did on his raiment royal, and went forth:
So came to that broad oak, whose leafy arms,
Shelter the kings, where they assembled sup.

All yield room, to this nephew of old Commius,
That he might sit down, in the highest place,
Twixt Togodumnos and Caratacus.
Sith, after supper, when is poured-out mead;
Lifting his right hand, he, with manly voice,
Sware fealty, unto new warlord Togodumnos.

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Failed the old sire, and fainted, in the night;
But he revived. Come morrow; king Cunobelin,
His servants, to the god's great temple's porch,
Bear, where, before South Britons, lords and druids,
Holds Togodumnos, morning parliament.

All hearken, the old king of warriors speaks!
Britons, Cunobelin, by his fathers' gods!
(Long warfare he foreshows, after his death,)
Exhorts to concord all, in war with Rome:
Else must, as parted streams, they lose their strength
He reads, (king most expert, in Britons' wars,)
Not fight with Romans, in an open field;
But rather waste, before their legions' march;
Them daily outwear, with ambushes, and cut-off
Their hindward, with oft onsets of swift chariots.
And be, (which from his fathers, he received,)
They ware to fight, when setting is day's sun;
Nor seek join battle, in a waning moon.
Let every night be full of new alarms!

Because might Britons' weapons, forged of bronze
Uneath the Romans' tempered hauberks pierce,
Counsels the sire, send, wide, for cunning smiths;
To beat, of tempered iron, glaives, heads of spears.

Then risen Duneda, (for his kingly looks,
Like some war-god,) mongst Britons' lords and druids;

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Reads, that, of gold and silver, were there made
Collection; namely, to hire wrights and smiths.
This said; he let fall his own royal weed,
On the green herb; and cast, in it, displayed,
Erst, Duffreynt's king, his red gold shining bracelets,
Like dragons long enrolled; and his broad brooch,
Like golden sun, within a silver wheel.

Lords, after him and kings, cast, with large hand,
Collars and bracelets, of burned gold, and rings.
Confer the warlike Britons, also, bronze,
And silver. Then, that war-gift take up druids;
And lay, lo, on the altar of their god.
Parted, at afternoon, the sire Cunobelin;
Whom all bring forth, to dry-hilled Sorbiodunum,
Then, kings and chief estates. Tarry yet Britons,
To make the Sun's great sacrifice of steeds.

Sarum.

The second day; was noised, in Belin's plain,
Deceased, in his home journey, king Cunobelin.
Died weary, in hís long wayfare, the hoar sire,
(To whom not given was, of his island-gods,
To lead blue Britons, in their Roman war!)
And lapped in hairy hide, of a black steer.

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(They sacrificed unto gods of underworld,)
His faithful servants now, to Verulam, bear;
With loud and long lament, the royal corse.
Return the royal sons, on fleetest steeds,
Caradoc and, king now, warlord Togodumnos.

But when that funeral pomp, to Verulam gates,
Arrives; forbid, were burned the warlord dead,
His people's druids: lest mount the sire's great spirit,
From earth, unmindful of invading legions!
They bury will Cunobelin, with his spear;
Seated on royal throne, in vaulted walls;
His swift team, by him, and a royal chariot.
Nor made should funeral games be, for Cunobelin,
Time of the Roman war: which ended, bards
With loud lays, should contend, to praise the sire.

Tombed the great warlord Catuvelaunian king,
Before the towered high gate of Verulamion,
Mongst concourse of South Britons' lords and druids;
Standing Cunobelin's sons, at the grave-mound,
Caradoc, and, (warlord,) martial Togodumnos;
Joined their right hands, the kingdom they divide,
Betwixt them, as disposed their sire, before;
Whereof bare record Verulam's chief estates.

Shall Togodumnos, rule, o'er Catuvelaunians;

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Whose city is this great Verulam, upon Ver,
The royal tribe. East from whose marches, gave
Old Trinobantine soil, with Camulodunum,
(The conquered march and dune of Eppilos,)
Cunobelin, to his son Caratacus.
Shall be that flood their border, which runs down,
To Thames, by London hythe. And heir is Embla,
Of Cantion, after Dumnoveros' death.
In the king's hall, all drink, then, funeral mead.

But come Duneda and kings, from the Sun's plain;
To Togodumnos, who now lord in Verulam:
Reads Duffreynt's king; were published that war-ban,
Which was in days of antique Cassiobellan;
Since must be, to the death, this war with Rome:
When war-flame, on the beacon hills, is seen,
Rise valiant youth! repair, with arms and victual,
Unto your commotes' lords. What man is, then,
Last to arrive, shall be an hilding named;
And may, before his people, be put to death!

These things determined, part Caratacus,
And gentle Embla; with great train and honour:
Albe, in mourning stole, for the king's death.
With pomp they ride of horse, and shining chariots,

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Two days, to city on Colne, of Camulus.
There they arriving, the town's magistrates,
And joyful citizens, greet them, at the gates;
Whence, twixt ranged throngs, they bring king Caradoc, forth,
To mead-hall; where prepared is royal feast.

King Caradoc finds, with much disorder, filled
His court, wherein dwelled, lately, Red Adminius:
And this last night-time, (an East wind them wafted,)
Fifteen long stranger war-keels were come in;
Are men of uncouth speech and battle-gods,
And Almaigne guise, who sail, upon their boards;
That warped, now, cold-beaked anchors, in this hythe!
And some on Woden, some on Thunor, call.
On their most shields, is pictured a white horse:
A raven is their ensign, in the wars.

The men are pirates, sailing in long keels,
With high-necked dragon stems and gilded ensigns;
Whose crated bulwarks, deckt, with hard bulls'-hide,
Are shingled all with shields. Their wadmel sails,
Loost-out, to dry, hang, flagging, in the wind.
In every nimble keel, sail fifty thanes;
And fifty strong boats'-carles row, on the banks;
That draw long sinewed oars of the light pine.

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And limned, with blue, each warrior's face is seen.
Some wear ring-kirtles, over long frieze coats;
And each one girds broad leathern belt, wherein
Shines skean or twibill. In the tawny locks,
Of many, (upbound for fence,) are broad iron rings.

Those boast them ploughmen, in their boisterous lays,
Of the sea's field; whose fallow long wave-rows,
Their balks and furlongs; wherein they, to Ran,
Wont tithing cast, of all their gotten preys;
Which they have ravished, on some enemy-coast:
Whence those, with braying song, of their rude throats,
Which seem contend with the hoarse tempest's voice,
Row forth, with speedy oars. If any pirate,
Break troth of his shiplord: in the next haven,
Bound to an anchor, men him warp from board!

Those, turned, (in far North Coast,) to creeky shores,
When the leaf falls, drawn-up their long row-ships;
Sit, in the lords' high halls, at winter hearths,
Drunken of ale; and chant their warlike gods.
Nor any are, in the world, than these, more valorous,
Found; that none other fine esteem of life,
Than, chosen of Woden, fall in furious fight.

Lords of those pirate keels go, proudly, afoot;
Leaning, in stranger land, on their war-spears:
As each soil were, like as sea-waves so wide,

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Their own, where they arrive. The great tower-gate
They entered, of this city of Camulus,
Come on, with people's concourse, to king's hall.
Men are they of violent looks, that only trust,
(Fearing none gods,) in their own arms and force!
These thrust on, mainly, unto higher place;
And, loud, for the sweet mead, gin call and ale;
And they, uneath, had hailed king Caradoc!
Who looks, on the strange warriors, from high stall.

Howbe, they, in Northman speech, in Caradoc's hall,
Each other greet; (as who reck smally of Britons!)
Saying, Cóme-hale, Sit-hale, on this bench or stool;
Drink-hale! This Woden's cup, for Victory;
The next to Niord, and Frey; for a good year:
For young men, which have, as the king commanded,
Set meat before them, bear now ale and mead.

Whiles those eat bread and chines of larded boar;
And drink out deep-mouthed horns of curmi and mead;
King Caradoc sent, for an interpreter.
But when that sea-folk have, at length, enough;
Upspake one of those warmen, of North Strand,
(Interpreting, now, some ship-swain of Manannan,)

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Which seems, by his bright arms and lofty looks,
Should be their king, (and Bloodaxe his bold name;)
What mean the lords of Bret-land, these last days;
Sending their message, by the Red-mare ship,
To call, from far East-Way, the pirates forth,
So hastily, in arms; as gainst some Romish fleet?
Shall Cæsar sail to Britain's rime-white cliffs!

Kings of Bret-land, in plough-time, have them called,
From far-off wicks, long have they rowed and sailed:
Whence their boat-carles, for certain weight of bronze,
Look; and their thanes require, for the king's sake.
Else his ship-folk, returning home, as scorned,
Might, on some Bret-land coast, light, with armed hand;
Which hurt were to the king! he quoth, whereat,
Laught, a loud laughter, their untuned hoarse throats!
Whose insolent eyes, seem Britons to devour,
Already! Wherefore Colne's stout citizens
Watch, day and night, with secret guard of spears,
To keep the river-gate, upon their walls.

Swells the great heart of noble Caradoc;
And hardly, his rising wrath, the king repressed,
With righteous thought, that sacred are all guests.
Cometh in then Embla: and the gentle queen,

155

Unto all commendeth patience, with sweet looks.
Sith, to each steersman, giveth, herself, the queen,
A piece of gold; whereon pourtrayed, is seen
The face and battle-chariot of Cunobelin.
Moreo'er, when such their custom and land's-wont,
She understood; twixt her two gracious palms,
She bears, lo, a mighty horn in Camulus' hall,
Of royal mead, to chief ones of the ships.

Queen Embla seemed then radiance of the sun!
The hearts relent, as wax, of those stout champions,
Beholding her, beneath their ringed-iron harness:
And falls, like o'erpassed storm, their truculent mood.
Who then is there, not sayeth, in secret breast,
Fair lady, all-hail! Though gnaws, for ire, his lips,
(Whose heart like spended bow,) Caratacus;
He gives an ox, out of the royal stalls,
Unto every keel, that might those, rowing forth,
To sea, make feast: and poise, to every rower,
Of bronze. To every lord of a longship,
A silver cup; and raiment for each wight.
The Almains drink then covenant, and depart;
Covenant, that they the narrow-seas should watch.

Yet heard is word, of other Almain ships;
Come likewise in, under the cold clay-cliffs,
By Branodunum, of Icenic coast.

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Lord, warden of that march, them, Hiradoc hath
Received. The strangers, drawn-up their long yawls;
In booths, nigh-hand, of boughs, lodge, on heath side.
And Hiradoc some to Verulam sends, in chariots;
To war-king, great Bretwalda, Togodumnos.

Mongst those, came renowned Thorolf, from Elbe's mouth,
Nephew of Arthemail, with his blue-winged ships;
Whose sire now rules, o'er mingled Ambones.
Come Chaucan, with him, and Cheruscan earls,
Of his great kindred, that descends from Brennus:
Each, with armed bands, in many long row-keels.
To Britain hath, outsailing, Thorolf sworn,
A Roman captain slay, on Brennus' tomb!

Nephew of Brennus, Thorolf is, in force,
As a wild bull. Might this, is told, a wain,
Pluck back gainst an ox-team. Wolf leapt on Thorolf,
In his first strength: but like hill-sheep, him caught,
The hero-child, by his long neck-hairs, and strangled!
A bear, another while, in swart pine forest,
Whose latticed boughs, all day, dim twilight made,
With Thorolf met; whence none returning was.
Bearing no weapon, he, with snatcht wild stone,
Choked the brute's gorge; that, erewhile, had slain men;

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And, on him, gaping, rose, with dreadful claws.
Nor yet were given, to Thorolf, manly arms.

What day his sire, king Wittig, armed his hands,
With spear and shield, before the folk, and bade
Do valiantly; Thorolf went out from the feast,
Him following all the men, of his young age:
And ere they again, at morrow's break, ate bread;
That ethling smote the pirates of the Elbe;
Which, longtime, had vext Wittig's warlike march.
And grows, each day, his heart, to emulate,
Of his great sires, the high heroic worth.
Lie stooping, on the wind, now nigh the land,
His thirteen keels: and well are they purveyed,
With men and corn. Who sit, within their boards,
Chant, as they sail, of Heremod and great Brennus!

Is also told, how, erewhile, Sœxmund named
Was Thorolf; till came Hild in, to Elbe-haven,
(Hild, Elsing;) and was Hild an ancient friend
Of Wittig's father, lord of East-sea ships.
Mishapped, fell, one day, Sœxmund yet a child,
Down in Elbe's tideway, from the stranger's poop,
Whereon he played. Was Hild's hand, Sœxmund snatcht;
Fast-swimming, (leapt after him, then,) from drowning death!

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Wherefore, lap-seated the saved royal babe;
Went in, sith, to king's hall; of Wittig, asked,
The Elsing, meed; that his saved little son;
He might again, as second father, name:
Which, to that shiplord, also, grateful, granted
The king and the child's mother. Hild, which hath
No son, after his sires, then, called the babe,
Thorolf; (which Thunor's wolf sounds to West Almains:)
That, by him, to a late world, their renown
Might come; and the wise Veleda had foretold,
Of glorious Woden-life, for Wittig's son!

Britain.

All Britons' ruler.

Dwelled, at king Wittig's court, had Gaulish Divicos;
Where came, from time to time, the bard Carvilios;
And Thorolf's high heart stirred, against the Romans.
Moreo'er, by high divining art of druids,
Forespake that bard, dark admirable things,
To the young prince; and more than all this was!
That, spirit divine of antique Heremod,
Should take, again, flesh, in great Brennus' house:
Whence his great mood, enflamed with godlike heat,
Is. Then, appeared, in Britain's isle, he hears,
New-bodied spirits of Belinus and great Brennus;

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(Belin in council, Brennus in proud arms!)
His father, Wittig, licensed him to sail;
In those self keels he, from the pirates, wan:
Which known, flockt flower of warlike youth, to Thorolf.

Fall their full sails, behold, now, in wide road:
They outwarp anchors. Thorolf, with few lords,
Descends in barge: so rows, to land of Brennus.
He leapt, in sounding arms, to shore; and stood,
Silent: and spread the ethling his armed hands,
To battle-gods, of Brennus, that burned Rome.
So marched he, to the gate of Branodunum;
And seemed himself an army. Of Hiradoc;
Who him beholds, with stupor, in his hall!
He asks a boon; him speed to Verulamion;
To his high kin, the sons of king Cunobelin.

Consents stout Hiradoc: and when his strange guests,
From overseas, have eaten, and drunk mead;
He, in scýthe-cart, lo, the young illustrious Almain
Conveys; and erst towards city of Camulus.
Standing, by Hiradoc, in the rushing chariot;
Who rules, with voice, and rein his teaméd steeds,
Cheruscan Thorolf passeth that tall Briton
In his heroic stature: from whose neck,
Hangs hammer, of fine gold, of Thunor god,

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O'ergraven with sacred runes. With strong war-steeds,
They come, the third day's eve, to Camulodunum.
With honour, him, Queen Embla, there, receives:
Of whom, they hear, returned, to Verulam;
(Where sit now Briton kings, in parliament;
Consulting, for the safety of the Isle;)
King Caradoc, unto warlord Togodumnos.
They mount anew. Then early, at second morrow,
At Verulam's royal court, those lords arrive.

Passed the dune-gates, duke Hiradoc draws, now, reins,
Before that great new mead-hall of Cunobelin.
Receives a royal hind their smoking steeds;
And leads to stall. They go in, by wide porch:
And hark! one toucht, midst a new silence made,
An harp's shrill strings. They hear a vates' voice:
The harp, the warlike voice of bard Carvilios!

They, next the doorway, stand; where noble Thorolf,
Unto a pillar leaned, gan much admire
The countenance of those germain kings, which sit,
In the high seat; young men, like to twin gods:
Aye, and some here sit, whom he had seen in Almaigne,
(With ship-king Divicos,) round these royal walls!
Nor, yet, heard Thorolf tell, of Divicos' death.

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That bard, now, turned, to mourning, his stern note;
Records dead Divicos, to the warlike Britons.
Then darkened is the Almaigne hero's mood;
For he, in part, perceives the Gaulish speech:
Nor marvels, gazing on their warlike looks,
In hall, assembled; that the arms of Brennus,
Had vanquished and burned Rome. Sit men, like kings,
On polisht stools, round these high timbered walls.

Whilst yet he muses, paused Carvilios.
Then made forth Thorolf, powdered as he was,
With dust of running wheels; and Hiradoc.
How turn, on him to gaze, the Britons' press!
Them seems, some war-god, entered, in man's guise.
Hail Hiradoc! quoth Cunobelin's royal sons.

And he; Illustrious Catuvelaunian kings,
Behold, renowned prince Thorolf, Wittig's son;
Who rules, o'er Ambones, beyond the Rhine.
He, nephew of Brennus, Fridia and Heremod,
Obedient to a dream, hath sailed to Britain;
To fight, with us, gainst Rome's invading legions:
And brings, in aid, two thousand Almain warriors.

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His long row-keels, ride under my dune cliff.
Answered Cunobelin's sons, In happy hour!
With theirs, sounds loud commingled, people's voice;
In great mead-hall of royal Verulamion!

Uprose those princes, germains, from high stall:
To him, descended; they take, both, his hands;
He kisseth them, both, on their two cheeks, again.
And they, with kiss, him lead, and kinsman name;
Among the kings, to sit, betwixt them both:
And he them asks, of brotherhood and bond;
As Heremod, yore, with Belinus and Brennus.
Sith Thorolf greets the bard Carvilios.

Whilst the tribes' kings prepare, in all South-march,
To warfare; tribes that dwell in far North Britain,
Heard tiding of great Rome's invading threat.
Mongst blue Brigantes, erst, then sire Volisios,
That coast's-ward, sending, by swift messengers, forth,
Green boughs, which druids have pluckt, in sacred groves,
Of holy oaks, assembles parliament,
Of neighbour lords; to treat, concerning aid,
Which they Cunobelin, warlord of South Britain,
Mote send; for, not yet, heard they the sire's death.

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Princes of warlike tribes sit with Volisios,
In hallowed plot, ringed round, of great pight stones;
To choose, among them, one, by sacred lot,
To captain their great warfare, from the North.
Behold this lot is fallen, on king Velaunos,
Of Coritavian nation. In his name,
Swear then all kings, chief magistrates and high druids.

Carvilios, fared from royal Verulamion,
With steeds and war-cart, gift of dead Cunobelin;
(Whom follow noble youth and bards, in chariots,)
From dune to dune, in halls of princes chants;
Calling the island nations, rise, in arms!
But, sith, he hastily is went, unto North parts.

Behold Carvilios, under a green hill,
His bridle draws; where, now, tall long-haired lords,
Kings of the North, consult, in parliament.
The bard approached, to length of a stonecast,
On shining war-wheels, touched then Gaulish harp,
That hangs down from his nape, by silver lace;
Whose shrill wires, like to sharp shafts, pierce men's hearts:
Whereafter he, his far-resounding voice,
(Which bellows-back, from cliffs, above!) sent forth.

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Fight, Britain's sons, which burned great Rome, with Brennus,
Not loosely arrayed! Is not, of one small stone,
Scattered much sand? of many wolves, is rent;
When have those knit together their small force,
The great ureox, which mightiest of all beasts.
When ye march armed, go up, with shielded breasts,
To battle; having, only, fear, towards death,
Not, by proud deeds, to merit a new life!
This said, drave forth that vates, in shrill chariot;
He would not dwell, what though all cry, Carvilios!
For straitened, in this journey, is his breast
To come to Mona's holy oracle.

In Mona arrived, the noble bard all gifts
Uphangs, which he received, in the god's porch;
His arms, also, and gold-bright Gaulish harness.
Purged then, with certain herbs, Carvilios sleeps,
Upon the splayed hide of his sacrifice;
One of those steeds, he vowed, which drew his chariot.
That night he sees, in dream, strange images,
Of diverse beasts, which drive, tumultuous,

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In the sea-flood, to sweet sound of his harp,
From far West part, whereo'er lies land of Erinn.

His dream interpret thus, divining druids;
After the several names, of birds and beasts;
Be those Cruithni, pictured tribes of Erinn.
But when Carvilios set his face, to pass,
The gulf, they warn his hardy enterprise;
Painting the salvage customs of the isle,
And sudden tempests of Vergivian seas!

Fame is, that mothers wont, their babes, in Erinn,
To feed, of spear-point, which hath slain a man.
Warriors, in battle, lap their enemies' gore.
Nor those know use of bread, nor to sow grain:
Wild worts are their most sustenance and raw flesh.
And such should hap, find strangers, on their coast,
Cast, shipwrecked; unto Cromm, (black idol-stone,)
Their custom is, them bind, for sacrifice,
To die, when the day's god! But, all that sun,
Their children shoot, at them, with shafts and darts.
Yet, for all this, faints not Carvilios' heart,
In his stern breast; but, at the vates' word,
Weaving frail wattles, his disciples made
A bark; and it o'erdight, with hides of steeds;
That to blue Noden, lord of this sea-deep,

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And Mona's god, Carvilios offered up.
And were those twain; for all the rest went back.

They put from shore; and loosing soon the land,
Did set, for sail, the bard's blue broidered weed,
With silver stars: and row their palms, for oars.
They meat, nor drink, bear, on this perilous voyage.
But magic hymn Carvilios loud intones,
To lay, to sleep, the spirits of all wild winds;
Save that from Britain's land, which softly blows.

On them, falls golden slumber, from the gods.
And were they three, which sleep, the little mast,
Around; whereon there hangs Carvilios' harp:
On whose shrill wires, low-warbeling, plays the wind.
And flocking sea-mews, with their hoar-blue wings,
Do waft the skiff; and guide their beaks to land.

And was the after-morrow of that day,
When they put forth, that, at Belinda's mouth,
Where stands Iberion's temple, giant son,
Of Belin sun-god, slide the ebbing waves,
Back, from their keel, which strands. But they, a-land;
Lifting, as from long dream, their heavy eyes,
Behold go sheep-flocks, trooping, on green bent;
And grassy hill, which people's multitude,
Stand round; as did those hear some dooms of druids.

They foot set forth, then, on those pebble brinks;

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And bear their bark, betwixt them, up, on strand:
But, in that, rise up, yelling, shock-haired wights,
Horrid of aspect; and that levelled spears,
Do gainst them shake, which in their violent hands.
And those are naked, save that iron hoops,
Their middles gird. They cry, with hideous throat,
Out on them; and whilst those, for dread, not speak,
With writhen withies, knit, behind their backs,
Their wrists; and gin towards that doom-hill, them hale!

Howbe, repressed, through reverence of his looks,
Like to one of the gods, they loosed Carvilios.
But he, despised their cries and salvage mood;
Took in his hand, that stilled their brutish minds,
His ivory harp of Gaul, of heavenly sound;
And to doom-seat, he leads them, himself, forth.
Where, lo, long yellow-haired, like flower of broom,
That people's king sits, upright, on wild stone;
Unto whose middle raught, (which girded is,
With sheen large hoop of gold,) his royal beard:
His cheek as any fox-glove red. Stand brehons
And lords, their kings around; and the land's druids.
Mongst whom, seen, women-brehons, in long stoles,
Of shining line; and with much yellow lawn,
Wounden their long hair-locks. A brehon-wife

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Quoth, Suppliants of the god, I see, approach!
And do thou them, I read, O king, none hurt.

Who bring the bards, rude keepers of that strand,
Spake, Lord, these strangers, in their little bark,
We found, now, yonder, tide-cast on your coast.
That king asks counsel of his priests; and, erst,
Of one Maelunni, (Servant-of-the-Bronze,
A glaive this nation worship, as a god:)
Wight strangely adorned. Like divinister, is
His chamfered forehead, with quaint humlocks, bound;
His collar, rings and bracelets be pierced stones;
And, from his iron belt, hang, lo, flint knife-stones.
And only is of the wildness of earth's ground,
This druid's meat, (suppled with flame, and seethed,
Somewhiles, with milk,) lean worts, of field and wood,
Morel, wake-robin, earth-nuts, digged by night;
Heath-berries, black and blue; in winter, mast
And acorns parched; and such like wretchedness,
Wherein scant nourishment. But burns, in his breast,
An high discerning spirit of Erinn's gods.

Quoth Maelunni, Come these men, gods' guests;
We may them do none hurt. Then Palador spake,

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For thus the king, king of Ivernis old,
Is named. Them loose! For theirs, if any smite
Them, be his life. But thou, which seemest some bard,
And bearest so constant noble countenance,
Thy kindred read; and wherefore thy frail voyage:
But look, and thou not lie before the gods.
Thus spake the king, and called to him up one,
Can Britons' speech declare, and the Gauls' tongue.

Answered, with melody of the bards, Carvilios;
And sware, by Palador the king's high right hand,
And by the Dagda, that they, suppliants, sailed,
To this, Sun's, isle, from Mona's sacred shore.
So took his harp, with ivory of the whale's tooth,
Inlaid: and quoth Carvilios, how, from Gaul,
Beyond the Ictian sea, he fared to Britain;
Calling all kings, to venge him of strange nation;
Men name them Romans, which the world oppress.
Those entered Gaul, with armies, there, have slain
The people; and seized the land their heritage.

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And those prepare them, soon, to invade Britain;
Which won, their bridge should be to enter Erinn;
That Romans name the Less or Second Britain.
So ceased his chant; and troubled was their mood.

Sith, in dark speech, Carvilios hymn unfolds,
Of the day-god, known only to few druids:
How, sprung of womb of the Eternal Night;
Whence, daily, he, highest new-born god, upmounts,
Shaking his amber locks, and breathes sweet breath,
O'er plains of the low world. The virgin hours,
Before him, tracing, on their silver feet,
Open wide gates of heaven, where he doth pass.
In their cloud-chariots, wont, against him, ride,
Then envious spirits of the misty murk.
But when, from his hot looks, those flee dispersed,
Rejoice again, all dwellers in the earth.
On heaven's steep hill, ascends the glorious path,

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Of Belin's steeds. High-riding, the sun-god,
The sounds, melodious, falling from his harp,
Recomfort the two worlds, of men and gods.

O'er heaven's wide-shining bent, thou, all day, speedest,
On fiery wheels, drawn of immortal steeds.
And we, Lord, on thee, call, before all gods,
A lord of flocks; and not to sere our grass.
To midday, come, we pray thee ripe our corn.
And when clothed, angry, in thy purple weed,
Thou battle join'st with the dark welken powers,
Give rain: but us defend, with thy vast targe,
From hail. Come, to the dim world's vaulted brinks,
Where water thy tired steeds, sink thy bright wheels,
Below earth's round, and compass of sea billows:
And seemest thou, then, to die into the night;
Who, daily-born, art eldest of the gods!
But we, on whom, lies spread night's misty murk,
As thou wert dead, then wait, lord, with cold hearts,

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And magic chant, beside thine altar-hearths,
Neath stars, thy new uprising, from the East.

Priests of the Sun, from the doom-hill, descended,
With Maelunni; and they, embrace the man,
And lead to Palador: and caused Palador, king,
That bard of Gaul to sit, at his right hand!
And Palador sent out young men, to his folds,
Among the hills, and to his royal bawns;
With charge, (for ransom of these strangers' blood,)
Drive hither, a white bull; and two young rams,
Which should his fellows, also, loose from death.
And turned those victims' heads, on the left hand,
Towards setting sun; when the day's sacred light
Decays, they shall, to Eserg, sacrifice.

Then uprose Palador; and from that green hill,
Descended, calls those bards: who now towards
Ivernis old, nigh-builded in green plain,
Their way gan hold. Is that the royal rath,
Fenced with paled banks and dyke; and there-amidst,
Wide mound, whereon stands builded the lord's house.
Follow loud throngs, with them, king Palador forth.

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The weary strangers eat, at eve, roast flesh,
In the king's hall: but eat the men of Erinn,
The raw, after their guise, and without bread.
Druids, which in the bowels of sacrifices,
Have looked, Carvilios, then, with oak-leaves, crowned.
Took Palador the wreathed gold, from off his neck,
Made, like to serpent, with her little ones;
And decks that vates, who the battle rage,
Chants, after the meat-space. He, sith, appoints,
Noble young men, convey this stranger bard,
Unto all princes' courts, in wide Isle Erinn.

Bawn, Ir. babhun, a cattle-pen.

A god of slaughter.

Lord's fortified dwelling.

At tiding of the death of king Cunobelin,
The sire Manannan was repaired to Britain,
Man half-divine; and whom, had lent the gods,
Unto the world. Dim Mona, of sire Manannan,
Is foster-soil; but now his wont is dwell,
In winter season, at Caer Verulam,
With king Cunobelin, called the Sire of Britain.
There stands, at ford of Ver, by the wayside,
Timbered of lime and stone, his goodly house,
Great-built, as a king's court; for the receipt
Of poor and strangers: and therein he hath,
Uphanged, his golden hauberk, far-renowned;
That tooth of bronze, nor bit of steel, may pierce.

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Master of traffic, was his honoured place,
In the king's hall, next to Cunobelin's seat.
And asked the king, in every cause of weight,
His sentence, first, were it of war or peace,
Before the princes of his royal house:
And reverence him all Britons, as a god.
Grey are his eyes, like the steep winter waves,
And like the snow, on Eryr's top, his hairs.
And whilst, the island kings his read observe,
O'er Britons, may prevail none enemies.

His thought, like Belin's wheel, runs through the world.
Far marts he knows and paths, of merchandise,
In many realms; and nations' tongues and laws;
And reason of men's hearts, hope, truth and malice;
And his sea-way, to steer, by the lode-stars.
And in the heavens' vicissitudes, if the sire,
Fell in some peril, or of thieves or robbers,
His wisdom him delivered, with small loss.

To nations, was Manannan wont to trade,
Far off, whose name comes seldom to men's ears;
To inhuman seats of Scythia, the cold,
Wain-dwellers, and milk-nourished of their mares;
Where twilight all by day: and to a Land

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Of women-warriors, drawing crooked bows.
And reached, by sea, he was, to strange Phœnice,
(Cities, mongst palms, which stand, on furthest shore,
Full of their ships, of that blue Midland Deep;)
For merchandise of purple cloth and glass.
So had Manannan gotten substance, more
Than the most kings; which now, with both his hands,
He enlarges, to this people, as his heirs;
For hath the sire, and he is old, no sons.
His long-keel, wide-renowned, is the Red-Mare,
Swift as grey running wave, in the North wind;
Whose flight might match a chariot's course, in shore.
This then, with his bond-servants, he outsends;
To gather tidings, by the windy seas.

The same as Sax. Snowdon.

P. 154.

Kings, now, in all South Britain, prepare war.
The glades reek, in fair Kent, of Andred Forest;
Whose broad shaws sound, with travaillous multitude,
Hewers of oaks. Many, in dripping delves,
Burrow, and see no sun. Are burners, some,
Of coal; some couch crude ores, of iron, with lime.

And there, on hundred stithies, loudly beat,

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By soughing bellows, many famous smiths.
They weld red-hot iron bars, they turn with tongs;
And smite, again! with valiant cunning hands.
Blades of blue steel they labour, long broad-swords,
And cast, in water-troughs, out, heads of spears.
And oft those call on Brigit! whilst they sweat.

Warlord of Britain, royal Togodumnos,
Now, to all neighbour kings and chief estates,
His message sends, by prince Caratacus:
With whom there pomp shall ride, of shining chariots,
And heralds; and the word-wise sire Manannan,
In whose breast breathed is wisdom of a god;
And to whom are men affied, in every coast.
He, with the prince, stands, lo, in royal chariot,
Bearing bright ivory whip, when they drive forth.

Where then, they come, to hall of any lord;
And Caradoc hath said forth, the sire persuades;
Proffering wise word of reverend fatherhood.
These days, are silent all debate and strife,
Before that instant coming of the Romans!

They, erst, arrive in merchant Troynovant;
Where makes them feast the father of Marunus,
Cadern, o'er warlike wights, who palsied rules.
To Caer Calleva, of swart Segontorix,

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They, sith, arrive. Thence journeying, with fresh steeds;
They Caer Went left, on their nigh hand; that eve,
Lodge, in the Sun's great plain, at Sorbiodunum.

Through march, then, of sea-dwelling Durotriges,
They drave; and bridle draw, at Moridunion,
Old city at the sea-waves, of generous Golam;
And with him, three days, rest. Thence, they to Isca,
Ascend and tarry a se'nnight with Duneda.

Leaving Caer Isca; they, through wilds, on steeds,
Now ride; to visit far Belerion nation;
Whose hill-set dune, which sacred to the sun,
Stands walled of the sea-waves. Yet, at ebb tide,
They dry-foot pass. A people of strange speech;
And Decet is their warlike lord, who feast,
For Caradoc makes, and lords of Togodumnos.

Thence they, towards Dobuni, now, by Mendip, speed;
Whose kings, to Catuvelaunian royal house,
Are nigh of kin. Sith, streaming Hafren passed;
They, to that other Venta, of swart Silurians,
Come; where Moelmabon, Lord of Deheubarth,

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(Britons' West march,) with his five warlike sons,
They find, already, marshall thick caterfs.

Caradoc, there, waits king Idhig, seven days;
Who warlike rules, o'er neighbour Demetans:
And, each eve, for Cunobelin's son, makes feast,
One of the warlike sons of Moelmabon;
And all give ear, to wisdom of Manannan.

Seaton, in Dorsetshire.

Venta Silurum, (also called Caerwent,) beyond Severn.

Land of the right-hand part; now South Wales.

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BOOK XII THE ROMAN WAR IN BRITAIN

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ARGUMENT

Kings Idhig and Kynan, in the West; and Antethrigus, in the East marches, receive Caratacus: who, journeyed further, finds Thorolf, at Branodunum. Caratacus, returned home, repairs to Verulam.

Decreed is now, in Rome, the invasion of Isle Britain. Claudius, emperor, appoints Aulus Plautius his legate. Revolt of the Illyric legions. Claudius trembles in Rome. Sedition in the legions; which, (now in Gaul,) should pass over, to war in Britain. Aulus writes back letters to the emperor Claudius: which, received in Rome, Cæsar recites them in the Senate. Aulus withdraws, to winter camps, his seditious legions.

Springtime returns. When, then, the legions are led forth, the troubles of the former year revive. Aulus, with the chief captains, flee by night. Vespasian rides, to view the revolted legions. Certain soldiers, risen in the night-time, slay them which had been ringleaders, in their revolt: which thus is ended. Aulus punishes the cruel centurions. He commands then, to draw out the fleet; and stand ready, to embark the legions. Abaddon flieth to Island Britain. Returned, he blows new rage in the Roman castra. Narcissus arrives, from Claudius. Mockery of the soldiers; who now, tumultuously, ascend their ships.

The warlike tribes in Britain await the dread coming of invading legions. The island nations, seen war-flames kindled on all beacon-hills; rise that night. The Roman

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army at sea. Their seditious after-sailing squadron, rows to a nigh Briton shore. The former fleet, with the prætor, hath put in to a Belges' haven. Aulus sends back messengers to the rest, to join their camps with his. On the morrow, the again-ordered legions march upland, in Britain.

Caerwent. Aulus, in fenced castra, now waits the coming of Vespasian's legion. They, the ninth eve, arrive, from Gaul. Romans, marched forth, descry before them a great camp of blue Britons. Aulus' oration to his soldiers.

Battle joined; a mist descends upon the plain. The prætor blows repair. Valorous king Golam arrives, that night, with his Durotriges' warriors; and stout prince Morag, leading Dumnonians. The warlord's dream. Geta is marched forth, by night, with intent to fall upon the rearward of blue Britons. At day, Aulus joins battle. The warlord's foster-brethren fight, standing beside him, in the royal scythe-cart. Batavians assail the women's wains. Vigantios is first of blue Britons to yield ground to Romans. Women-warriors. The warlord's prayer, to his sun-god.

182

To Kynan also, king of Ordovices,
(Whose seats, most valiant nation of the hills,
Twixt the two Dees; which, from nigh sacred wells,
Flow down, with hasting foot, to opposed part;)
Called Hammer-axe, his word sent Caradoc;
Asking, at Uriconium, him to meet.

And, straight, that valiant king, by signal fires,
Answers in his high hills. The Demetans' king,
Eftsoon arrived: king Caradoc, sith, takes leave,
Of Moelmabon and his warlike sons.
Come the sixth eve, he lights at Uriconium.
There Hammer-axe, in giving faithful hands,
Sware to that new accord and common bond;
Which is of all South Briton kings, gainst Romans.

Last, after many days, return their chariots,
When ripe, already, stands the Britons' corn,

183

In wide Icenian fields. Stout Antethrigus
Sallies to meet them; (that chief magistrate,
Which expulsed Bericos; who, The-bane-of-Britain,
Hereafter named, dwells exile, now, in Rome.)
To Gunt, his city walled, that stands by Yare,
For potters' wares of name, mongst all East Britons,
He brings them forth, with pomp of battle-chariots.
There, two days, council holden is; and rest
Manannan, weary, and king Caratacus.

They speed, to Branodunum, sith, and Thorolf.
Come before Hiradoc's town, they view war-keels,
Riding at anchor, of that royal Almain;
Whose summer booths stand, yonder, on waste heath.
And there, behold, is Thorolf, fleet of foot;
Running, with champions, in a shining harness.
So swift, is told, the ethling, in first youth,
Was; that, both harts in hills of Wittig's march,
And hinds, he hent: and, (tamed by his great force;)
Them herded, like a flock! Strive with the strong,
Is the hero's wont: all martial exercises,
(His puissant limbs, to furbish, from loathed rust,)
He daily useth forth. Seen arrive strangers,
He, in míd-course, stays: lo, cometh, then, anon!

184

Holding in his high hand, (that he, for heat,
Hath doffed,) his glancing helm, with gilt boar-crest.
And to his shoulders large, raught, low adown;
That seemed, of ringed red gold, his royal locks.
His fierce eyes shine, like this steep summer heaven.

Now are the princes met, right hands they knit.
And when those young kings make exchange of arms,
Almains, beholding, in their war-camps, shout!
They cry out all impatient to warfield;
Because, already, Summer draws to end.
Ween their young hearts, leading these Brennid dukes,
As Balder fair, not able to withstand,
Were, the whole world, their spears' victorious force!

Now, after supper, mounts Caratacus,
With sire Manannan; and, with hasty steeds,
Towards Camulodunum, guides, in dim moonlight.
So his heart yearns, to look on the loved face,
Again, of Embla. In month, they parted forth,
Of cuckoo's voice; when, on the budded bough,
Hangs the new leaf; and, three times, kine to pail,
Go home, from the fresh mead; and, nightlong, chants,
Beside the Colne, the blissful nightingale.

How leaps the heart of noble Caradoc;

185

When he, now dawn, descries above the wood,
That tower of Camulus! Then, with whip, with voice,
Yet more the prince incites his flying steeds.
How pleasant is this heath, full of sweet bees;
Which gather honey, for the winter mead,
That source of strength, to kings and warriors:
(But, who shall taste it, wot the only gods!
For cometh dark homicide war, on the White Isle.)

Enters the city's gate, Cunobelin's son;
Under that sounding tower of Camulus.
Goes up, loud joyful crying, in the town!
Rattle, on the flint stones, his horses' hooves.
Rumble, bronze-shod, his wayworn nimble wheels.
All hail, with merry throat, Caratacus!
In that he, hastily, at his own royal court,
Arrives; from threshold issues of his house,
Clear as bright shepherd's star, the vertue and grace
Of Embla his spouse, with whom are magistrates;
For wends the queen, to visit round the walls.

Daughter of kings, she noble Britoness,
In absence of her lord, so doth, as hath
She seen in Rome. The rampire she from gate,
To gate, repaired; and gathers corn and arms.
And daily her citizens, she, with glaives and spears,

186

Leads forth, by Colne, to warlike exercises.
Tarries Caratacus, three days; sith, repairs
He, to Caer Verulam, with the sire Manannan:
Impatient give account, to Togodumnos,
How all South Britons' kings and magistrates,
Have, on the altars of their sacrifices,
Together sworn, gainst Rome's invading threat!
And laud all men the wisdom of Manannan.

Wroxeter.

Brancaster, in Norfolk.

Now was, in these same days, decreed, in Rome,
Those legions, which, in Gaul, already, serve;
Should pass the seas, to conquer a new world:
And namely Britain, which untouched, since Julius.
Impotent Claudius, gone forth, from the Senate;
One Aulus Plautius, well expert in arms,
Appoints his legate, for that war in Britain.

This year, in Gaul, is great munition made;
Are timbered ships, and, gathered corn; prepared,
Is every kind of warlike furniture.
But rumoured, sith, grave tidings were, in Rome.
Revolt from Cæsar his Illyric legions!
Then fear, in every place, dread in men's hearts.
Is Aulus, in the City, long detained;
Till draws this Summer season nigh to end.

And now approaching Autumn's stormy tide,

187

Levy the Almains camp, at Branodunum.
Last renowned Thorolf parts, with his war-keels.

Pass seven moons: then merchantmen, from Gaul,
Arrive, in haste to finish their affairs.
For is, those tell, assembled, to their coast,
Which looks toward Britain, great new Roman army;
With multitude of men of desperate fortune,
Which wont adventure follow of the legions.
Each day, in weather fair, like hounds, they sit,
Watching, with flagrant eyes, Britain's white cliffs;
From whence their hope is, they should turn enriched.
Quoth one, whilst his two spread hands he held forth;
How ready to embark them, rides great navy:
And each were, of these fingers, hundred ships,
So many he saw and more, the Romans' fleet!

Though lie, in all Gaul's river-mouths, Rome's navy,
The legions come not yet. Is who called Cæsar,
Most wretched wight, of all which dwell in Rome.
Lives Claudius, aye, adread of his own death;
Of every footstep! of each passing voice!
Under his lattice, made like iron cage.
He all day reads men's faces, fears to eat,
To walk, to sit, in strong barred walls, to sleep;

188

Lest, from the empty air, fall some new death.
And lately, in that sedition of Scribonius,
Were even his tottering private steps waylaid.
Whence now hath Claudius guard of German soldiers;
That fence him, day and night, with barbare spears.

Called to his cubicle, princes of the Senate,
Cæsar begins, yet trembling, to enquire,
What deem they? and stands it, in his might, depose
The imperial purple; which, unsought for, laid
Was on his shoulders. He, at least, would send,
Certain his freedmen, to explore the mind
Of dukes and legions, in each Roman Province.
Hardly persuaded, suffered doting Claudius,
Part, to Britannic war, his legate Aulus.

When now behold Rome's legions, from Gaul's shore,
Vast wandering Ocean, surges tumbling huge,
On the fast strand; moreo'er, and when they hear
Dwell many warlike tribes, in yond White Land,
Under whose cliffs, deep quicksands; and how Britons
Be giants of stature, (such men have they seen,
Porters, to some great lords, in marble Rome;
Other tall doorwards, in Rome's theatres,
Slaves, sons of captives, taken in Julian wars,)
Dark dread encumbers their Italic breasts.

189

Then, looking one on other, gan say soldiers;
How being in Italy, they to war, beyond
The world, took none oath to their imperator.
Is there none end of war, where ends the land!
And must even these cold grey waves redden soldiers,
With Roman blood! what little rests, from wounds;
Which they, in hundred battles, have received,
These many years; witness these now hoar hairs,
Their toothless chaps, witness these maims, these scars!
Naught else they gotten, which remain alive,
Have; even of raiment, naked is their flesh,
Under these plates of bronze! Have all their dukes
Returned, to Rome, enriched: they naught possess.

How few yet live, which fellows of their years,
Were yore conscribed, with them, in the self legions!
Are wars now to begin, in a new world?
And when, at length, to them, should be assigned,
Whose covenant nigh is out, long hoped-for fields;
Which, with what little gotten have their hands,
(And whereby only stands the public wealth,)
Were able to maintain their later age:
Were even that soil some forlorn fen or heath,
In hostile land; where dukes, that turn to Rome,
Should, last, them bid take to them wives; and rest!

They perish, by ambitions of the legates:

190

That those, triumphing, might, in ivory chariots,
With pomp and blowing shawms, re-enter Rome;
To pass, in all superfluous delights,
Their days, as gods, with immense gathered wealth,
Fruit of the warlike toil of their dead soldiers.
But we, which marched have, o'er vast travaillous Alps;
These score of years, must fight. Thus chat the soldiers;
Through long night-hours, about their supper-fires,
And in their leathern booths. When day now risen,
Many forsake their stations and the ensigns.

Cites the proprætor, by stern trumpet-throat,
To his tribunal, soldiers. Without arms,
Stand dissolute, now, before him, the three legions!
Their titles he recites, for glorious deeds,
Under the auspices of great former dukes,
Full hardly achieved, in many a bloody fight;
Augusta, Valens, Victrix, Adjutrix:
And that they minish naught of their high praise,
Nor dim proud lustre of their former deeds,
He exhorts. Even this sea-strait shall pervious
Be to the Roman virtue. Full of corn

191

And cattle, is yond fair plenteous soil of Britain!
Which lightly may be won. Should measured then,
Be land unto all who veterans, in their legions.

Who guileful merchants, fearing for their gains,
Gin pluck then, by their tunics, common soldiers.
Them, drawn apart, they whisper, in their ears,
What wealth were in that island enterprise;
What cattle, beauty of women, spoil of towns!
If any Roman soldiers doubt that voyage,
They, with their only servants, would ascend
Longships; and won unto themselves yond isles;
What wealth should all, of a new world, be theirs!

Dismissed the assembly; the tumultuous soldiers,
Incline, to words of some of theirs, their ears;
Whom, shoulder-high, men lift forth, on broad shields,
Persuading, first, require, of their poor lives,
The wage. Then heard was long seditious shout!
If any may return, to their own hearths,
Whose lives, their fellows dead, were saved to end,
Should such be, like to old lean beasts, out-cast?

192

For this, (quoth they,) they tolerate, many years,
To lie out, worse than beasts, in cold and wet!
Nay, is none so wretched beast, as Roman soldiers!

Moreo'er they plain them of their crude centurions.
Such said, made bare, under their wretched weed,
Lean bodies, many show forth weals of rods.
They clamour, how, some small relief of tasks,
Must soldiers buy, out of their meagre wage;
Of those centurions, which their lives possess.
Consumed is, thus, their body and solde and cloth.
Marvel their spokesmen, at so vile a rate,
Her soldiers' lives, of Rome, should be esteemed!
The very plough-beves, that ere Roman fields,
When dies the day, have rest; but legionaries,
Must wake all nights, in arms; whereso it please,
Their dukes to lead, in soil of enemies.

Even who condemned, for crimes, are to the sword,
Or dig in mines, were in worse case, uneath.
Their dukes, aye greedy to devise new wars,
For to enrich them, of poor soldiers' loss,
(Which, sith, dight with triumphal ornaments,

193

Sit, purpled, in the first seats of the Senate,)
Wont, lightly in great adventure, cast whole legions.
But soldiers, by whose arms, they all achieve,
Naught have; nor when they, long years, serve abroad,
A license to repair home from the wars,
(Even from their winter-camps:) to see how lead
Their parents old their lives; and their own hearths!
Caligula, now, is slain; and that is scathe,
Who friend was, with oft gifts, to his poor soldiers.

Lo, mingled deformed routs, not Roman soldiers!
For loosed is now all warlike discipline.
Again, them, Aulus, with loud trumpet's throat,
To his tribunal calls: with insolent tumult,
They turn, once more, the prætor's word to hear;
From the sea-shore. Blaming them, Aulus shows,
With his right hand, white-shining cliffs of Britain!
In the other, he a rescript holds of Cæsar.

194

Soldiers, (he cries,) the emperor bids us pass.
And ye be unworthy, now, of Cæsar's trust,
Bear back to the prætorium, they, the eagles,
Whose duty it is; lest your seditious shouts,
Against the public-weal, should hear the gods!
Have memory, O soldiers, what their punishment is,
Which do forsake their legion's ordinance.
Yea, and if ye give occasion now to Gauls,
Inconstant nation, will ye not repent,
When ye have put in jeopardy your own state;
What time, and had ye overpassed to Britain,
Were the island prostrate, ended all the war.
But now, of all these things, write I to Cæsar.
Then Aulus, prætor, letters sealed, before
Them all. His ready messengers, bear them forth;
That put on, day and night, from post to post,
To horse. The tenth eve, those are come to Rome!

195

In Rome, reads, trembling, impotent Cæsar Claudius,
The words of Aulus: and, though night, commanded
He, the officer, straightway, summon a full senate,
To temple of Fidius. The emperor come, therein,
He, rheumy-eyed, those letters of his legate,
With stammering tongue, recites. Then, he himself,
Commiserates himself; who, cannot, Cæsar,
Put off this burden of the imperial state.
O times, O malice! But responds Vitellius,
Consul elect, chief flatterer, lately, was
Of mad Caligula, yet, in council, one
Found wise; Even as wont the immortal gods,
Ill men offend, so bring these care on Cæsar!

Ben they not Blæsus' legions, which, from Gaul,
To Isle Britannia, now, should overpass?
The same, which stationed, in Tiberius' days,
In wide Pannonia, and namely on both sides,
Danuvius' flood, that great sedition made;
Wherein, they tribunes cast forth and centurions?

196

Aye, and certain, in their fury, beat to death!
Which crimes, beheld his own eyes, in his youth;
What time he also served, in his first arms,
Being lodged in tent of great Germanicus.

Fathers, and most, quoth he, imperial Claudius!
My counsel is, Ye send Vespasian Flavius,
Leading his legion Pia, (rightly named!)
Aye well-affectioned to the imperial house,
In aid, (that time was also innocent;)
Which ever sith, in Germany, hath remained:
In aid, I say, to Plautius. The fleet soldiers,
(Men still found faithful,) able were, alone,
With wings of Gauls, allies, to chastise Britain.

Then first faint Claudius smiles. He smote together,
All in another mind, for joy, his palms.
And promised Cæsar, twenty Afric elephants,
(From Mauritania, lately again subdued,)
To draw his towers, in that Britannic war.
And, by divine Augustus' image, sware
Thereto, his palms outstretching! In new war,

197

Beyond Gaul's seas, would he, (as Julius, ere,)
Captain, himself, his legions' armament!

Vitellius moves; Be Cæsar's gracious words,
In tables graven, of undying bronze,
And solemn thanks recorded of the Senate.
Will follow, the divinity of Claudius,
The Roman legions. In this sense it pleased
Write letters; which they send, with speed, to Flavius.

The emperor bade enquire, and seek through Rome,
Out, who have knowledge of the parts and coasts,
Of Gaul, that look towards Britain. When of such,
(Merchant-provincials, come, for their affairs,
To the world's city,) is known, few weeks remain,
For navigation of those boisterous seas;
Claudius writes rescript, to his legate Aulus;
Charging withdraw, to winter-camps, the legions.

Lo, now the imperial speedy messengers;
Passed through Main Gaul, to those sea-camps arrive.
And, in armed troops, behold, Rome's legionaries,
Wander like robbers; and they spoil the Gauls!
Yet, weary of this new license, not few soldiers,
To hear the letters read, revert to castrum.

198

Sitting, before them, on high bank of sods,
Plautius' proprætor, then, oration made;
He magnifies the high clemency of Claudius,
Permitting draw, to winter-camps, the legions.
Great, then, their shout, Live Cæsar! from the shore.
Advance the eagles! Leave this curséd place!

Flavius Vespasian, with the legion pia;
Which stationed to defend the Roman pale,
Against incursions of nigh warlike Almains,
Letters received, hath written back to Rome;
That for new tumult, grown, beyond the Rhine,
Might he, as yet, not march, in aid, to Aulus.

When that long winter, entering now the sun,
In Aries, past; behold the legate Aulus,
From winter-camps, again, leads forth his legions;
The fourteenth, ninth and twentieth, to Gaul's shore;
Which chosen in Rome, for the Britannic war.
But there the tumults of the former year,
Renew; though noised is coming now of Claudius!
Soldiers, thrust forth their tribunes, from the castra:
They smite, with their own rods, those crude centurions.

199

Aye, and certain drawn without, they, in salt waves,
Drenched: and behold, wind-driven cold night billows,
Have cast, on the shole strand, their bodies dead!

Ringleaders, from a mound, then Rufus, Calvus,
Volturnius, Cropinus, (men that best could speak,)
Do loudly upbraid, and still rail on their dukes,
Men of soft city life, as used in Rome;
Perfumed and valiant only in the debauch:
Wretches, which, when they wasted have their substance,
Bethink them of new wars. And sith now spoiled
All lands are, they would lead o'er sea poor soldiers;
To fight in Britain, Isle beyond the world.

Aulus then, and chief captains, fled, by night,
Bearing the eagles, with them, of their legions;
With hope, to save their lives, to camp of Flavius,
Vespasian, who makes forward, with great marches.

The fugitive dukes and ensigns were received,
Amidst the pia legion's four-square castrum.
Rode Flavius, then, with wing of Gaulish horse,
To view the state of those revolted soldiers.

But when that renowned captain seen approach;

200

All hail him, those tumultuous legionaries:
Men call him, Father! They, now, deformed routs;
Do throng on him, an headless multitude.
Hunger their ears, to hear his martial voice.
All pray him, enter, in their desolate castra.
But, shaking forth his purple, he denies;
That Roman duke, which Cæsar and the Senate,
Serves, with their fury, would be maculate.
On their heads, be the crime of this revolt.
And choose they, whether they, which once were soldiers,
Will, here, in border of their enemies,
Most warlike nations, with the legion pia,
Contend, when this, the third day, shall arrive;
Or else revert to their obedience!
Which heard, they swarm the more, about his horse,
And humbly entreat great Flavius, lead them forth;
And were it, to new war, beyond the world!

He, blaming them, persuades, they sue to Aulus,
Imperial legate; that, for them, to Cæsar,
He intercede. The punishment, is, of soldiers;
Soldiers, which make sedition, in the field,
That each tenth man, by lot, should suffer death!

201

There brake great Flavius off; and turned the duke,
With austere looks, from them, his horse. In troops,
They follow him; but rode Vespasian, forth.

The same night, certain constant legionaries;
(Which spoken have together,) weary of this
Excess, men faithful to their sacrament,
Have armed them, secretly; and, when the camp slumbers,
They tents of, who ringleaders were, Volturnius,
Cropinus, and other more, with iron, invade;
And them they slay! Loud outcry rose, of soldiers,
Then, in the dark! that start from heavy sleep:
And wot not, wounded, why they fight and die!

Come dawn, and seen; how slain, all those men, lie,
Who authors of their fault: with one accord,
Soldiers send message, to the legate Aulus.
And, for were now their camps contaminate,
With civil blood; all, with their tents, pass forth,
With troubled looks, to pitch, by the sea-side.

Returns, the third day, that stern duke Vespasian,
With whom rides Aulus, midst the pia legion,
In battle ray, being winged with Gaulish horse.
Hark! stretching stern hands forth, those Flavian soldiers,

202

Clamour, them lead, gainst the revolted legions.
Sith, they alone, embarking, would win Britain.

Without their tents, stand the three legions' soldiers;
Tents, seen, confusedly pitcht, longs the sea-shore.
And lay all blame, their orators, come to Aulus,
Unto that forepast cruelty of their centurions.

Vespasian and the legate, found the castra,
With corses, strewed; that were they cleansed, commanded,
From civil blood! Restored, then, to the legions,
Their prefects, Aulus mounted, with stern countenance,
To his tribunal. He ordains, before him,
Then, pass centurions: he, in that, enquires
Of each, his stipends, deeds of hardihood;
And whence obtained he martial ornaments.
And whom, with loud cry, soldiers of his cohort
Approve, confirms the duke: but when, unto any,
They all, impute immanity, in his service,
Or avarice; he his sergeants, beat, with rods,
Bids, (laid on such arrest;) and they deface,
Deposed from all authority, his helm's crest.

Descended Aulus, soldiers take their ranks.
With trumpet-sound, march the new-ordered cohorts,
To the sea-brinks; and they, their impure hands,
There wash: then lifting, at new clarions' voice,

203

To heaven; all those, (which they did violate,)
To the emperor, loud! renew their sacrament.
Aulus, that all might hear, with a great voice,
Draw out! commands the Prefect of his fleet;
And ride, at anchor; to embark the legions!

Now dies the evening red, on those cold waves,
Which compass in, Isle, crowned with long white cliffs,
Our foster-Britain. Glooming soon the skies,
I, (quoth the Muse,) saw in vast gore-swart cloud;
Whose cliffs like pearl, and towers as shining gold;
On thrones, that seemed of crystal, azure, made,
Sit demon shapes. Lord, Taran, of the lightning,
In highest place: then woad-stained Camulus.
Upon the counter-part, sate Nerth and Taith,
Unto whom wont Britons mere-stones dedicate,
God of all paths, and leader of the dead;
And Nemeton, hag, whose hellish spell can turn
The hearts of men, to wolves, in warlike field.

Sit lesser war-gods, round those misty walls;
Bran, helmed; and Caradoc, leaned on blood-stained targe,
And divine arms. Gods, without voice! discourse,
(Save wind-gods murmured, on that murky floor,)
With looking only of their glowing eyes.

204

They reason of the war toward, with Romans;
Wherein they shall contend, with Latin gods.

Is dog-faced Hesus, porter of the gods,
Without, keeps ward. Lean, girt in filthy clouts,
To their cloud-hall, would enter Pestilence;
But Hesus her debars, whose carrion breath,
Would all infect, and grieve even demon-gods.
A cup she bare, betwixt her loathly claws;
Wherein, now, baleful mixture poured the fiend;
Even plagues which thee o'erhang, fair warlike Britain!

Then I beheld, towards Head of white-cliffed Kent;
And saw, dark effigied, in dim twilight cloud,
Great flying shadow! Comes, manslaying demon,
Now dread Abaddon, from the Gaulish main:
(Was he which breathed sedition, in the legions!)

Would slay our island-Gauls, this homicide fiend.
And as, oft-times, we bleak-sheen, in the sun,
Some crow see shine; at first blench, this might seem
Angel of light! Lighted, on cliff; to him,
(Falls, in whose shadow, blight and extreme curse!)
Resort the Isle's dark gods. Erst, horrid Math,
Britons' tremendous, impious, god of death:
(Can all gods not hold back his dread iron hand!)
The Morrigu then, crowned with a waning moon;
(Is she night-riding queen of murderers;)

205

With Clothru and horrible Ethne, in her train:
Whom follow, hag-born, burden of the night,
Dim, bat-like, flittering brood of aery spirits;
Whose power increaseth, in the evening mists,
As day's light wanes. Abaddon, demon, shines,
With peacock feathers, full of glorious eyes,
Mongst them a moment; that incline their heads.

Yet, for all his great looks and lofty port,
Of pride, presumptuous, crooked festering corse
Is the Fiend's substance! (dread corruption drops,
And loathly worms,) of murdered wicked wight,
Whom buried beetles, in 'lone cankered grove.
None other flesh, (for greater power, to-night,
Him lets; it is great Albion's, in the earth!)
Might the man-slaying demon-angel take;
Who, puffed-up that foul carcase, rose therewith.

He, from whose fearful eyes, hell-pangs look forth,
Prepared beholds destruction of our Isle!
Well-pleased, then, casting backward baleful looks,
Lifted his spotted wings, the immane fiend,
Returns, towards Gaul. Under his heavy flight,
Is ferment of the sea, that roars for dread.

Arrived o'er legions' camps, his hellish breath,
Blows up new bubble rage. From mouth to mouth,
Then, murmur rose, Will Summer soon be wasted!

206

Soldiers repent, that slowness of their hearts;
Which ere a war refused, had them enriched.
They, in the moonlight, oft, for yet is night;
Look out, on that great navy in their road.

Now, this same night, arrived, from the emperor Claudius,
Narcissus, a chief freedman of the palace.
With a great train and retinue this, from Rome,
Of cooks and varlets, the vast Alps hath passed.
Loud clarion calls, at sunrise, legionaries,
To the tribunal! they, in curule chair,
See sit one, higher than the imperial legate!
Narcissus, whose right hand holds Cæsar's rescript.
(The bill, as Claudius' face, is doubly engrossed;
That should, according to the time, be read
Rebuke or consolation.) But stout soldiers,
Anon, incensed, hearing shrill unmanned voice,
Of so base harlot, raised in their reproof!
Contemn him saying; Taints the air with unguents,
Yond piping scold! Is, (they, loud mocking, cry,)
This All-fools' day? when slaves, at masters, play.
Yond Cæsar's ribald, king of minstrels is!

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A fury, amidst these taunts, their hearts invades.
To sea, to ship! men yell, tumultuous.
They run, take arms. Some, the sacellum break:
And snatcht their eagles, stretch, to them, right hands!
Returned to camps, they pluck up tents; and carriage
Bear forth. Break soldiers, headlong, with great voice,
To shore; and loud invoke the blue sea-gods.
Who foremost, from the shelving strand, launch out,
What barks they find. Some row, to hulls of charge;
Some climb, confusedly, the longships, aboard.
This dures, till afternoon; to night, then, holds:
Nor any stays to sup. Wide-shines the moon,
Nigh to her full, on spring-flood; and them gives,
Large light, to sea. Dukes hasty counsel take.

Soldiers, with wings of horse, of Flavius' legion,
Would sally, against them, which tumultuous, thus,
Inship. But, asked his sentence, great Vespasian
Responds to Aulus; Impulse is, methinks,
Come on the them, from the gods. Were reason use
The occasion; and now overpass, to Britain!

Aulus bade sound out clarions! he commands;
That all which mounted on shipboard, descend,

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Again, to land; that ordered they, aright,
Were in their several cohorts. Whilst the legate,
Yet spake, springs merry wind. Men mainsails hoise;
And, lo, from Gaul's shore, borne forth Roman navy!

Pass tardy, in Britain, these erst summer weeks.
In every commote and in every lathe,
Assemble, each new moon, the land's armed youth,
To their lords' courts, for warlike exercises.
All lie down, nightly, on their shields and arms.
Now days of heat; but Romans come not yet!
Spies bring in word, then, of the lord Manannan;
From sea, of new sedition, mongst the legions.

Nor, yet, comes Thorolf; who hath homely wars,
Against his father's foes, on the Fast-land.
Nor yet were seen, breasting the cold wave-rows,
The pirates' keels: for lord is dead, king Orm,
Of the East-way; at whose high funerals,
In days, when should be parted all his wealth,
His son, Redshield, (so named, for he his targe,
In every slaughter, leading strong ship-swarms,
Wont dye, in war-gore of his enemies!)
Shall make land and sea plays, of running steeds;

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And champions rowing in long dragon-ships;
And shows of the seven noble skills of warriors,
Swimming and wrestling, playing at the ball,
Climbing and javelin-cast, the dance and course
Of foot and horse; and who, with bow and shaft,
Can cleave the willow-wand: and who best make,
Riddles and weapon songs; and best record,
Playing on ivory harp, in prince's hall,
Glorious war-deeds of old. And for Redshield,
Should precious meeds divide, with a large hand;
Gather, to him, from every coast, longships.

A light Dumnonian keel, of king Duneda,
Did first, men tell, espy that Roman navy,
Standing towards Britain, with confuséd noise!
To an headland, made those Iscans force of oars;
They tyned, (to that prepared,) there, tarry wood.

Watchmen, on Cantion cliffs, which, to the night,
Look forth, those over-sea red flames discerning,
Kindle their beacons. Answer beacon fires,
Soon burning, on all hills, to farthest Britain.
The sleeping Isle, at midnight, wakes to arms!

Speeding, already, at dawn, lo, thousand war-carts,
To Cantion cliffs, arrive. From Camulodunum,
Horse and light-runners, with Caratacus,

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To ward East shore, rush forth. Towards wide Thames'-mouth,
Archers of Troynovant march, with stout Marunus.

Assemble, with great power, proud Catuvelaunians.
In this first night, eight thousand were come in,
To Verulam, armed. And when new morrow breaks,
Them marshals, in Ver meads, forest of spears,
Cunobelin's son, and orders in caterfs.
Sword-men, in front, he sets; and who bear spears,
In the hind ranks. By fifties, then, the chariots,
He squadrons, with their captains, in loose bands.
Druids draw ensigns, from their hallowed groves.
The sun yet young, they march forth from Caer Verulam.

Careless of aught, save haste, the legionaries
Lose their most travail, labouring at the oars,
With so uncunning hands, to-night; and oft
The tacklings burst of their mishandled sails.
They solace them, with the rude songs of soldiers.
And flames, lo, comet-star, hanging athwart
The heavens, like Persic glaive, from part to part;
Whose point, before them, Britain seems invade.

Their dukes, at dawn, (which followed, have this night,

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In the longships; scouring with sail, uneath,
And oar;) assay, amidst this confused fleet,
To bring some order. They, the medléd ships,
Do part, then, in two squadrons, of their navy.
The first shall sue the legate's purple sail;
The next, just distance keep, of a large mile.

For that, erewhile, deposed Icenian king,
(Whom after-ages named The Bane-of-Britain,)
Fell Bericos, sent then the proprætor Aulus:
He, likewise, sends for Belgic Cogidubnos.
(They, newly, with Narcissus, came from Claudius.)
Those, brought before the legate, asks them Plautius,
Where deem they best in Britain, were take land?
Bericos responds, Longs his Icenic coast!
But Cogidubnos, contrarywise, persuades,
With many words, towards setting sun, hold course;
Where Belges' march, and he hath many friends.
The pilots look, to make, soon, Head-of-Kent.

Long that day's heat, and merry their sails' flight:
But weary, in the strait hulls, that smell of pitch,
Abhor, their very souls, faint Roman soldiers.
Made Aulus sign, then; Steer, for Belges' coast!
Yet a long summer day, on vast grey deep,
The Romans heave. But, when now, falling round
Them, the third night, gin murmur legionaries;

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Said we not rightly, and being yet in Gaul,
Was this Britannic war beyond the world?

That after-squadron, lying on loose oars,
In wide moonshine, were heard, of many soldiers,
Seditious cries. Then some, drawn furious glaives,
Hack bands and stays; and hardly are they appeased.
Sith, when begins the day, at length, to break;
Midst the unending and unstable billows,
Rising the sun, from part of the Mainland;
They, no more, might discern the forward fleet;
But certain headland, nigh them, and low shore.

Impatient turn, then, all the sea-tossed soldiers,
With furious brunt of oars, to that green land,
Their stems. Where now they see some river's mouth,
They row to enter. Helped then of the tide,
The first being come in; soon made fast their prows,
Men leap, to rushy banks, out, and green mead:
Other, not few, ships rowed, to open shore.

Soldiers, in Britain's meadows, pitched their tents;
(They, in yond upland, see none hostile arms!)
Lie slumbering-out their long sea-weariness,
On the sweet herb: and say, One day or twain,

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Would they, here, rest; and then repair from Britain.
They drive this sun forth, thus, with sullen hearts,
Empty of worth and honour; that forsake,
Against their sacrament, the imperial legate.
Behind them vast sea's waves, before them Britons!
Nor they have duke, save this old chiding Geta.
Fleet-soldiers gone up, on the green hill-bents,
Mongst thyme and gossamer, looking stedfast forth;
View not their consort fleet! At afternoon,
Who watch, see glance of arms. Descends a troop.
Horsemen, of Belges; fifty spears, approach!
Bright harnessed, a tall lord, before them, rides.

The men, whose long red hairlocks, backward blown,
Are of high looks, and like to Belgic Gauls.
They bear round bucklers, dight with hammered hide,
Of the wild ox: their mantles, long-fringed, broached,
With bronze, hang, party-coloured, o'er buff coats;
Which scaled, with glittering tin, of the White Isle.
Lo, wavering, on their shoulders, long war-spears,
As they fast ride. Three come, with them, half-Romans,
Chapmen of Gaul; sons, (pale, are those, of face,)
Of Romans and their stranger Gaulish wives.

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They, in the former fleet, had sailed with Aulus.
They put to-day their lives, for promised meed,
In this adventure; knowing both the tongues,
To be interpreters, as twixt Gauls and Romans.

Stood Aulus' fleet in, under island Vectis;
And anchors warped, in haven called the Longport,
(Harbour of ships,) which in the lordship is,
Of Cogidubnos, who his foster-Britain
Betrays. Disbarked the legions, measured camps,
The legate set strong watch. He sent then forth
Horsemen, with Cogidubnos, longs East shore;
To seek the lateward fleet. Soon, those find Britons:
For, from a nigh dune, ridden, with fifty spears,
Came certain friend of his, to Cogidubnos,
One Beltucadros, saying; his people saw
The Romans' second navy row to land:
Then those returned, to the proprætor Aulus:
Who, straight, caused, mongst the merchant-sort be cried;
Romans, which can Gaul's tongue, might large reward,
Win, with those men, interpreters, to ride:
And he, for surety of their lives, would bind
As many Belges, in the legions' castra.
These Romans, pale, then offered them to wend,

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With the armed Britons; (pale, as aye adread
Of the dire altars of the island's druids!)
And they bear letters, from the prætor Aulus.

Geta the seal upbreaks; and reads, The legate
Of Cæsar, in the war begun in Britain,
Unto who chief captains, in the second fleet,
Greeting. We entered now this Belges port;
And hear, in the same tide, ye went to land.
Now, when these letters ye have read, make speed,
To march unto my castra, with your soldiers:
And, put to sea, the mariners of your ships
Row, Westward forth, longs shore, to this Longport.

Such, from green bank, a loud-voiced scribe of Geta,
Outreads. And soldiers standing him around,
Make answer, with one mighty throat, Strike tents!
And, to our fellows, march! The tribune Geta,
Spake; that they silent march, in hostile soil;
Where is dark night as a vast ambushment.

Nigh was sun-setting; when, led, by their guides,

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In land of aspect strange, the legionaries
Make forth, long trains. Toward clear star, lies their path,
Under yond golden pillars of Orion,
Celestial gateway; which, now the third month,
Low over Britain lies. Behind them, soon,
Like a vast brazier, the bright heaven-queen,
Riseth o'er strange dim field. Cynthia! they hail her:
And lightened are their hearts. Much moor, they pass;
Where cries of the wild curlews, from night loft,
Seem shrieks of aery spirits. They hear no bark
Of hound, in the night peace; they see no wight:
Far from these pastures, Britons have driven their beasts.
Mid-watch was, when they see shine thousand fires,
Of sleeping legions: hear now Roman clarion.
With shout! they answer, and to camp arrive.

Portsmouth and Porchester Harbour.

Short are these summer nights: now early in Britain,
The morrow breaks. Dukes marshal, then, the legions;
And each pass forth, to their own bands and ensigns,
The soldiers. Now arrayed, without the vallum,

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Aulus, on a white steed, before them, rides.
Blaming their errors past; he sharply exhorts,
To purge their fault, by valiancy in arms.
In Cæsar, pardon lies or punishment.
Then he, saluted the victorious eagles,
Spake; Rest they, this day, out, furbish their arms;
To-morrow march; the third day, look to fight.
All lifting then right hands, in glittering ranks,
In Britain's fields, raise, loud, long Latin shout!

Being come all ships, now, in, to the Longport,
He, with his letters, sends, to Gaul, back, part;
Thence, to convey Vespasian's faithful legion,
And wings of the allies. The rest, drawn up,
Casts Aulus, round about them, long paled bank;
And cohorts leaves, to keep this naval camp.

When, now, (pale Daughter of the East,) treads forth,
The silver-footed Dawn, in saffron stole,
Broidered with pearl, from threshold of the gods,
Of shining gold; and, soon, in heaven's steep path,
Roll burning wheels of Belin, daily god,
Whom living diadem crowns, of lightning rays:

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At clarion's second sound! Rome's legions march;
With horsemen, guides, of Belgic Cogidubnos.

By field, by seeded plots, well-tilled, in guise,
Of Gaul, they hold; which Belges, with wheel-ploughs,
(Good husbands,) ear, and dress the stubborn clod,
With marle. Of Britons, few half-naked wights,
Were seen; men breeched with skins, whose wattled bowers,
High round-built cabans, thatcht with shining reeds.

Scouts go before; on either part, ride horse;
(Belges, are those whom Cogidubnos sends.)
Journey the Roman legions, long, armed trains:
And erst, where flows, by Caer Went street, clear stream,
They lodge. Is that best water, to bleach line,
In Belges' march. And, lo, a weavers' town,
Whose clattering looms; (for they, who there wont dwell,
Are fled,) to-day, in the forsaken place,
Lie silent. Aulus caused, to be, by trumpet,
Proclaimed: Are Romans friends to Belges' nation,
For which cause, he forbids their town his soldiers.

By Further-Belges, yet uncertain friends,

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Then Romans march. Them lead their guides, not far,
From Caer Calleva, of king Segontorix.
The legions halted, in a covert place,
Mongst hills, to rest; and cause this midday heat.
Some eat then bread; and all depose their arms.

Sudden, with dreadful yells, cerulean Britons'
Shrill scythe-carts break out, on them, from thick woods.
Well can those drivers wield, in swift career;
Or hold, on an hill-bent, their rushing teams.
Their chariots leap and run, with hideous din,
Of creaking axe-trees. Ride, on each, two warriors:
Britons run hardily out, on their yoke beams,
To fight with Romans, or thence hurl forth javelins;
Or, lighted, as stout footmen, they contend.

And whom they slay, in view of all the army,
Their off-lopt polls, all-bloody, (atrocious sight!)
They, on dire hooks, hang round their furious warcarts.
Upleapt, with scornful vaunt, then, those drive forth:
And their bronze whirling naves, whereon be set
Sharp sickles, Romans reap, with griesly deaths;
And pierce long scythes, before their horses' breasts:
And scourging, here and there, with rattling wheels;
All bloody, they o'erdrive who fallen of Romans.

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Last Roman virtue, with inclinéd shields,
And javelins'-cast, repulsed the Britons' war-carts;
Which, few, draw off, to breathe their smoking steeds.

He who durst, erst, encounter with Rome's legions,
Swart Guledig is, renowned Segontorix,
Calleva's king, of Atrebatan nation,
Semblant divine, of hardy strength and skill,
In arms: and nephew of old Commius;
Who vowed eternal enmity to Romans.
Is his that helm, of bronze, which two-horned seen.

Issued the legions' trains, from cumbered paths,
They march few leagues; and now, by a brook side,
In meadows, lodge. Here, seemed it good, to Aulus,
In fenced camp, Flavius, certain days, abide:
For brought-in Cogidubnos' scouts have tiding,
Of great approaching host, of woad-stained Britons;
Led by young warlike son of dead Cunobelin.

Strenuous Vespasian hath, with thousand horse,
Of Roman Gaul, and stout Batavians, passed,
(Twelve hundred spearmen,) now, in those sent ships,
Britannic seas; and, with his faithful legion,
Disbarked, at the Longport. This ninth eve, he,
His army leads, into the legate's castrum!
Cæsar's new rescript added Flavius' cohorts,
Hath, to Britannic army of Aulus Plautius.

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At day, now, the four legions levied camps;
March forth, few leagues, in warlike ordinance.
Ere noon, explorers, sent before, renounce;
They saw lodged, not far off, cerulean Britons,
Caterfs of footfolk, with much power of chariots!

And now the legate, past hill-brow, discerns
Great camps of barbare host, wide-shining arms!
Whom four-wheel wains fence, in vast circuit, round.
Then Aulus, tribunes of his marching trains,
Bade, halt the va'ward, without trumpet sound;
And passing, each, to part, on either hand;
Range them those former legions. The third, then,
Valens, which cometh on, the middle hold:
The fourth, to-day, their carriage shall defend.

The legions thus arraying them, rides Aulus,
Before their orders; and exhorts his soldiers,
Saying; Lies yonder, the blue Britons' army!
Nations, whom virtue and fortune of great Julius,
In old days, of our grandsires, overcame.
Ye ninth, ye fourteenth and ye twentieth legions,
This day blot out the memory of your revolt,
Showing yourselves, as erewhile valiant soldiers;

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That I, to-morrow, writing to the Senate,
At large; may set forth your victorious merit!

Seems, straightway, all that Roman field, in Britain,
To burn; for myriad hands do-on bright helms,
(Which cast broad brazen gleam, against the sun,)
At once! Draw veils, then, of their Sabine shields.
Sith, with swift foot, and eager angry heart,
And clenchéd teeth, at clarions' voice, advance,
Impatient unto battle, in thick ranks,
Like to one man, the Power of mighty Rome!

Blue Britons rise up, dreadful, with strange ensigns,
By tribes, caterfs and kindreds; that might, thus,
Of every one, the valour more appear,
Before his people. Station the island horse,
On the two wings. In Britons' battle front,
Are shining squadroned chariots: glittering dukes,
Drawn of white steeds, before them, slowly ride.

Venta Belgarum; now Winchester.

Voice raught of duke, even to the ears of Romans;
Who seemeth one nobler than the rest. In chariot,
Emailléd white, he stands; and his bright scythe-wheels,
Glister with brazen rays, like sunny beams.
Lo, where that duke draws bridle, he makes speech,
And shines his targe, before him borne, with gold:

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And son is he, say Belges, of Cunobelin!
King of the royal tribe of Catuvelaunians.

From Verulam marched, now warlike Togodumnos,
Awaits, the coming of king Caradoc;
With whom, Icenians' power, leads Antethrigus;
And, archers of Caer Troynovant, leads Marunus.
Tiding, to the warlord, of their approach,
Is come, by shout. Sit blue, wayfaring, Britons,
Each on a wad of halm, or on his bratt,
(Their nation's guise,) armed ranks, on the fresh grass.
Naked, behold, glast-stained, above the belt,
Be all these long-haired island warriors.

A Celtic word: cloak.

And chosen hath Britons' warlord, Togodumnos,
This place wherein he would abide the Romans.
There fenceth his left hand, dark beechen wold;
Upon his right, lie fenny pools; his front,
Ordered like bow, and chariots on the wings;
Whereby he hopes close-in his enemies.

Not to join battle, reads divine Manannan,
Ere Caradoc, with the East-men, be come in.
The sire too old, though, nourished of a god,
His age, to stand in battle-cart; hath bound,
(Gift of his father Lîr, the blue sea-god,)

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His divine hauberk, which no dint may pierce,
Of bronze, nor steel, before the warlord's breast,
With his own hands; hands which, with sacrifices,
He lifted hath, unto the unborn gods!

Romans, with their allies, and the armed servants;
And who adventure follow of the legions,
In Britain, are as fifty thousand glaives,
More, twice-told, than hath warlord Togodumnos.
Aulus, the Romans' front, in triple ranks,
Ordains. Stands, furlong-wide, each glittering legion,
All ready to run forth. He duke and tribunes,
With guard, outride, to view blue Britons' army.

To Dobuni and Catuvelaunians, kindred tribes,
Stout Belges Atrebats be joined, in arms.
Chief of the Belges warriors, bear mailed thongs,
With scaly brass, on their large warlike chests.
Are hand-breadths of waved iron, the sheen sharp heads
Of their stiff spears. On nigh hill-ground stand druids;
Whose magic chant borne on the wavering wind.

The sitting Britons clash their arms, and chant
Hoarse songs of antique wars and battle-gods;
When cease they to hear words of Togodumnos;
Whose fiery wheels draw three renowned fleet steeds;

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White-locks, with Gold-hoof, and, their dam, Blue-mane.
His upper garment girds that shining belt,
Of strength; whence, in his flesh, the warlord feels
New virtue, infused, of Britons' battle-gods.

Scythe-carts, outrushing, pursue Roman dukes;
That turned are back, inglorious, to their legions,
In sudden flight. Loud barbare trumps, sound-out!
Like many pastors blowing a grave note,
Upon that Latin Plain, which lies round Rome.
Scourge Briton charioteers their steeds, with shout;
Whose noise, whose aspect strange, of whirling hooks,
Affray, that trembling snort, Gauls' allies' horse:
And shrink their runners, from the arméd carts,
And shot of javelins, of who, in them, ride.

Britons, like hawks, leap down, from rushing chariots:
And, off-hewed polls, they hang, with vaunting cries,
On hooks, round their shrill justling battle-carts;
Dire spectacle unto Romans, which advance,
With angry shout, the eagles: legionaries,
Running, hurl forth, at once, sharp sleet of javelins.
On his part, Britons' warlord, Togodumnos,
The hardy vigour of the Island Youth,
Upleads, gainst Romans; that, now, with long shout,

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Draw out their shining glaives. Fall woad-stained Britons,
(Whom choose tremendous gods, to-day, of death,)
With Roman soldiers, on their foster-earth.

They more, (not fenced,) than fall of Romans' part:
Yet glory and shout their fellows, in their deaths!
Deeming that enter bodies, of who rest,
Their valiant spirits, which should augment their strength.
Stagger the legions, like long spumy chines
Of the sea-waves, hurled backward of fierce winds.

King Togodumnos sent forth thousand chariots,
To close in then left horn of shaken Romans.
And haply had, this day, seen their overthrow;
Were not that a South wind, which softly blows,
Down-rolling the hills' mist, their battle dimmed.
Fearing some ambush, blows repair then Aulus;
Whose guides say, cause was magic chant of druids,
That able are men transmew, to stones and trees!

Then measure, hastily, castra, Roman soldiers,
With a deep trench; and crown with high, paled, bank,
More than their wont; wherein, withdraw the legions.
Night fallen, sends Aulus waterers, to nigh stream:

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But whilst these, in cold currents, fill their sacks,
Fall out, on them, the Guledig's ambushed chariots;
Which mingle, with their drink, the Roman blood!
To tent assembled, now, of Plautius, legate;
The legions' dukes consult. Through Belges' scouts,
Is known, (confirm the Britons' beacon fires,)
To-morrow should augment their enemies.

Then license Geta asks, to lead his cohorts,
About yond hills, to-night; to fall, at dawn,
On Britons' backs. Prescribes much, also, Aulus,
To captains of the allies, Gauls and Batavians;
All, only, in battle seek they Togodumnos.
Great should be his reward, whose hand should take,
The Britons' duke; or bring his off-hewed head.

Now shrouds night darkness, both the hostile armies,
In their fenced camps. Neath oak's wide-spreading arms,
Shelter from dew, with martial Togodumnos,
Sit dukes of thousands, captains of caterfs,
Glast-stained; whose necks, with red wreathed gold, are dight.
Mongst many swart-hewed, stern-browed warriors' faces,

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Which, with the warlord, sit; and whereon gleams
Red light of watchfires, some white bounteous looks
Be seen of noble women. To war-field,
In four-wheel wains, these followed have their lords;
And gaze their pupils, as who, to high heavens,
Make devout vows! And warlike Britons deem,
Oft moves, in women, a divining spirit,
As were instinction of some heavenly gods.
Bear bows, the most of their white gracious hands.

Erst, of Manannan, asks the Verulam king,
His counsel: who makes answer, Gaul have Romans,
Subdued, by only skill of arms, and sleight
Of dukes, and plate before their soldiers' breasts.
Wherefore our young men bind, to battle, armed,
Their bratts, before their chests: so fight they, vowed
All warlike spoils, to bloody Camulus.
Spake, likewise, Iddon, late returned from Rome.

Hark bruit! and is the mighty mingled tread,
Of horse and foot-folk; which, in this dim night,

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Approach, with men that hold forth brands, in chariots.
Comes Golam, valorous lord of Moridunion,
Who Durotriges' caterfs leads; and Morag,
Son to the king Duneda, with Dumnonians.
Those princes leap to ground, out of their war-carts!

Taking their hands, which touch his glaive, for both
Those are his friends, stern Togodumnos smiles.
And they, which now of this day's battle heard;
And see the fresh-bound wounds, of many lords,
Stand silent, musing vengeance, their young hearts.
Them shows the Roman watchfires, Togodumnos!
And, his stern voice, warns captains of caterfs;
Must be to-morrow's battle, with much blood.

Whilst rest, under the stars, (save who keep watch,)
The Roman arms; in dream, sees Togodumnos,
Of sleep, his hero-sires, Belin and Brennus,
In antique guise, and glorious Heremod;
As were they come, from mansion of the gods,
Standing on grave-hill, fast-by Troynovant.
Howbeit perceives, not well, Cunobelin's son,
Their antique speech; which tells of coming ill!

He wakes, and their dark words are in his ears,
Though fades the sense: but falls a sore constraint,

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On the young warlord's heart. Before the dawn,
The night-wind, as great mourning harp, in woods,
Sounds. Togodumnos rose, and so went forth,
To visit round all camps of his caterfs.
He knows each woad-stained nation, by their arms.
A dew is sprent, like blood, on the night-grass.
And mizzling rain steeps Britons' bulls'-hide shields.
Is rainbow seen, before the sun, that mounts.

Cohorts, which Geta leads, have strayed, all night.
Last, halted they, in thick and hollow place;
He sent out scouts. Now erst, when stars announce,
Is nigh the dawn, his spies, returned, rehearse;
How, full they found of marching men, all paths:
Britons arrived to Britons, are this night.
They creeping, close, might shroud themselves, uneath;
In grove, whence heard they strange loud chant of druids.
Then saw they Britons' priests, by altar-fires;
And captives, by them, bounden, stripped of weed;
Whom, heard their cries, perceived we to be Romans!
Whilst stood, (quoth they,) with horror, still our hearts;

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Priests smote those men, as beasts of sacrifice.
And rent their panting breasts, on the cold grass!
They pluckt forth reeking hearts, from Roman breasts!

Stood silent Geta's soldiers! Then great oaths,
They sware, to crucify, in Britain's war,
All whom might take their hands, of barbare druids.
Geta erects there, in three ranks, his cohorts.
Bird-gazing druids, which, from twilight hills,
The early flight devise of morning birds;
Now, springing dawn, descry those marching Romans!
And blow their crooked horns, of horrid sound.

Like to grim boar, that rusheth from dank wood,
Issues Segontorix, with swift battle-carts,
Calleva's king, and warriors' thick caterfs.
Had lodged, last night, the Guledig, on this part.
Gainst whom outrun, hurling their javelins, soldiers.
Romans draw forth, then, their short stabbing glaives.
They, angry, stubborn Belges Atrebats,
Bear back, on their piked shields, tumultuous,
Maugré huge force of king Segontorix;
Who slaughter makes of all, before his face!

But Belges' warhorns' hoarse and dreadful note,

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Heard, afar-off, of martial Togodumnos;
Fearing some evil turn, he hastes send out,
In aid, caterfs of Catuvelaunians;
Men wont stand fast, in battle, like a wall,
The Wall-of-Verulam, named, in chants of Britons.
Before them, rush loud-rumbling, swift war-chariots;
With sounding hooves of long-maned island steeds.
Stand noble young men, in those battle-carts,
With crackling whips, or run on their yoke-beams,
Painted, like dragons, with a bloody crest:
Whence they hurl down, on soldiers, sleet of javelins.

Certain light-armed, that march before the cohorts,
Grounding their spears, erst find, to withstand chariots;
Batavian foot-folk, men of kin with Almains,
Isle-dwellers, twixt two rivers of the Rhine:
And they exceed all Gauls, in barbare force.
Stern Guledig shouts, above the battle-din!
And soldiers fall; betwixt the Atrebats,
And spears of Catuvelaunians, which arrive.
And voice, aye more, of swart Segontorix,
Lord of the two-horned helm, like trump, cheers on,
The late beat-back, again victorious, Britons.

And where, in further field, rides Togodumnos,
Is vehement battle joined. Had Aulus, legate,

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Led, at sunrising, all his legions, forth,
From castra, in wide plain, gainst the caterfs.
And, lo, Cunobelin's son, ensign of Britain,
Standing, sublime, in white-emailled, winged, war-cart,
Blue Britons' brunt upleads, like the sun-god.

Helmed, harnessed, with him, in one royal scythecart,
Of one self-guise, stand the lord's foster-brethren,
Two strong fore-fighters, Camog and Morfran,
Sons to old champions of dead king Cunobelin.
Bears, neath his tunic, royal Togodumnos,
Manannan's plate, before his martial breast.
Nor might, of three, Cunobelin's son be known,
Save that, somewhat, his stature theirs exceeds;
And Verulam's champions fence the warlord's chariot.
Was this by counsel of divine Manannan,
(Who dreamed, befel blue Britons' king, some hurt,)
That were unwist the warlord, which he is!

A whirlwind Togodumnos, where he rides,
Seems. He his ivory-helved whip cedes to Camog,
The supple reins to Morfran; and those brethren
Both furiously drive, then, forth the royal steeds.
And, aye, their lord incites them, with great voice,
Hurling, with each high hand, far-flying javelins,
That lightnings seem. Now hath he wounded Sabine,

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Vespasian's brother; whom the Roman legate,
Set o'er the late-come wings of Gaulish horse.

Sabine, (pierced in the thigh,) his war-steed cast:
And fell, from off the noble Roman's head,
Bronze helm and eagle-crest; and Togodumnos,
The looks descried of Flavius, surnamed Sabine!
A friend, whom he, before, had known in Rome;
(When, lately, he was there, for king Cunobelin:)
Also, in Rome's great city, Sabine was
Their ductor; and before the Roman Senate.
That seeing! blue Britons' warlord turned his scythecart;
Loud crying; Do no man injury, unto yond Roman!

Whilst woad-stained Britons, in loose ordinance,
Valorous, withstand the poise of plate-clad legions;
Certain Batavian foot, by sudden course,
Hoping, to occupy the four-wheel wains,
Wherein much prey of golden ornaments,
And women-wights, rush from an hollow ground.

But naught wives, of the fathers, of their babes,
(That strive in battle-field,) to look on death,
Abashed; let flee, from spended bows, rife shafts;
Or hurl, like warriors, from their thill-boards, darts.

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Down-leapt, their Briton hounds, with a deep throat;
They fight with men, and on their spears, they bleed!

In that, there fortuned an unlooked-for case:
Scythe-carts of Kent, which journeyed had, all night;
Whom Rutupiœan young lord, Heroidel, leads,
(Forerunning they the king Caratacus,
Who cometh on, with much foot, of all East-march,)
Arriving, in that point; though man and horse
Come weary, yet infixt their dreadful hooks,
They on Batavians hurl, with furious glaives;
And them o'erriding smite, and pierce with javelins.

Victory o'erflitteth, with uncertain wing,
This battle in wide field, with double face.
First beat back Golam, lord of Moridunion,
Thick harnessed soldiers of Hispanic legion.
But, sith, prevail stout cohorts of Vespasian.
When now high noon, wax weary the cart-teams.

In this, three hundred horse arrived to Romans!
By hap. Had they, which parted were, from Sabine,
Night-time, in thirteen ships, on the dark seas;
Holding no certain course, sith, to Longport,
Come in: whence ridden, hastily, upland forth,
Aye following footprints of the forepast legions;

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They, midst great woods, in mist, (which seemed on those
High antique boughs to seize,) were, two days, lost.

But seen hill-beacon-flames, they made new speed;
And resting only at dawn, to bait their steeds,
Raught to this field; whereas, they suddenly, fetched
A compass, issue, at the blue Britons' backs!
Now on valorous Dobuni, fall their rushing spears:
Whose prince, Bodvocos, on that part, uneath,
The legions' brunt, sustains; with few caterfs.

Were, by whose coming, the spirits of labouring Romans,
Refreshed: so that did make foot-weary soldiers,
Many against few, new onset, on blue Britons.
On what part, hostile to Cunobelin's house,
Of Belges' league, Vigantios, faintly, fights;
(Who, traitorous nephew of old Commius, is
Now of intelligence with false Cogidubnos.)
And they recoil now, first, of all blue Britons!
Before a foreign foe, withdrawing foot:
Turned then their backs, yield Britain's foster-earth!
For was Cunobelin's martial son far-off;
Who makes wide breaches, with his bloody cart,
In Roman ranks, in sight of blue caterfs.

Fight, with sharp breast-pikes and their very teeth,

237

His long-maned steeds, and with their brazen hooves;
Gainst plate-clad soldiers, mounting on their shields.
The king seeks, everywhere, the Romans' duke;
Desirous, with his javelin, him to pierce.

But when a new great clamour marked the sire;
And empty scythe-carts, drawn of frighted steeds,
Come from far field; he hastily gathered bands,
Of spears, strong manhood of the Isle upleads.
Headlong, outhurling darts, drives Togodumnos;
Horrid his glittering battle-chariots,
With enemies' nodding jowls and spouting blood!
And where, most, din rings, of man-slaying bronze,
Rush his shrill-whirling scythe-wheels; and now fall,
On, triple, stedfast bronze-clad Romans' front!
Shudders Earth's breast, with tumult terrible,
Of them that give and receive, wounds and death:
Neighings and prancings, rushing of strong steeds!

After him, hurl blue footmen, six caterfs;
Running with immense brunt! whose shielded ranks,
Like surging billow, that, now, kicks the shore,
And casts the pebbles forth, fall on thick Romans:
But, as the surge ebbs, soon, is spent their force!

Was then, ran Gorran, who the king's cup bears,
At Verulam; and brake through much battle-press:
So, swift-foot, came to the Dumnonian bands;

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And prudent Morag finds, son to Duneda.
That valorous, having, now, much Gaulish horse
Repulsed; to noble Kowain leaves, sustain
The battle, with his strength of blue caterfs;
And hastes, where Gorran shows him, with swift scythe-carts,
And succour of light runners, hurling javelins;
And taking, with him, other three caterfs,
Which he reserved, apart, with cries, they pass.

Men marvel see run, yonder, from the wains;
Where, ere, had their winged shafts, Batavians pierced,
A furious scour of women-warriors!
And shriek those, as they run, unto their men,
Die glorious! and shine arms, in their white hands:
And even, of some, the virile knees, compress
Swift steeds! which those had caught, of broken carts.
Other, fleet-foot, knit madding wounded horse,
With wain-chains, and with reins of gravelled chariots;
And given them, of a certain herb, to eat;
With new main cries, they chace more furious forth!

Those fallen, with great head, on a triple legion,
Tread Romans down; and burst their foremost rank:
Whose dukes behold those wifemen, in amaze!
Deeming them Scythians, one-papped women-warriors;

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Women, that smitten, rise up, from the earth;
And desperately contend, again, to death.

Beyond them, hurl those ensigns, and the squadrons
Of Morag, with dread shout! With fury, invade
They, Romans' long ranged front; and roll in blood.
To other part, then passed king Togodumnos.

Who fight, sith dawn; and yet they taste no meat,
Gin languish; and look Britons oft and Romans,
On the sun's course! Prayed the sire Togodumnos,
Then Belin, haste his setting; or infuse,
In Briton steeds and warriors, a new force!
Or, else, might soon arrive Caratacus.
And, with that thought, the warlord sends out scouts,
Eastward, to an hill-ground, which looks far forth.

BOOK XIII

O if my temples were distain'd with wine,
And girt in girlonds of wilde yvie twine,
How could I reare the Muse on stately stage,
And teach her tread aloft in buskin fine,
With queint Bellona in her equipage!
Edmund Spenser. The Shepheards Calendar; October.

ARGUMENT

Britons' first battle with the Romans. Bodva, war-fury, incites Trugon, an archer, to shoot at Togodumnos. The warlord is wounded; Britons withdraw them to deep woods. The king's last behest and burial. The Britons' host remove, at sunrising. Caratacus, now arrived, is saluted Lord-of-war! Strife, among his captains. Britons send back, to bury their dead. Fugitives bring word, that Calleva was taken by the Romans!

Britons march. Caratacus communes, in the way, with his chief captains. Segontorix, that night, harries the Romans' castra. Aulus, at dawn, sends forth his legions. Vespasian is hardly saved, by his son, Titus. Aulus blows repair. Belerions now arrive, and the Silures and Demetans. The warlord, again, leads forth the Britons' army. Till noon, they expect battle. Then comes Thorolf, with his Almain bands! Story of the overthrow of Varus' legions.

Thorolf now proffers himself, to fight, singly, with chief captains of the Romans. Then Moelmabon's four sons fence the Almain ethling, with their strong warriors. Certain Roman Gauls, having Aulus' license, go forth, to chastise those insolent Almains. They are four hundred men; which array them, in four bands. They choose one Bassus their captain. Bassus is slain; and Merion and Ferriog, sons of Moelmabon, fall. Aulus now recalls those Roman Gauls. Waterers of Roman camp, are surprised and slain. Atrebats course again, by night, the legions' castra. At new day, legionaries clamour

to battle. Britons, enranged in arms, chant war-songs of bard Carvilios. The battle joined. Bodvocos is taken. Caratacus sends chariots, to fall on the hindward of the Romans. Aulus, again, sounds recall. Segontorix, a third time, (now with Camog and Morfran,) courses the legions' night-camps.

Nemeton stirs new strife, among the Britons' dukes. Segontorix, with his Atrebats, withdraw from king Caratacus. An ancient druid arrives, bearing grave word of Mona's oracle. Melyn, warrior-bard, sings of heroes dead. Britons, by night-time, pass over Thames. King Caradoc, now, divides his war-chariots into four courses. Ordovices, with their war-renowned king, Kynan, the Hammeraxe, arrive.

Aulus marches to the conquest of Corinium. Beichiad's chariots assail the marching legions. The Briton dune. Bodvocos, by command of Aulus, is set forth, in the sight of his citizens, which look from the wall. Caer Corinium is taken. In night-tempest, certain of Beichiad's charioteers entered, secretly, in the conquered town, fire the first houseeaves. Those assay, then, to save Bodvocos: but are met with, by the watch, and slain. King Bodvocos' head is impaled, in sight of all the Britons!

The three kings riding, in one royal chariot,
(For few eyes might discern king Togodumnos! )
Hurling, widewhere, swift javelins; bloody heaps,
Of breathless carcases, make to Camulus,
(Swart battle-god,) of Romans' foot and horse.
Covers, white powderous cloud, the slaughter-field;
Whence gleam of arms, like tongues of flame, is seen.
There fell a sudden rain then, from the gods:
Which glisters, in the sun, like golden hairs;
And earth upgave sweet savour of her sod,
Mingled with iron stink of sweat and blood.

But when, anew, the battle-plain appears,
Like to a star, shines, in the warlord's scythe-cart,
The brazen eagle of a Roman legion!
From chariot, which, like royal osprey, stooped,
Mongst Roman glaives, the warlord's hand had cleft
Arm that it bare, from shoulder; statured soldier,

Whom clothed a wolf's hide, over his bronze harness.
Wherefore that legion, every man, rush on,
With trump and cry of soldiers and centurions!
Like as would each one save, from death, his son;
Wherein, in vain, confused, long, shielded ranks,
(Still hoping to cut off that royal war-cart,)
They hurl. The king comes lightly, from them, forth,
His brethren him beside: is every dart,
Which issues from his hand, a Roman's death!

Was then, or envying new accord and league,
Mongst Britons wont, by factions, to be rent;
Or that, among the gods of strife, she was
Not called, to feast of their war-sacrifices;
Bodva, war-fury, like to hoodie crow,
Flagging her swart-sheen wings, accoasting low,
Flies, shooting out her neck, with serpent's eyes,
(Which make men mad, to pierce their adversaries,)
O'er bloody slaughter-field: and joying crakes
The fiend, to look on mortal miseries!

And she, now, breathed an hollow memory,
In vilain breast of wight of Troynovant;
Light archer, running with the Kentish chariots,
Concerning harm, false-deemed to have been done,
In days forepast of royal Tasciovant,

To the man's sire. That ancient, with last breath,
Bequeathed undying quarrel, to his son;
Whose son this Trugon. Trugon, to-day, loost,
In field, who valiant bowman, all his shafts;
Save one remaineth, in his arrows' case.
This curséd forkhead Bodva now drew forth:
And set it, dazing, Trugon, on his string.

Yet made the felon prayer to his war-god;
That only ít might glance, before the face
Of the three kings, then should his soul have rest.
But the hag her hands, unseen, put on his hands,
Which pluck the spended string up to his breast.
And yet his arm so quakes, for dread of gods
And men; that he the shaft but loosely shot!

Tumbles aloft, as tosst of windy gusts,
The arrow. It snatcht the feathered fiend, in flight,
And guides the bitter forkhead; which, ah! pierced
Hath, from the backward, nape of Togodumnos!
Then she her heinous burnished wings displayed;
And sought, from view of gods, herself to hide.

The fiend sith flits, like shadow, o'er much forest;
Till she arrives to dune, in far North March;
And outrage breathes, in froward woman's breast,
Bright Cartismandua, fell Brigantine queen;

Who, royal witch, with hell's presumptuous spirits,
Consorts, and scorns her warlike lord Venutios.

But seen that scathe! sigh, with ten thousand throats;
Blue Britons, like to barren Winter blast,
Which shakes snow, from her wings, in reeling pines'
Dark forest: or as shipmen when, in storm,
They see, go by the board, their lofty mast.
Rose, contrarywise, exulting cries of Romans!
Viewed the enemies' duke to fall; and, from his hands,
Issue the reins. Beat, on cart's crated brim,
His sacred head, alas. Amidst thick strife,
Stood still the Britons' hearts! Blue hands of warriors,
As nightmare them oppressed, forget to smite.

Leapt, from their thrones, beneath the foster-earth,
Heard great strange voice sound! in their dread abodes;
(Whose vaults are shaken of vast battle-tread,)
The gods of darkness. At prayer of all gods,
Drave Belin down his flaming wheels; and Taran
Covered the heavens, with clouds, like mourning weed.
Night falls, which parts the two contending armies.

Known was the stature of king Togodumnos,
To Trinobantine Trugon, which him smote;
Now cowering in thick bush, in wind and wet,
In the dim field. He dreadeth every sound!
His craven heart hears death, in every voice,
Of men far-off! He would, mongst thick-heaped corses,
He might be hid, from heaven's accusing light.

Last, by incitement, of his angry gods,
Unto whom he durst not look, who gapes, for dread,
Pluckt, from his archer's belt, bronze crooked knife,
He, (his grandsire's was,) his own judge, rove there-with,
His gorge! and Trugon fell back, gurgling blood;
Whence, in the steep air, flitted his vile ghost.
It seized sky-riding furies; and they bound,
On height, to wild wings of aye-rushing tempest.

Dion Cassius' Rom. Hist.

Father of king Cunobelin.

Withdrawn, now, on both parts, were the two armies.
Caterfs of Britons, weary, full of wounds,
As they that mourn, lodge, drooping, on wet earth;
Nor yet men kindle fires. Under oak-boughs,
In groves, they sit, about their lords and ensigns.

Behold the fainting sire borne, by them, forth!

Kneeling, upstayed, twixt Camog and Morfran;
Not fully quick he is, but yet in life.
Their loved lord, him, those erst impetuous steeds,
With battle-blood, as mavis' breast, their breasts
And haughty necks, fleckt; looking ofttime back,
Now, draw forth, in the dim grove, a soft pace.
The white-emailled, shrill, bronze-axed, warlord's scythe-cart,
Gore-blackened rolls: and hanged, lo, round the bilge,
Be off-hewed knolling bloody jowls of Romans!

Kings, captains, hastily gather of blue Britons,
To place, where halted now is the lord's chariot!
Under swart pine, shelter from mizzling rain;
His foster-brethren, gently, lo, depose,
Ah, dying, Togodumnos, from their arms!
Search the king's hurt, then, leeches of the druids.

Hark, speaks, with thin small voice, the passing sire,
Commanding his lords, lead, (and all give ear!)
At rising moon, the army, to main forest,
Where lodged, they should await king Caradoc;
Who cometh on, with main power, of all East March:
Till when, he chargeth, that were hid his death.
Bury him, where he shall decease, to-night.

He prays Cunobelin's gods; gone forth, his spirit
Might enter body of loved Caratacus!
Moreo'er the king forbids, were made inquest,
What Briton's shaft is cause now of his death;
(For, from the hindward, had been loost that shot.)
Then looking on them all, and known each one,
The martial king, with constant and mild face,
Pluckt forth the arrow; and his high hand, it brake!
All mourn, and seemed the divine night more dark;
When vomiting swart blood, the sire fell forth.
A cry, went up, The lord in Morag's arms,
Is now deceased! and hastily are brought brands.

When the lord's fosters saw, their lord is dead;
Those valorous cast them down; they wallow and howl!
On the wet mould, and all distain their harness.
Sith, doffed their helms, and drawn out long bright glaives,
They would have slain themselves: but withhold druids
Their hands, crying; Lives, in Caradoc, Togodumnos!

Kings, captains, lords, in twilight and the rain,
And straitness of the time, delve, with their spears,

Opening earth's womb, like midnight murderers!
They measure, by the dead lord, a wild grave.

His breastplate lords undight, and laid apart;
That golden belt their hands sith loosed, wherewith
He girded, warlord, was: and gazing on
Him, in death-sleep, they say; When shall be seen
Thy like, again, ah, martial Togodumnos!
With bowed head; like as father, for his son,
Gone down, ere-time, before him, to the tomb,
Mourns sire Manannan, for Cunobelin's son.
Then, stooping low, his marble front he kissed:
This do they all; and touch his mighty hand,
Now cold. Last, reverent, lifted the lord's corse,
In royal weed, all harnessed as he was,
Nor washed his sacred blood, kings lay in grave.

On the lord's breast, they laid, then, in dim grove,
That glorious conquered eagle of a legion!
(The ninth Hispaniensis;) and thereon,
The lord's dead mighty hands did Morag fold.

Sighed sire Manannan, who, in countenance, mongst
Those kings, one seems of the long-living gods.
Nor was there noble Briton, young or old;
But from his eyelids, all unwont to weep,
Stilled boiling drops, on Togodumnos' corse.

Spake druids; Like as the sun, this glory of Britain
Died; but doth rise, again, in Caradoc!

That shaft, (so bade the lord, before he passed,)
Manannan casts in, with averted face,
That none inquest were made, who loost the shot,
After his death. Nigh to the digged grave pit,
With the king's fosters, stand those royal steeds;
And drooping are their battle-stained white crests;
As they did weep, with men, his timeless death;
Whose plenteous hand them, of the purged white grain,
Wont daily feed; whose noble pastime was,
Combed their long manes, to stain them with warwoad,
And broider in oft tress; whose great loved voice,
Them, in the course, enflamed to utmost flight,
To draw, neath yoke-tree, silver-dight, his cart,
Before the most renowned swift-teamed war-chariots.

But seen the beacon-flames, of Caradoc's march,
Shine yet far-off; kings, at Manannan's voice,
With trembling hands, cast mould: and now they close
The warlord martial Togodumnos' grave!

O'ersmoothed that little mounded pit of earth,
Which holds the glory of great Cunobelin's house;

Princes blaze privy marks, on the nigh trees;
And number steps, to know again this place!
That might, when victory shall have given them gods,
In Roman war, here, his high funerals,
Set forth; be honoured, with great solemn feast.
Nathless dark dread encumbers those lords' breasts;
That, from this day, should fortune of the war,
Go backward. Brake then groan, from generous
Vast chest, shut up, within his iron harness,
Of stern Segontorix, and he cursed Vigantios!
Who, erst of Britons, fled before strange Romans.

Dukes, at moonrise, remove; and their caterfs,
That were unknown, trampled of many feet,
The mould, where he is laid, to forest lead;
(So bade the dead,) over the warlord's grave!

As for the Romans, in their four-square vallum,
Glimmer a thousand watchfires, in the rain;
And full their castrum is of wounded men.
In the dim night-watch, Aulus sends out scouts:
Which heard much voice, and noise of creaking wains;
Return with word, the Britons' host remove.

Breaks day, when Britons enter the main forest;
Where, kindling fires, they dry their rain-steeped weed:

So weary lodge, and cure their battle-wounds;
And men, long fasting, somewhat broil and eat.

High noon was, when arrived, with the East-men,
Whom Antethrigus leads, and Trinobants,
Caratacus, Cunobelin's other son:
Ah, heavy he is, to death; who now, by swift
Sent messengers, heard, in march, his brother's death.
Men marvel, which behold his godlike countenance,
Shining, through damps of sorrow; as the sun
Ascends, from clouds! The chief estates touch Caradoc's
Glaive: and sith reverent, taking, by the hand,
Him all salute, in room, of Togodumnos,
Warlord! Kings gird him, with the golden belt.

Caradoc beheld, full-fledged of shafts and darts,
The targe, leaned in chief place, of Togodumnos!
And, in an oak, hanged hauberk of Manannan,
Was on the warlord slain: nor, yet, is washed,
From his death-blood! as in that forest place.
And hastily turned the lord away his face,
For his exceeding smart; so gate him forth,
Alone, to wood to weep. Nor came, again,
Till eve, (when kings have supped,) Caratacus.

He entered, to their watch-light, where they sit;

His lords sees, fell-eyed! twixt whom, stirred debate
Have hellish hags, with firebrands, in their hands;
Catha and Macha, carrion-hopping fiends;
Which troubled have blue Britons' camps, to-night.
Manannan seeks, with wisdom and mild voice;
And king Duneda, (who arrived, to-night,)
With old war-tales, appease their stormy mood.

Of that king-slaying arrow, was their strife:
Fledged with what fowl's wing, nocked was, in what sort,
Ashen, or birch, the stele, or river reed;
Of bronze or bone, or subtle flint, the head.
Some mean, that shaft's wing-feathers were of swan,
Whereout his tribe were known, who loost the shot;
Dweller by Thames. They cease, seen Caradoc,
In reverence of the warlord's mourning looks!

Spies, with the legions, have renounced to Aulus,
(Unto whom, by covert night, traitorous Vigantios
Is passed!) that Britons lodged, in yonder forest.
Sith, was, by counsel of the same Vigantios,
That Romans marched forth, to assail Calleva.

Buried their slain, in the next sun, have Romans:
But Britons' dead lie out yet, in day's heat,
(And over them another dew is passed,)

A ravens' feast of swollen carcases.
Erst when are Roman legions journeyed forth,
Send mourning Britons back to slaughter-field;
Where, ah, on swollen bodies, hopping rife,
In fen of rotten blood of men and steeds,
Flock the corpse-fowl, that beat, mongst broken carts,
Their filthy wings, on dead brows of blue warriors,
Despoiled of ornaments and of seemly weed!
They labouring, till murk night, opened long dykes,
Bury, with pious hands, the woad-stained dead.
Sith washed, at a brook-side, from funerals,
Tending pure hands, to heaven, Britons curse Romans!

Caratacus continues in that forest,
Yet other days. Forbade divining druids,
Which signs read, in the bowels of sacrifices;
He issue, with caterfs, against the legions.

Lo, weary, at morrow, fugitives be come in,
To Britons' camps! Are men with ghastful looks;
As who have seen some gods! whose tunics rent,
Stained, (wounded they,) with war-blood. Erst found booth,
In green-wood camp, of king Segontorix,
Those cry out; Taken was, lord, by sudden assault,

Calleva; they only escaped, when slaughter, made,
There, legion-soldiers. Cometh then Guledig forth!
With immense dool, his mighty heart oppressed:
As when some king returned, from foreign wars,
Beholds his hall burned! and his fair fields wasted,
Are reft his cattle; and led away, for thralls,
Hears, sons and daughters, wives and little ones.

In cart the warlord mounts; whose trumpet note,
Doth signify, Take arms, and, from the forest,
March forth! Journey, come down into the plain,
Caterfs, where he them leads. By Caradoc, drives
Bodvocos, silent; seen how burned have Romans,
His marches! wherein whilom multitude was,
Of sheep-flocks, beves and steeds and happy wights.
Drives on, before him, swart Segontorix;
Who mourns Calleva: and he bears loosely in hand,
His whip and reins; nor cheers his stumbling steeds.

And, with his captains, which their long-maned teams
Guide, nigh to his, communing, Caradoc quoth;
Our fathers' fathers overthrew old Romans;
And their eldfathers' sires had burned proud Rome!

So we, helped of strong gods, shall drive from Britain,
As Cassiobellan, Rome's invading legions.

Is hardly a man, in our days, in great Rome,
Of stature seen: but full of wicked life,
Be all their marble city's stinking streets:
Wherein go thronging flatterers, ill-faced routs,
Like to that sallow flood, which parts Rome town,
And few of honest mind. And who great lords,
In strange lascivious banquetings, wont to pass,
Flower-crowned, on beds, with women's softness, laid,
Mongst curious meats and wine, in precious cups,
And vomitings, which should renew their lust,
And pipes and dance, the watches of the night.

That shallow glebe, which lies beyond walled Rome,

Of thralls, is tilled; for wars have nigh consumed,
Through all Italia, their ingenuous youth.
And their most soil, (which shelves, of hoarded earth,
On builded walls,) with only vines they plant.
Whose hot earth-blood, the cruel Romans drink,
And thirst then gore. And this doth make them mad,
To wars, wherein they hope spoil all the world.

When, to earth's brow, the Westing sun dismounts,
Who foremost ride, see legions' hill-set camp;
Whence hastily issued, lo, tall Gaulish horse,
With them, contend. But scythe-carts of Bodvocos,
Some killed, pursue the rest, to their paled vallum.
Over against them, lodged then Caradoc,
In a strong place; and sheep, to the caterfs,
Divides; sith visits them, from hearth to hearth.

Night fallen, sits swart Segontorix, on dull earth.
Is his dark thought, within his warlike breast,
How venge him, for Calleva burned and wasted,
With some new bloody overthrow of Romans.

He, of Atrebats, assembles two caterfs,
Midst the dim watch; and bound, with hasty oath,
Not turn their backs. Then, barefoot, they pass forth.

Yet undescried, like night-wolves, they o'erleapt
The Romans' dyke, pluck down the sharp pale-work;
In what part, (heard mules' voice,) they deemed the captives
Lie of Calleva, amidst the legions' carriage.
In a strange street, they light, of leathern tents;
Mongst smouldering fires of drowsy Roman soldiers.
Then coursed those Atrebats, to further bank;
Whence they, not having turned their backs, break forth;
Leaving much dread, (few slain,) to wakening Romans!

Was day now rising, over Britain's woods,
When Aulus glittering cohorts, from all ports,
Sends forth, at once; and, in long triple ranks,
Erects: and to the soldiers, where he rides,
Are only, in their first onset, dread, he cries,
Britons, like Gauls; whose vain inconstant minds,
Loose-tempered bodies, languish soon in wars.
Fear not their uncouth voice, nor rattling chariots.
Moreo'er, he hears, the Britons' king, fell, slain.

Thus he: but, on the part of glast-stained Britons,

Leapt, like a god, warlord Caratacus,
To scythe-cart. Captains, with great noise of warhorns,
Lead forth, already, their glast-stained caterfs.
Calling Cunobelin's son, each warlike nation,
By name; the lord records their fathers' deeds:
And spake, How, each day, should the Britons' army
Augment; but by your glaives must daily Romans
Decay. Stands Caradoc, in that winged white warcart,
Of Togodumnos: which now Romans viewing,
Marvel see Britons' king, returned from death!
Save, in the shoulders, seems this more, though less
Of stature. And leap three great alan hounds,
On, baying, before his sheen rushing chariot.

Twixt caterf and caterf, king Caradoc war-carts,
Stations; and light-armed runners, that hurl javelins.
Glitters the Romans' front, with arms and harness,
Like burning wood: long-heavy-shielded Britons
Stand, naked ranks, against them, blue caterfs.

Eftsoon, with Camog and Morfran, break forth
That leaf-crowned household, armed, of Togodumnos;
Which vow them, to fight on, to glorious death;
Or else, till they have slain, for Togodumnos,

Some Romans' duke. Men, in the vaward, run,
To-day, lo, with them, of Segontorix!
That lord shows, driving in his well-teamed scythecart,
To Britons, with his spear, where smokes Calleva!

Sternly, with sharp-set looks, each dying man
His weapon strains: bears bright skean many an one,
Twixt grinning teeth, to cope with plate-clad Romans,
To death. Hurled back with spears, erst, legions' ranks;
Their fierce hands rent, despising wounds and death,
The soldiers' shields aside; and stab their throats.

Segontorix, who now Romans' battles pierced,
On their reliefs, falls. Those, to-day, were cohorts
Of Flavius' legion. There, amidst the carriage,
And droves and captives, was great duke Vespasian
Compassed in, by that nephew of old Commius,
Horrid with barbare arms and shout and force!

But nothing he dismayed, his buckler cast,
Drawn his sharp glaive, before his martial breast;
And from his saddle, him smiteth round about:
Howbeit gan pluck him, Belges, from his horse.
And there, of Britons, had been slain great Flavius;
Were not that gods and Fortune of great Rome,
Sent his son Titus; who turned, in that point,

From fight, on the left wing, midst Sabine's horse.
He mainly rides, with Gaulish centuries,
And levelled spears, on those blue Britons' backs.
Soldiers, on foot, with their sharp stabbing glaives
And stiff shield-spikes, contend to save the duke.
Belges, albe they trampled of Gauls' horse,
That on them run; still, with victorious glaives,
And darts, yield, crying Calleva! Togodumnos!
No ground: but fight on, till their worthy deaths.

Last, hardly Flavius, cumbered on the grass,
Fallen from his spear-gored horse, with strong effort,
Of Titus and of Roman knights and soldiers,
Was saved. Segontorix, whom there none could pierce;
And those with him, from that great hazard, pass:
Their sharp spears stilling blood, of Roman deaths.

Other caterfs run, of cerulean Britons,
Fast down from hills, new nations that arrive!
At whose view, prudent Aulus commands, blow
Repair: withdraws, then, fenced by Sabine's horse;
Nor yet is midday, his unshaken legions.

Who come, strange island people, to the war;
Men bearded, bearing moon-bent shields, unlike,
Of a dark speech, to other Britons, are

Belerions, workers in the tinny mines
Of Penrhyn Gnawd, which Bloody Foreland named.
Decet, their king, upleads them, now, in arms.

Caradoc his chariots sends, then, trouble Romans.
Sith, at his word, caterfs, dig and cast bank,
In circuit large; and fence, with pales around,
In Roman wise, their camps. But scorn Belerions,
To lodge, in field, within a wall of sods;
Saying, that such were fit, on some hill-bent,
To pinfold sheep; Belerions fear no wolf.
Let fence them Romans, in a land not theirs.

Twixt eve, and fall then of short Summer night,
Silures, from past Hafren flood, arrive.
War-renowned sire, Moelmabon, leads their powers;
And his stout sons. With them march Demetans,
Their neighbours, herdsmen of West-hills. Of broc,
Or wild buck's hammered hide, is their war-weed,
Which stripe of shaft nor dart may lightly pierce.
Great-statured Idhig, is their valorous duke.

When erst shines dawn, on night-steeped earth's dull face;
The prætor, looking from his wall, discerns
The Britons' bank; and how now seems increased
Their barbare host. He deemed then good his soldiers
Contain, this morrow, in their four-square vallum.

Nor yet day's white-horsed, swift-wheeled, chariot
Was run forth, from the secret of the gods;
When swart Belerions, on blue Britons' part,
Known, by their horned moon-shields, in four caterfs,
Go up, with shout, sheen thickets of tall spears.
Silures and tall Demetans, from their camps,
Come forth, on whom falls fury of the war-god,
Caterfs in arms; and, with swift foot, they pass.

Approaching, those disdain the Roman vallum;
That should, digged earthen bank, their foes enclose:
And, o'er that wall, they hurl their scornful spears.
Caratacus, yonder, leads out his blue army:
And with the lord-of-war, come flocking scythecarts.

They dwell then, till the sun looks from high heaven;
Waiting, that issue Romans from their gates.
Some taste meat, other drowse upon their arms,
Lain down, to slumber, in their enemies' sight,
On the fresh grass. Now, after this, approach,
From East field, lo, new host, men guised as Almains:
And, helm-clad! other bands, beside those, march.
And who them leads, tall, riding on white horse,
A war-god seems. It is the ethling Thorolf!
(Known, by his white-horse targe, and raven crest,)

Illustrious seed of Brennus. Lately he passed
With long war-keels, East seas, from Albis' mouth:
Britons' caterfs him hail, with long loud shout!

Warned, by the rowers of the Redmare ship,
Proclaimed, this second year, through Estian march,
King Wittig hath, (wherein a people of Brennus,
Wonne,) all who follow would, o'er seas, his son,
In arms to Bret-land, there to fight with Romans,
Assemble to Elbe-haven. Were they, this moon,
Thence, twice, outsailed, in thirty long row-keels.
Who foremost march come, marvel to relate!
Almains to Britain, bearing Roman arms.

Is harness drawn from forest's sacred boughs;
Spoils, which their glorious sires, of vanquished legions,
Uphanged, yore, to their strong Cheruscan gods.

Noble companion, Wittig, of Erminius,
Was; who his land's youth, leading against Romans,
In the last age, o'erthrew their consul Varus;
What day, of thirty-thousand Roman soldiers,
Out-marched from castra, thirty-score, uneath;
Which, gladly, gave their hands to bonds, 'scaped death.

That wood was a vast dying place of Romans!
Whose off-hewed heads, in all tall pines, nailed Almains:
Till none more found were trees, in Teutberg forest,

Whereon to hang the hated Roman face.
Wolves, those days, (which the wild roes wont to hunt,)
Did surfeit flesh, and vomit gore of soldiers.
Jowls of Rome's dukes, with pitch-daubed visages,
And gilded teeth, were, longtime, hanging seen,
With shields of captains, in rune-graven porch,
Of fierce Tanfana, goddess of that march:
Whose forest earth with men's bones, so wide round,
Was strewed, that seemed there heavens had rained chalk stones!

Too strait those spoils, for the great-statured Almains,
They were of them despised, and of their sons;
Till lately Thorolf warned was of Veleda,
With their own weapons to contend with Romans!
Then sent king Wittig, and were taken down
Morions and breastplates, for a thousand men;
Which Weyland's sons enlarged, with inset tongues,
Of hammered bronze, to Almains' just assize.

Halt, yonder, Almains, leaning on long spears.
Then, towards blue Britons' host, comes, barefoot, Thorolf,
(Token of mourning heart, for Togodumnos;)
And lords, with him, to hail Caratacus.

Thorolf, with Caradoc, mounts then battle-cart;

And joys, before thick blue caterfs, to ride;
And ordinance view of Britain's warlike tribes,
And Romans' vallum, in this land of Brennus.
Sith powdered, as he was arrived from march,
With angry and great heart, for Togodumnos;
The ethling Thorolf, twixt the hostile armies,
Proceeds to the mid-space. Hark, with great voice,
The Saxon hero proffers him to fight,
To-day, with Romans, many as this right hand
Hath fingers, which, before him, he upholds!
So come they on, by two, by three, at once;
And were those dukes, as he a prince of Almains.

Thorolf's warfolk gin, with hoarse insolent throat,
Chant of Rome burning, and great Heremod!
How show their heads then, bove the soldiers' work,
Men of a kindred speech, Batavians!
And, likewise, they, (though blow forth Roman clarions!)
Kindling their hearts, chant lays of Heremod!

Anon, the generous sons of Moelmabon,
A shield-wall made, before the ethling's breast.
Are those tall Cerix, Ferriog, Maglos, Merion;
That stand, to fence him, with their stoutest champions.
Hark! mongst tall Britons, Thorolf's Elbe-land Almains,

With boisterous words, revile those wall-pent Romans!
(Foemen, which overlook an high-paled vallum;)
Calling them, women! for their shaveling faces.

Then certain Roman Gauls have asked of Aulus,
He suffer, they might, from the castrum port,
Go forth, chastise those insolent barbare throats.
And Aulus easily grants. Should such, to soldiers,
Which look on, be a jocund spectacle;
Without effusion of the blood of Rome.

Mongst the allies, which proffered them to fight;
Praising their forwardness, choose his tribunes out,
Four hundred of the more robust: those pass
Then dextra-port, harnessed and armed as Romans!
Uneath three hundred Britons them await;
With hardly four-score Almains. Issued Gauls
Without; they ranged them, in four bands. For ensigns,
Those horsemen's spears advance; whereon they bound
Have wisps of halm. Each holds, in his shield hand,
Two javelins. Certain tall centurion horseman,
Is chosen captain of their centuries; one
Bassus, adorned with many martial ornaments!

Bassus, in Latin tongue, oration made;
Wherein he magnifies his faith to Rome.
He warns, use all advantage of the ground;

And skill they learned, in exercise of arms:
Are valiant those with whom they shall contend.

Of Britons' part, kings look on, from their war-carts:
Sit blue caterfs down, armed, in the long grass,
To watch the fight. Already, their strong champions,
Moelmabon's sons have ordered, in three bands.

Thorolf stands, before his great-statured Almains;
(Of whom is none, that durst not thrust, alone,
Mongst hostile ranks; nor blench his hardy face!)
His helm, inlaid with gold, of hammered bronze:
A boar's head is, with long gilt tusks, the crest;
Whose bristles gold. And he embraces targe,
Shines like the moon, that of Erminius was:
That hero, (in change of hospitable gifts,)
It gave to Wittig; whose light willow-wood
The hand, with wondrous skill, had overlaid,
Of Weyland, Saxon smith, with plate of gold,
And circuits of hard tin. Hangs Marvor, glaive,
In Thorolf's baldric, dight with coral studs,
The chain is gold, the haft of a whale's tooth:
(It Arthemail bare, men say, Rome's-bane, to Almaigne.)
This now he draws, conscious of thousand deaths!

Of the ethling's champions, few ben armed as Romans.
The most, for war-shirts, hammered hides gird-on,

Of elk, or bull: flint-stiff, with old war-gore,
Are many; of Wittig's, Elbe-land's, enemies.
An angry Gaul first hurled, against prince Maglos,
His dart: but he, protending his broad targe,
It bet back, on his foeman rushed with glaive,
Eager, in all men's sight, his life to reave.
Him deadly he smote, upon the brazen pan,
And cleft to chin; and fell the Roman cold.
And like as, in some bush, child, having found
Fowl's nest, it casts; and broken lie the eggs:
So brain and morion poured were on the grass,
Of this first slain, crude sight to Roman soldiers!
That look down from their wall: but, contrarywise,
Exult the glast-stained Britons. Hark, new shout!
For Maglos brake his glaive: yet, naught amazed,
The prince, stooped, wild crag-stone from field, uplifted;
It hurled gainst that chief captain of Gaul-Romans;
Who runneth in, with bright horseman's embowed glaive,
To slay him. On the sharp brim, of his targe,
The brute-mass pight: which, by that vehement stroke,
Back-buffeted on his neck and his large breast,
The weasand, bruised, and, (wonder to be told!)

That sharp edge severed. Spouting his life's blood,
Fell forth the dying Roman, on his face.
Exulting, Maglos spoiled, (fenced by strong warriors,)
Bassus, of harness, arms and ornaments:
His head off-hewed; then backward hurled, to Britons!
That, risen, make game, to spurn it, with swift feet;
Whereat laughed loud swart lord Segontorix;
That was not seen, sith Romans burned Calleva,
To smile. Had Thorolf leapt, with fearful shout,
Gainst Romish Gauls. His left hand took an ensign;
His right arm slew, thereat, a stout centurion.
Can none withstand the ethling's immense force!
Whose giant members fenced with scaly bronze.
As pirate prow, he wades war's bloody waves;
Pursues, like Woden; bloody harvest reaps,
His arm, resistless; men, as saplings were,
Hews down to death, and rolls them in their gore.

Cerix and Maglos, Ferriog and stout Merion,
Have, with their warriors, well-nigh overthrown
All who opposed them. Cerix' heel, mishapped,
In gore, then, slide; and he, of his own glaive,
Was wounded in his fall. Turned, at his cry,
Ferriog and Merion; and they run, to break
Much press of foes, which him now round invade:

But in that, each, in his unshielded flank,
Was pierced, of dart, which thick on them were shot.

Is this thrilled through the bladder and the loins;
Where quickly mortal is the bitter stroke:
Through shoulder he, to nipple of his breast.
Groaning, they fell; before their foremost warriors:
Which seen of Thorolf, he, with immane force,
And brunt of Almain shields, hurls back the fight,
And saved Moelmabon's sons; that were their corses
Not spoiled. Take up who noblest of his warriors,
Each prince, fainting to death, on his long targe.

Gainst plate-clad, valorous, Roman-Gaulish soldiers;
Thus naked Britons, and light-harnessed Almains
Fight: nor prince Maglos yet his germains' deaths,
Heard. He contending, boldly, far in front,
Gauls slays and chaces, to their Roman work.

Hark, lamentable cry, that thrills all ears!
Of an old wight, hath seen his children dead.
Is Moelmabon's royal fatherhood.
Though purblind, he his sons sees, borne back, slain.
He wallows on the ground; and his two hands,
With swart-snatcht dust, defile his reverend hairs.
His cry made cold, that hear, even Roman hearts.

Are Gauls put to the worse; for may none stand,

Before the brand of Thorolf; or the swift
God-given, to-day, great force of Briton Maglos!
Then other leapt down, from the pale-set vallum;
Romans, that hastily armed them, run in harness,
Gainst long-haired Britons, and their fellow Almains;
And likely had, eftsoon, sallied the two armies,
To battle, in the field; but Aulus' clarions,
(Heard, beyond hills, rebellowing sound of trumpets,
And confuse shouting,) Gauls recall to castrum.
Those, cast their hollow shields, behind their backs,
On every side, now, fly, towards Roman vallum.
Britons, with dreadful yells, pursue and smite
The hindmost. That day's cohorts of the watch,
Receive the fugitives, at their castrum port.

Sith, climbed some, in tall poplar-trees, of Britons,
Behold from river-lea, where men like Romans,
Flee scattered, before chariots. Sent out Aulus,
When Britons slumbering, (time of midday heat,)
His mules and waterers, from the hinder port.
But there had laid Heroidel, of Kent's scythe-carts,
An ambush: rushing now, from fenny brakes,
Those slay unwarlike wights and turn to flight.

Fierce Atrebats have sworn, again, to course
The legions' camps, to-night: but, with the dukes,
The Guledig is; who, for the princes slain,

Moelmabon's sons, make funeral sacrifices:
Yet, ere he parted, gave them one, Segontorix,
For captain, (who fights, with him, in his chariot,)
Young Madron. Poised, then, upright, on the grass,
His lance, quoth Madron; Should their battle-path,
To-night, be, where might, falling, this spear's point,
Show them! Which proved, with silent foot, they part.

They o'erleap the vallum; but there, from beneath
The paled work, rise up ready-harnessed soldiers!
And, as who taken is tardy, in wild billows;
When sudden eager surges on the shore:
Callevans, hemmed of thronging enemies,
Longwhile, might, not the unequal strife endure.
And for they, Belges, would not turn their backs,
Those warriors brake forth, hardly, with much loss.

Soon as the misty morrow gins to clear,
Clamour, with angry heart, to battle, soldiers.
Their forwardness praises, from a bank of sods,
Aulus; he shows them then the need of corn;
How they must march, to conquer some new dune.
Though Britons, now, in field, be a great army;
Mongst them, as wont with Gauls, soon, likely is,

Shall spring dissensions, and to factions grow.
So furious in beginning, shall these, then,
Lose heat; and that ere the cerulean hew,
Wherewith those stained have their pale bodies, fade.
As they wend forth, from council, Briton trumps
Salute the sun, with grave and dreadful note!

Chided this Summer night, Caratacus,
Impatient for the sons of Moelmabon;
Till he, on Romans, wreak their timeless deaths.
And Almain ethling Thorolf takes no rest,
So woodness kindles his great heart, gainst Romans.
Maglos sleeps, battle-weary; but all night,
He, in slumber, groaning, called the names, and wept,
Of his dear germains, went beneath the earth.
And Cerix, wounded, though he may not wake,
For drowsy herbs, which leech steeped in his drink;
Much wallows still, and winds, in troubled sleep;
Like red-hot iron, in tongs of cunning smith:
And when him new day wakes, he wakes to weep.

The sun uprisen, in wide field, now, are seen,
Wide-ranged, the naked Britons' blue caterfs.

The long-haired island king, in his white war-cart,
Rides visit the tribes' battles. Loud, great Caradoc
Cries; No man dear, to-day, account his life!
As bird, loost from the hand, shall each soul mount,
From his cast flesh, to star-hall of the gods.
And promised, with main voice, Caratacus;
Who fall in fight, their children should not want.
Avenge they now, in field, king Togodumnos!
All shout and smite, again, the glast-stained Britons;
Bright arms, to bulls'-hide-dight long wicker shields.

Thorolf cries, in their speech, to battailed Almains,
Riding on white war-steed; Are those the Romans,
Whom oft, both sides the Rhine, our fathers slew!
But could not Maglos speak: he silent looks,
To gods in skies, (else his stout heart must break;)
Unto whom he vows a nation's sacrifice.
Was heard Segontorix shouting to his men!

Who, duke, leads up Icenian thick caterfs;

And seems his four-square targe a tower of brass,
Is Antethrigus. Next enranged to his,
Are the thick spears of merchant Troynovant.
Marunus, Cadern's son, is their bold captain.

Who midst moon-shielded swart Belerions rides,
Is Decet; stand then battailed Demetans.
But Catuvelaunians, Britain's royal tribe,
Thick spears, blue-shielded ranks, the middle hold:
Beyond whom, Dobuni, that Bodvocos leads;
And Trinobants, which neighbour Troynovant.
On the two horns, are Maglos' stern Silures,
And light-armed power of Kent, and squadroned scythe-carts.

Blue Britons, seen, that come not yet the legions,
Sit down on the green herb; and battle-songs
Loud chant, from tribe to tribe, which made Carvilios.
And now hot noon, sit Britons, negligent;
But Thorolf risen, impatient, after meat,
Lo, shining bands, his warmen of the Elbe,
Upleads. Now passed mid-space, a wall of shields,
The castra they approach. Then sound out clarions!
And issue, harnessed, from all ports, at once,
The shining legions. Caradoc leaps, anon,
And every Briton captain, to his scythe-cart.

As cornfields, hurtled of new-breathing wind,
Rise up the woad-stained tribes, in their caterfs.

Like glittering immense flood, of storm, borne forth,
Rolling great billows, poise of Roman legions
Hath first invaded thick-speared bands of Almains.
But they, well covered of their hide-dight shields;
Break, like fast rocks, and cast those waves, aside,
In bloody spume. To succour Almains, scythe-carts
Outrush; join battle blue caterfs with cohorts.
The heavens rebellow infinite battle-noise!

Strenuous, fulfilled of ire, the soldiers fight;
That hope win cattle, and prey of slaves and corn.
Is first the woad-stained host, tumultuous,
Of Britons broken; then, they repulse Romans.

Valorous Bodvocos, leading thick caterfs,
Was parted from them, in much battle-press;
And closed, with few, in pale of Roman glaives.
Nathless, made fence of bucklers, the king's warriors,
Shouting their gods! fight, ring-wise, round their lord.
Men fall, each moment, of them on their arms;
Till few be left. Then gored, by a shot javelin;
Fighting, to save his men, the prince waxed faint:
Nor able more his homicide iron to wield,

He, first of Britons' kings, was taken alive.
Yet hardly and bellowing fierce disdain, like bull,
Which, bound with cords, is haled of many churls.
Nor able valorous Golam was, on whom,
He loudly called; nor Cadern's son, to save
Their friend; though both thrust forth, with eager spears.

Maglos on the left horn, makes head: Silures,
Lifting their woad-stained hands, to the bright heaven,
Have sworn avenge, this day, the royal tomb!
On glittering scythe-wheels, hurls Caratacus,
And seems the flaming god! To dukes records
He, and blue tribes, their old renown in arms.
He, found Heroidel, bade speed, with Kent's war-carts;
And from the rearward, where less firm he sees
Their ranks, set suddenly upon the hindmost soldiers.

Wend, without whip or rein, at Caradoc's voice,
His three wing-footed steeds. Do souse, in full
Career, the winds, about the warlord's ears;
And backward fly the king's long gold-bright hairs.
He sends more scythe-carts out: and his great voice
Heartens, whereso he comes, blue warriors,
To glorious deeds, in all the army's sight;
Smiting, like threshers of the Autumn corn,
The soldiers' face. He casts far-flying javelins,

His steeds tread Romans, with their brazen hoofs;
And with sharp scythe-beam rend, and burning hooks,
And dauntless pikéd breasts, the enemies' flesh.

Yond cometh on Thorolf; and doth Romans break,
With spear and glaive of his tall Rome-clad Almains!
Are they, when battle-fury on them falls,
Strong leapers in the bloody dance of Woden!
Many have wide wounds; is seen much swart warblood,
Both on their arms, plate-harness and broad shields.
And marvel Romans, seeing barbare Romans!
And in the sun-god's ray, those boil and sweat.

Heard confuse clamour sound, behind the castrum;
Where now great cloud arrived of Cantion chariots.
Again, bids blow repair, the prætor Aulus;
Deeming new nation of unvanquished Britons,
As in the former days, assailed his legions.
Turning to Britons, evermore, their faces;
Foot behind foot, and joined over their heads,
Their targets, Romans draw them to their castrum;
Leaving the trampled slaughter-plain, to Britons;
Wherein lie five glast-stained dead, for one Roman.

With Camog and Morfran, Segontorix,
In twilight of the stars, o'er Roman vallum,
Again breaks, silent: and now, rightly, falls

The Guledig's glaive. Calleva's captives found;
(With loss of few, and blood of fearful Romans,)
Segontorix hath them saved, beyond the walls!

Yet quoth the Foster-Muse, I looked and saw,
Fly shapes of demons, under covert skies.
In form of raven, lighted Nemeton,
On rocking elder spray; she, craking dire,
There vomited battle-corse and rotten gore!
Nigh where have kings now supped, under oak-bough;
And, in their hands, yet hold the silver cups,
Of royal mead, whereof they drinking, (called
Their names,) made mention of who battle-dead,
And erst of Togodumnos! and had poured
Drink-offering, to dark gods of underworld.

Those then, anew, one upon other, stare!
Surmising, still, of Togodumnos' death.
Men murmur, as with baleful dreams oppressed.
Nor is Duneda with them, nor Manannan;
In whose wise breast springs counsel of a god.
But were those now went forth, and Caradoc;
With Maglos, that, to-day, was, fighting, stained,
With honour of a Roman captain's blood,
To comfort Moelmabon, sire; who sits,
Mourning, half-blind, alone, in the wide forest.

And none rests, who knows heart-appeasing words;
Which can men's kindled breasts, (ere they, like coals,
Flame forth, to civil strife,) in one, accord;
As iron annealed with iron, welds cunning smith.

To rancours of old faction, warped their hearts;
Some captains blame the conduct of the war.
Then Guledig spake, renowned Segontorix;
(Incensed by braids, untimely; like mis-shot,
And venimed, shaft, of friend's hand, that attains
Friend and him wounds; from lips of Antethrigus;)
Irreverent word of great Cunobelin's house!
What recks he more, he hath redeemed his oath.
Risen in fierce heat, he, mongst them, then, goes forth.

Marunus, Golam, Morag, silent sit.
The generous hearts, in their young warlike breasts;
Ache, gazing on Bodvocos' empty place!
(Nor helps it, these, mongst elder kings, to speak.)
Decet now slumbers, in the outer camps;
And Idhig came not, who is slow of speech.
Thorolf went early out, with Almain lords,
Unto whom is tongue of Britons yet uncouth:
And pight his white-horse ensigns, twixt the camps;
There he, till morrow's light, will wake, in arms.

Last called, to loud strife of unseemly words;

Which bandy dukes, in hearing of the gods,
The Britons' supreme lord, behold, approach!
With Caradoc, comes Moelmabon, mournful sire,
With frozen eyes; distained whose reverend locks,
With ashes of the hearth; for his sons' deaths.
Walks, father of good read, divine Manannan,
At the warlord's right hand. Comes, like a god,
Who rides, above the storm, Caratacus.
All who wait on his lofty countenance,
Will his high word obey, when he commands.
Comes, then, Duneda, looking on the ground.
Lifted her raven wings, when they sate down,
Flew forth the fiend; for soon should rise the sun;
When (druids ween,) should be night-hag turned to stone!

And seemed tall Maglos, Belin; Camulus,
Caratacus; and high father of the gods,
Moelmabon, as they sit! Befell, arrived
Then druid; whom, by the hand, Moelmabon's druids
Lead in, before the watchfires of the kings.
This, messenger of the oracle of some god,
Seems; who, in his hoar-yellow locks, long plume
Hath bound, of erne! Is he, a month of days,
Faring, with two companions, come from Mona.
(Are they of Samoth's druids.) With wildered looks,

Spake Airol; Groans, in the god's temple-cave,
Resounded; and his priests heard divine voice,
Say, how the former weal and free estate
Of Britons, save all kings, of Samoth's house,
Of one accord now, were, in Roman war,
Must utterly perish! At Duneda's voice,
Uprisen; then kings, touch all the warlord's glaive,
And knit right hands, among them. Caradoc, then,
Bade quickly mix the sweet-breathed metheglin;
Wherein steeped herbs, which able to remove
All heart's mislike, guile, rankling weariness.
He sends, anon, call in some noble bard.

And founden, soon, is Melyn, mongst broad shields,
Of Verulam: and, bard, leads now a caterf!
To battle armed, he, from the royal cup,
Drinks dulcet mead; and sith, deposed his targe,
And glaive, on bough, uphanged; his martial hand
Strook the shrill instrument; and seem his chords,
To thunder, and to languish and to weep!

He mourns now Britons' dead; he threats proud Romans;
And quickened are, with ire, all Britons' hearts.
He chants, to comfort of king Moelmabon,
Of heroes, which now, mongst high stars, have being.

Who fallen, on wicker shield, is, on his face;
Against the dawn, flits his immortal breath,
Waked, as from dream of sleep, from the cold corse.

He chants, how Ogma, spokesman of the gods,
This morrow's day; when great far-journeyed dead
Arrived, from sunless paths of underworld;
Had called their names aloud, extolled their deeds;
And, gracious, nodded on them blesséd gods;
And antique heroes took them, by the hand.

When now Moelmabon heard, that mournful sire;
How came unto star-hall, his fallen ones,
And entered music, in his frozen ears;
Betwixt his hands, he, bowed his hoary head,
Slumbers, that had not slept, since his sons' deaths!
Prince Maglos, doffed his hair-locks' circling band,
Of gold, them tyres, what time in battle-cart,
He rides; and to that maker of sweet lays,
(Who joying it received,) it gave in hand.

Then Melyn, touching new stern chord, prepares,
To sing an onset; and sow in men's ears,
Words, that should seem the voice, in his war-rage,
Of battle-god. He sounds loud piercing note!
Whilst young men armed, in silver cups, bear round
Ambrosial mead. But ere lords might it taste,
Heard blowing warhorns, in the Briton camps!

Upleapt all lords, and snatcht, with troubled hearts,
Their arms; they, hasten forth, to their caterfs.
Yet was but parting of the Atrebats:
Segontorix, that forsakes Caratacus!
The warlord's runners speed then, through the camps,
To bring him word, of all that falls, to-night.
They find unwearied Thorolf keeps good watch;
With his tall Almains' guard, twixt the two armies.

Or Nemetona; the same as Nemon.

By that defection of Segontorix,
Is weakened the resistance of blue Britons.
Wherefore, when druids, which read the starry hours,
Proclaim, is mid of night, with long loud chant;
Britons remove, and leave their burning fires.

March the caterfs, and come down to Thames' ford,
The chariots, as Caratacus imposed,
Station in the main stream, to break, above,
The water's force. They, by the full moon passed,
Britons, from thence, ascend to lofty woods.

Where lodged; come eftsoon kings, to the warlord,
To council: heard, then, read of Moelmabon,
And of Duneda and divine Manannan,
And Dumnoveros; king Caratacus,
Who, in his mind, it studied, beforehand,
(They say, the like intended Togodumnos!)

Concluded, to divide his battle-carts,
(Are they three thousand, with him, scythed warchariots,)
Into four courses. Two should vex the Romans,
Each other day; whilst pasture twain their steeds.

To Beichiad, (who base son to king Cunobelin,
Born in his age,) he gives the first to rule.
Stout Rutupiæn Heroidel, most expert
Rector of war-carts, o'er the next, he set.
The king commits, to Brentyn, his third course:
(Was this young lord, a kinsman of the queen.)
To Fythiol he, by read of Antethrigus,
Assigned, (of all East-men, that fight in chariots,)
The fourth course. Much them charged king Caradoc,
(According to that word of dead Cunobelin;)
From every vantage ground, kill and cut-off;
Harry the marching trains, and hem their horse,
From corn and daily pasture of the grass:
Nor Romans suffer, night-time, to take rest;
But still outwear, with new and new alarms.

Foreriders now arrive, of Ordovices,
Known by a blazoned hammer in their shields.
Their host, horse, archery and thick spears, approach;
And Kynan, war-renowned, their king, them leads.

With kings and captains, mounts Caratacus,
In battle-carts, to meet him, in the path.

Now, when was known, Bodvocos, wounded prince,
Is, mongst the captives, in the legions' castra;
The legate sends Scribonius, cure his wounds,
(Which his own surgeon is.) Ended the war,
This island-king, means Aulus, should adorn
His triumph. But come, to himself, Bodvocos,
Mongst soldiers! for he would not live, unworth;
His healing bands did rend, with furious teeth.

The new-born day, wide-shining, from the East,
Behold, from their paled walls, the cohorts' watch,
Void the wide champaign, of cerulean Britons!
Then Aulus horsemen sent, explorers, out.
Towards noon, returned; those bring him word, they found
Wains' tract and chariot-wheels, footprints of flocks:
They followed forth, then, Britons' multitude,
To a large stream; which the enemies have o'erpassed.

When from his guides, (Belges of Cogidubnos,
And false Vigantios;) Aulus, not far-off,
Hears, Caer Corinium; dune, whose king, is this
Wounded Bodvocos; where laid also up

Much victual, whereof present need have soldiers;
He sounds, that issue from their camps, the legions!

Cirencester.

They few leagues marched, see cornfields yellowripe,
Nigh to their path. The legate, with new clarion,
His armed trains halts: then, sends, from every legion,
A cohort, to reap down, with their short glaives,
Bread-corn. Being come, together, to that place,
Deposed their shields and hauberks, Roman soldiers,
Gin crop the jocund ears. Then, with iron noise,
Fall; suddenly outrushing on them, from nigh wood,
Swift-wheeling chariot-squadrons of blue Britons!
Horrid with scythed beams and wheels' whirling-hooks,
And dreadful yells of noble barbare warriors.
Who stand, to fight, on them, the island youth;
Outrun, on their scythe-beams, and cast thick javelins!
Nor tussocks let them, stiches, stubs, nor stones,
But their shrill-leaping axetrees all o'er-ride.
Some leapt-down; even join battle, in the plain.

Under their wheels, rumbles the clodded glebe.
Being taken unready, helmless Roman soldiers
Blue Britons' onset might sustain, uneath:
Yet globed them round, who their most strenuous ones,

Romans, with glaives, (few of them have snatcht shields,)
Resist, with the Italic fortitude.

The dreadful justling war-carts now passed forth;
Return, anew, on them, with whirling hooks!
Their teams all of a foam, and crackling whips;
And glorious cries of Britain's charioteers!
Britons' shrill raging wheels now hold, in chace,
(Which Aulus sent in aid,) the Gaulish horse.
Fast flying, through the plain, those frighted steeds,
Maugré their heads, their cumbered riders cast.

Then borne away, alive, were knights and soldiers;
Tending their suppliant hands, to men and gods!
Captives, to druids' dreadful sacrifices.
Seen this new case, which happened in a moment,
Aulus, himself, a legion's eagle snatched.
Him cohorts follow fast, in sounding harness;
Not otherwise than who his fellow seeing,
Fallen in some mischief, runs on his winged feet;
Nor recks put, in adventure, his own life;
Might only he save that other, from dark death!
Their knees leap to their breasts, on the green grass.

Over-against those, issue from hill-grove,
New cloud of war-carts. O'er stone, over bush
Jump their sheen war-wheels. Captain of East-men,

Icenian Fythiol guides; whilst the first squadron,
O'er whom young Brentyn rules, withholds apart,
To blow their sweating steeds. Sith, all the Britons,
Hurl, freshly yelling, on the approaching legions!

Then grievous were the maims of trampled soldiers;
Rushing, with generous brunt, of their piked breasts,
The island steeds. Is any thrilled of dart;
To grass leapt, sever, with sharp belt-knives, drivers,
His leathern bands; and, mostwhiles, saved their cart,
They issue, harmless, with an horse's loss.
Last, Britons draw to wood, with panting steeds!

More heedful, henceforth, is the cohorts' march.
And when their trains, to an hill's bent, gainst eve,
Gin first, where some fresh fleeting brook, arrive;
And there green meadows, pasture for the horse,
The clarion sounds! three times, to measure camp;
Whence was not, till the fifth day, that now legions
Approach, to Caer Corinium of Mid-Britons.

Then, when rekindled was the sacred ray,
Behind them, in the East: whilst Romans march;
Their scouts, (light horse,) entangled all the paths,
Report, beyond, widewhere, with woven wood!
Custom of Britons, in their island wars.

In that, assailed them Beichiad's rushing chariots.

Fall many, in the long glittering trains: sound trumpets,
To halt! Then, hastily, the more valiant soldiers,
Them ordering, pierce, with darts, the Britons' steeds;
That issued from all rule, and mad with smart,
Yerking, with brazen hooves, bring all to naught.

Repulsed those Britons, Romans now, in forest,
Enter, beyond which, say their Belges' guides,
Lies Caer Corinium. They see great felled trees;
All wattled whose green boughs, like nightmare dream;
Where weary way, under their knitted shields,
Must open, with their glaives, Italic soldiers.
Lurk ambushed wights, in every thicket grove.
Them labouring, thus, the sun, at afternoon,
Already, in forest darkness, seems go down.

The Roman cumbered cohorts, next day, pass
The Churne. And, lo, nigh-hand, that Britons' dune,
Fenced with pale-work, upon a bank of earth.
Halts Aulus, and commands, that all take meat:
They rest an hour. Romans upholding, sith,
Round knitted shields, over their bronze-helmed heads,
Assail the Britons' bulwark. Drag down soldiers,
Impatient, with long grapples, stones and earth:
Though hail out on them be, of sling-stones, shot;

And flights of bitter shafts, and sharp-ground darts;
And ruin, óf down-húrled beams, doth oppress,
Whole ranks, at once. Viewed this destruction, Aulus,
With clarion's voice, recalls his legionaries.

He, sith, commands, that captive king, bring forth;
And set within the danger of their shot,
Which look down from the wall. Dobuni cry out!
That see their lord bound and entreated thus.
They stretcht their palms to him, lament and weep.

Aulus, through an interpreter, proclaims;
And they, to Cæsar, yield them, and pay ransom,
They should have their lives saved; and will the Romans
Their king restore them, to be under tribute:
Else soldiers, in their view, for Romans slain,
This king will kill! Forbids, by sign, Bodvocos,
And royal shout; to all, to yield his dune!

Is clamour heard, on further part, anon.
Hath, son of Flavius, young deed-daring Titus,
There, (scaled the bulwark,) broken in, with his cohort;
Where waited none defenders for the Romans.
Those leapt-down, in the dune, soon overrun
Few herding folk and old palled wights; for all

The hardy strength of Dobuni is in field,
Caterfs and ensigns, with Caratacus.

Titus, made slaughter, in their market place;
Shouts, mainly, to nigh bronze-clad legionaries!
They throng in to him. Thus Corinium taken
Is, in a moment! Wherein prey find Romans,
And victual, more than ere was in Calleva.
All old and impotent folk, slay, angry soldiers;
Pill, at their list, and bind for thralls, till eve;
Nor heed then voice of clarions! to repair.
They blood-stained lodge and eat, in Britons' bowers.

But entered in the dune; set guard, the legate,
Of knights of Rome, for he, this night-time, fears
Might aught mishappen his seditious soldiers.
When, in Bodvocos' hall, to sup, sits Aulus,
Loud-rattling thunder shakes the dimnéd world:
Soldiers, that drunken lie of metheglin,
Do think they voices hear, of Britons' gods.

In this night-wrath of heaven, and the thick rain,
And lightnings serpentine, of prince Beichiad's men,
Certain, climbed covertly, have entered in the dune;
With fierce hearts burning, in their bodies cold.
Mounting, afoot, those vowed gifts, to war-gods,
And might they achieve some hardy deed on Romans!
Some having, neath their cloaks, hid fire in pots,

Kindle house-eaves; whereas they now grope forth.
Whence, soon, vast flames are raised, of the wind-god!
Like spotted wasps, that men burn, in their nests,
Under the clod, with sulphur fume, by night;
Then perished many lives of legionaries.
Even Britons, captives, with their fettered feet,
And weight, in their gyved hands, of brazen chains,
Slay, in night-tumult, many Roman soldiers.

Bodvocos, wakened, in his fever-dream;
Being all, at cry of fire! his guards fled forth;
Upleaping, in his own hall, caught a staff;
And by a Tuscan lamp's dim shimmering light,
Groping, where he bethought him lay the duke,
In litter, it to-dasht, with furious force!
But, in night's tempest, ere, went Aulus forth.
Nor yet the legate rests, for busy thought;
On whom lies weight, of all this war, for Cæsar.

Returned, his servants, raging, find Bodvocos,
Whom left they bounden, as one half forgot;
Nor lightly, again, might all together take;
So, frenzied, he lets drive, to every part!

Barefoot, tread Beichiad's venging charioteers,
Without-forth, silent! They, now, the king's porch;
(Hoping to find and slay, therein, chief Romans,)
Enter: from threshold, hurl now with sharp glaives,

Of glittering bronze! Then short and dreadful strife:
They smite, to death, as hunters beasts, those servants!

Bleeding, on floor, dead-seeming, they Bodvocos
Find, for had one, whom he hurt ere of Romans,
Betwixt the shoulders, pierced him. The prince lifting,
They say; He is not dead, hath pulse his heart!
As precious thing, they bear the hurt king forth,
On their wet shoulders, twixt them, softly laid.
Not wont to fear, now fearful men they are:
Through storm, through flames, how might, without mishap,
And danger of armed thousands of strange Romans,
They steal, to-night, him forth. But those, when nigh
Now to dune walls, were met with, by the watch
Of soldiers, which relieve the guard, with Aulus;
Where few, gainst many, fighting, fell those all;
And, smitten, died king Bodvocos a new death!

Full is of bitter smoke, Corinium dune;
Of blowing flame and lurking foes, unseen:
By whose shot shafts, out of the covert night,
Die many Romans, pierced. And when now, erst,
New day begins, through misty reek, to break,
The last of Beichiad's charioteers scape forth.

The prætor gave commandment, then; Off-smite
Bodvocos' head, and crucify the corse:

But nail his long-haired poll, high, on tall mast,
To take away the glast-stained Britons' hearts.
Which fell out contrary; for more hardy grown,
Britons, in open day, durst, ofttime, rush;
And desperately contend scale Romans' work!
Tempting, still, save their king Bodvocos' corse.
Romans who vanquished, hardly adventure forth!

BOOK XIV

ARGUMENT

Aulus enquires concerning Verulam. Britons vex the legions' march. They take, again, Calleva, from the Romans; and slay all that are found therein. The Guledig, Segontorix. Romans, returned, find Calleva destroyed now, by the Britons.

Claudius Cæsar sets forth, from Rome, for the Britannic war. His trireme ship, overtaken by storm; he is saved, to Ligurian coast.

Caratacus now passeth Thames; and tarries, in a woodside, to make funeral games, for Togodumnos. Wise counsel of Manannan. The first day's sacred pomp. The Romans approach. Now, at morrow, when a ford is found, the legions pass over to battle. Geta, beset, is hardly saved. Gorran chaceth, before him, a drove of horn-beasts, that fall upon the Roman ranks. Morag is slain, by Titus. Evening of that day of battle. His burial. Grief of Caratacus.

Tidings come from Gaul, that Claudius embarked. Aulus, at day, proposes a truce, for funerals of the dead. Response of king warlord Caratacus. Council of Briton kings. Caratacus, the same night, marches, with a part of his army, to meet Cæsar, at Kent's shore. Upon Antethrigus, Icenian magistrate, is fallen the sacred lot; to be grand-captain of the host left, at Thames, in arms. The warlord's march to Cantion cliffs.

Romans have loost from Gesoriacum port. First to assail them, in the narrow seas, are Iscan ships. Afterward, that pirates' fleet have set upon Romans, which Bloodaxe, earl, commands. A pirate keel mishaps; and the raven-standard is taken. Yet, ere the fall of night; have, with now sea-faring Cæsar's Romans, met Thorolf's returning Almain ships.

Claudius' Romans, entered Thames' mouth, cast anchor in an hythe. At cockcrow, they disbark. Kruin the maimed. Word hereof is come to King Caratacus, on Cantion cliffs, at morning-break; who has received, already, grievous tidings of the destruction of his army; which he left, at Thames, with Antethrigus.

Rain on Corinium burned, incessantly
In the next days, the lowering island skies.
Aulus reads forth, in comments of the war,
Which Julius waged, (ere ninety years,) in Britain.
Then, called, to him, his guides requires the legate;
Where is that Verulam, The-heart-of-Britain,
Dune, eretime, of a king named Cassiobellan?

They answer; Towards sunrising, from this town,
Six marches. But, and taken were Verulamion,
Should fall the more tribes, from Cunobelin's son;
And all this warfare, shortly, then, were ended.
Much marvels Aulus, where blue Britons' army,
Became, in the last days! He, to Calleva,
Deems good return; and thence withdraw his cohorts,

He left for garrison; and with speed, passed Thames,
March to assail that royal Verulamion,
Whose king rules, o'er South tribes, of all blue Britons.

Wait but the clarion's sound, ready to march,
That levied have their tents, the joyful legions:
Which heard, with all their carriage, they pass forth;
And with rude songs of soldiers, cheer their path.
They journeying, all day, see no Briton chariots;
That for refreshing of their teams, were driven,
To valley of sweet pasture, in the rain.

A certain hird was sitting on green hill,
One rich, before the coming of the legions,
In field and fold, and goods and wicker cote;
Whose wont, in days of his ere happier state,
Was, tossing pebbles in his fist, or with
Crisp lip, loud shrilling, on his shepherd's pipe;
Or warbeling, soft, among his bleating flock,
Of love-longing, his careless stars to spill:
But all his weal the Roman-Gaulish horse
Have borne away, a prey; reaved, burned and wasted!
Whence is he now become the beacon's watch.

This, spied far-gleaming arms, of enemies' march;
Rathe kindled his, there heaped, much gathered wood:

So raised thick smouldering smoke, of stalks and grass.
Sith armed, with only sling and bat, run-forth,
On strong swift feet; he, passed much upland coast;
And tiding bare, to Fythiol, within night.

That duke then, of the scythe-carts, of East March,
Leads forth, (dim shines the moon, in falling rain,)
Ere twilight of new dawn, five hundred chariots.

They come down, nigh where Romans' camp, now halt:
Lest, even of their feltered wheels, the noise
Were heard, and their horn-footed steeds. To grass,
Leapt charioteers, anon; there left in hands,
Of few of theirs, to ward the smoking teams,
With silent foot, those steal forth, with their arms.

Now are they come, to the first slumbering cohorts;
Which, weary from long march, and no foes seen,
Were lain, unfenced, to-night, down in the plain;
Neath Summer stars, about their dying fires.
Even the helmed watch drowse, leaning on their arms.

Who sleep, dream hideous voice! By bitter stroke,
Of glaive, those wake; to sleep, in endless death.
Britons pierce and slay forth then stranger Romans;
Strong robbers those, slumbering in their wet fields,
Not guests! till their red hands ache. Soon, heard tumult!

With harnessed hasty tread, the Romans' watch
Approach. Like fierce wolves, then, in the night-murk,
Blue Britons, which have houghed the tethered steeds,
Of Gauls and Roman knights, scape forth to warcarts.

Buried the dead, at day, then soldiers march:
(Fierce is whose countenance, for that ire, which fills
More, daily, in this Britannic war, their breasts!)
Nor Britons cease the legions' trains to grieve.
Each hour, they kill, cut-off and carriage seize.
Romans, now weak in horse, more slowly pass.
Nor aught abates blue Britons' hardihood!
Calling, for vengeance, on their gods, they ride;
Careless of wounds, despising warlike death.

In that defection of Segontorix,
Withdrawn, awhile, with his main power, to woods,
Warlord Caratacus is, before the Romans.
Though meal brought Britons, in their four-wheel wains,
And, with the host, are driven flocks and horn-beasts;
And feed forth swine-herds for them, in the forest:
Yet all were less, than, many days, suffice,
So great an army of Britons' might to eat.
Wherefore, whilst many arrive, other turn home.

But being, by Kynan's coming, sith increased;
When they have digged, and laid their battle-dead,
In foster-mould; march swiftly long-haired Britons,
Whose meaning now is to surprise Calleva.

Through storm, through rain, leads Caradoc chosen men.
Come nigh that dune, rushed Britons, from thick groves.
First on the bulwark, Hammer-axe did seize:
On other part, stout Thorolf, with tall Almains.

There left, with Roman sick, were chapman wights,
Slave-merchants are the most, men wont, on mules,
To softly ride, amidst the legions' carriage;
With hope, to enrich them, of poor Britons' loss.
None such, nor suppliants, Britons leave alive:
Nor, (the dune taken,) even captive Briton wives;
Lest such, being outraged, they should bring forth Romans!

Laid Caer Calleva's dust, with Roman blood!
Britons heap, glittering, there, against the sun,
That cometh up, now, as flames, to rot their flesh;
Helms, harness, spoils and arms, to their war-gods.
Kindled their blood-stained furious hands then fires;
They leave, new-burning, that accurséd place.

Yet, heard not warsire king Caratacus,

Whither Segontorix, parted from him, went.
The Guledig, night-time, rode, by a murk forest;
Where being, of hím, in that his furious mood,
Afraid, his servants, one by one, spersed forth,
In green-wood paths; which seeing, at morrow-tide,
Segontorix; he, would, (deeming himself scorned),
Then, proudly, on Bladmar, his renowned broad glaive,
Have died; but, feigned some heavenly sign, his druid,
Of favourable birds, withheld, uneath!

Segontorix, with dark looks, then, towards South March,
Rode forth: where, come to Belges' Cogidubnos;
He, with that traitorous king, dwelled in his court,
And even in his war-booth, pitcht in wide field.

Sith Cogidubnos, moved by false Vigantios,
Lay a wait to slay him; lest so warlike lord,
Before their own unworth, should be preferred.
But he, had timely warning of their fraud,
Through woman-thrall, one faithful to his house,
Born at Calleva, escaped, that night, to wood:
Where, madding in his mind, for fell despite,
He cursed man's kin! till happed the Guledig meet,
Wandering, another day, in the wide wood,
Base swineherd; who drives, in that oaken shaw,
His grunting drove. This, in his boisterous speech,

Tells, Caer Calleva is taken! and were, therein,
All stranger bloody Roman soldiers slain!

Brake-forth, like dew, on the king's wildered front,
A sweat, then, token of returning health.
Yet lurks he, in that wood-side, from all men's view,
(Whom he abhors!) save of few sullen druids,
Which in rough bramble-brakes, and hollow trunks,
And thicket boughs of oaks, have lairs and bowers.
Running with sharp war-darts, Segontorix hunts,
Dun roes, for his day's meat, now, in wild forest:
Yet having, in dim holts and the brown brakes,
None certain harbour, or abiding place.

Not little is delayed the legions' march,
By daily onsets of the Britons' war-carts,
Erupting from all woods: the chariot courses
Succeeding one another, without cease.
Weary they nigh, at length, to Caer Calleva.

When looked they, should now greet them merry note,
Of clarions, from yond paled new Roman walls;
And shine, above, bright helms of fellow-soldiers,
The rampire desert is! They hear no voice:
But seen are ravens, flying and alighting.
Avert, (all cry,) the omen, gods! discerning
A vapour rise, as smoke, now, from yond walls.

Behold, then, open gates! A fetor smites,
Their sense, ah! horrible. Halts now, with loud trumpet,
His legions Aulus; and he sends forth horse.

Those entering find all silent, blackened walls,
Thatch smouldering; squalid, with much gore, the dust;
And all the air ahum, with filthy flies!
Grave rotten stench of half-burned carcases;
Which beaks of crows have rent, and teeth of hounds.
They see, in all the ways, lie murdered Romans.
And who rode further, to the market place,
Saw trophy heaped, of Roman shields and arms;
Glaives, hauberks, shining helms; spears, cohort's ensigns.

Then found was wounded follower of the camps,
Half-quick, one only of all remained alive;
That barked hoarse, to them, from neath bank of corses.
To him, drawn forth, Scribonius gives now drink,
Hot wine, with herbs; whilst supple men his joints,
(As wont is in the bath;) and he revives.
Yet so sore mate he is, he might, uneath,
Sigh forth, to Romans; The third sun is this,
Sith Britons' slaughter! Such, the fainting wretch,
Said forth; he in Scribonius' arms, deceased.

Soldiers, their Roman dead draw to the dyke;
And rake down on them, overthrown the walls,
Much earth. This sepulture have their fellow-soldiers!
So, made them ready; they, with vengeful hearts,
And sounding trumps, march from that impious place.

Now, by foot-runners, tiding out of Kent,
Caratacus, from lord Dumnoveros, hath;
Lies, these days gathered, in all river-mouths,
Of Gaul's mainland, a new great Roman navy,
Ready to embark soldiers: and is Claudius
Cæsar now looked for, to arrive from Rome.

The port Trigemina, Claudius passed, with pomp
Of purpled magistrates, and great Rome's proud Senate:
And hopes return triumphing, clad in weed
Of gold, with glorious laurel in his hand!

Embarked at Ostia; he, with guard of soldiers,
That eve, sailed forth. The fourth night of their voyage,
Bellowed swart heavens; and fell a mighty tempest,
O'er wild waves waste. Cæsar's great trireme ship,
Rowed under land; and labouring, with bruised oars;
Wind-buffeted, twixt coast and roaring billows;
Was like be cast on a lee shore, and perish!

Rome's emperor hath, unprofitable Claudius,
Being hardly saved, under Ligurian coast;
Now entered in small haven, Antipolis:
Whence riding, many days, by mountain paths;
To rich Massilia, he is reached, at length.
Thence, by paved street, which through all Gaul, upleads,
He journeys forth, in wains, with guard of horse.
Yet partly Claudius, as in Summer heat,
Swift streaming Rhone, in gilded barge, ascends.

Now Antibes.

Lo, Thames' wide ford, where Caradoc now arrives,
Is streaming shoulder-high of his tall Britons,
As after rain. Swimming their chariot steeds,
The army hardly o'erpass. Caratacus
To certain slade, withdraws, then, his caterfs;
Twixt that ford's head, lies open and hill-woods:
Whereas, in doom-ring, of great unhewed stones,
Stand altars, hallowed of all neighbour tribes.

Wont Briton lords lead, with them, their chief druids:
And was, behight, now, druids; In this place,
Be holden, three days, solemn sacrifice;
To memory of kíng, warsire, dead Togodumnos.

When this have runners published, in nigh march;
From hundred wattle-hamlets, and from cotes,
Much people wend; even from Caer Verulam hearths.
By valley and hill, when time of night, they pass;
Or journeying, in day's light, hold forest paths;
For fear, (nor they armed folk,) to be cut-off:
So far in field, have Romans sent out horse.

An open ground in woodland; A. Sax. slæd, a valley.

Come bereaved women, mothers of slain men,
And wailful widows to Caratacus;
Which heard, should a great weeping there be made,
Of every kindred, for their fallen ones.
The first day, for slain warlord Togodumnos,
With chants of bards; the second for Bodvocos;
The third for who most, mongst South tribes, of name.
The fourth day, to the commons, should be given;
In many a field, they sleep! Caratacus,
Should poll his long gold locks. In such discourse,
Come mingled throngs, in many upland paths:
Nor yet, with voices shrill, they raise lament.

Captains and kings, the while, in council, sit.
Some read, Before the marching Romans, best
Were burn and waste. Some mean, Main power of Britons,

Should join, with Claudius, battle at Kent's coast.
Manannan gives good counsel, Send, in ships,
A power to strive, beyond the seas, with Romans,
In their own Province. Should not Gauls revolt,
And Romans be constrained withdraw their legions?
Duneda and Moelmabon praise this read,
As wisdom from the gods. In glittering harness,
Leapt bear-strong, on his feet, and elk-swift Thorolf.
Lifting to skies, that antique brand of Brennus;
Gods of our sires! he cries, and heroes' spirits!
To Summer-lands, lead on, before our armies:
So shall we Italy burn again and Rome!

How sigh, with mourning sound, these woods; and seems
Cover the heavens, so wide, black funeral weed;
And skies to weep, for Togodumnos' death!
Camog and Morfran, riding in one chariot,
Open the sacred pomp, at afternoon.

Stand children, with them, of dead lord Bodvocos.
And, after, with king Caradoc, comes on foot,
Illustrious band of kings! their long gilt locks
Have polled, for grief of Togodumnos' death;
And on the altar laid: and now are crowned
Their royal fronts, with the swart boughs of yew.
With solemn chant, then, barefoot druids pace.
Sith, thousand men of war, reversed their arms;
An hundred chosen out of every nation:
And tears distained have many a woad-grim face.

Lo, she, who wimpled women's train upleads,
Mothers of fallen men and handfast maids,
Undone, is wailful Loga, of Cunobelin,
Daughter; and sister to three battle-kings,
Widow of slain Bodvocos, dead of face.
And as she wends, on her bare feet, she weeps.
Tear-worn, these many nights and days, she droops;
That seemed she primrose pale, dank with night-dew;
Yet appears majesty, in her travailled looks.
Women which follow, weeping, her, have loosed
Their long gold, broidered, hairs. Casting oft shrieks;
These beat their virgin paps, those wrong their dugs;
And all they rend their blubbered cheeks, to blood,
(Cheeks that seemed lilies;) chanting, as they trace,
The funeral lamentation, for slain men;

That fallen, in battle, are, upon their faces.
Three times, those turn, the people all beholding,
Weeping their dead, round builded empty pyre.

Camog and Morfran, which before them ride,
Are drawn of the teamed steeds of Togodumnos,
In white emailled winged scythe-cart of Cunobelin.
Those foster-brethren set forth, in dumb show,
His sudden hurt; how, from the king's hands, fell
The reins, and fainted, under him, his knees:
How leaned, on his broad shield, the king a moment;
And when he sank down, swooning, in his chariot,
How beat his helm, alas, on the cart-brow!

Such seeing, do loudly weep thick-thronging Britons;
That hill and river-mead, with mighty sound,
Rebellow of armed nation, that lament.
Nor the, gold-girt, warlord, Caratacus,
Standing mongst his high peers and royal warriors,
Kings of the glast-stained nations, with bared heads,
Might more his mighty soul refrain from sobs:
So, for his germain, he afflicts himself,
He was not nigh, to shield, in battle-press,
Nor did receive his brother's dying breath.

At afternoon, begins, then, funeral feast;
And by their several fires, each people's bards
Harp and chant praises of their fallen warriors.

Druids, at altars, hundred slay, swart bulls,
And without number sheep, for the caterfs;
Whereafter should be quenched all Briton hearths;
Nor, sith, food cooked, by fire, should any eat;
Till new flame, for that old contaminate,
Have raised the sacred hands of the kings' druids.

Now eve; and the whelked stars seem hide their heads:
When mourned this people have, their fill, and wept,
For Togodumnos' death. Yet wives, gone forth,
With Loga, wait at heads of all the paths.
There clapping hands, these shrill, aloud, the names;
Calling all spirits, of who are lately dead,
Return! But went forth are the dead, like voice,
Which turns no more. Weep, women! Loga cries,
Weep with me, and bewail, for Togodumnos,
His people's shield, who leading the caterfs,
Some great hart seemed, at border of dim grove,
Which tosseth, in his pride, his mighty horns;
And for Bodvocos, matchless, both, in arms:
In whose burned city, ah! his severed corse,
Lies without honour of a funeral weed!

But come, again, into the hallowed place,

Where kings and druids; and flame the altar-hearths;
Loga, (whose arms more white than crudded milk,)
With deadly cheer, embraced to her dear paps,
Her children small, fell down in a dead trance;
For swoons her heart! and rue on her all Britons.

Men slumber in dun brakes, under long shields,
Pillowed on leafy moss, in the wild wood;
Their bed the forest earth, high heavens their house.
They sleep, nor look for coming of strange Romans.
Them, who uneasy sleep, wakes often voice
Of women's wailing, and loud smitten hands!
When spread new cheerful light is, on the earth,
Shall funeral games be made, of men and steeds;
Warriors to battle armed, and swift-teamed chariots.
And warlord Caradoc, many a noble meed,
To each day's victors, shall divide, at eve;
When sacrifice should be holden and high feast.
And all the tribes, assembled, with their druids;
Shall lay a curse on Britons, which gainst Britons,
Partake with the invading stranger Romans:
But, ah! a nation's prayer reject the gods!

Yester, his Belges' spies, brought word, to Aulus;
Passed Thames, again, have Britons' most caterfs;
And minished, Romans marked, the daily assaults

Of scythe-carts. Aulus deems must shortly fail
That barbare host, for lack of needful victual;
Nathless, he seeks; (for his own need of corn,)
And that anon, join battle with blue Britons.

Behold the legions' trains, marching far-off,
That seem a creeping flame, in their approach.
To Thames' fair river-meads, they now arrive:
But these, for fallen much rain, be made wide fleets.
There seek Gauls' horse, to find some ford, till eve.
Now night, bring Belges' scouts, to Aulus' camp,
Word; they, in twilight, ridden forth, heard loud chant
And harping, as of druids; and seemed all full
Thames' creeky shore, of fires and shining arms!

The streaming river goes down, all this night;
And Aulus sends, towards day, certain men, wont,
(Allies of Rome,) on bladder floats, to pass,
Bearing up weed and arms, the flood of Rhine.
Whilst march his heavy-armed, on this side, forth;
Those overswim; and on Thames' further part,
Close creeping, (now nigh day,) by thickets; erst,
They light, on some dim camp of Briton chariots;
Whose weary riders laid late, down, to rest,
In the short Summer night. And stand their teams,
Bounden, beside the war-carts; from whose wheels,
The bloody hooks; and from whose beams, were doffed

Long scythes of bronze: and, after barley ears,
Now trampling, rife, the daisy sod; they crop,
Through the long night, their sickle-reaped heaped grass.

Gins spring small morning fowls' new mingled voice.
Nor tarry pierce Batavians, on the earth,
Drivers of war-carts; and they hough their steeds.
(Wake Britons' gods, and save your drowsing warriors!)
Hewing and slaying, went those enemies forth;
Nor stint, till strewed is all that silent mead,
With corses, of whose blood ben plashes made!

Light shining, in their eyes; gin cartmen rouse!
Dreaming mischance; and heavy start to foot.
Fell yell, then, bellows from their yawning throats!
Beholding slain their fellows on this grass,
Inglorious; and who smite them are of Romans.
Though few, they on those run, with furious force.

Heard their loud clamour is of Aulus' legions,
Beyond Thames; and where founden now was ford:
And they, half-swimming, the cold flood o'erpass.
Rise up, from their night-lairs, caterfs of Britons.
Loud sound to arms! their bronze deep-throated warhorns.

Leapt on his feet, who aye wont, in his harness,
By his yoked team, to sleep, Caratacus.
Rapt, knits the king's own hands his royal steeds,
To great Cunobelin's scythe-cart. Straight, he mounts;
And smites the warlord's helm, day's rising god.

How looketh him Caradoc, round about, as Camulus!
Hark, Gorran! the king calls; who cometh, anon,
Running: and hastily upleaps the sire beside;
Who already, in white-winged, bronze-axe-wheeled, shrill war-cart,
The supple reins shakes. Then the three-horse team,
Whinnying, at their lord's voice, stoopt their broad croups,
Rush forth, spurning the mould, that seems to smoke,
Under their glittering hooves; which swart earth-clods
Cast up so thickly, as those the flocking crows
Were, which wont gather to a slaughter-place.

Is their lord's foster-hand which guides them forth;
With wondrous skill, mongst stubs and fallen trees,
Bushes and mire of that encumbered soil.
He late lay down; and yet he had not slept.
Like as who bread, unto the hungry, casts,
Caradoc cries warlike words, to blue caterfs;
Putting each one in mind of fathers' deeds.

Erst Dobuni, then, brake forth, and Beichiad's war-carts;
With eager yells, to avenge their lord Bodvocos.

Lo, Geta marching, with the foremost legion;
And him, with headlong fury, they fall on.
With sudden brunt, they hurl back his first cohorts;
And straight was Geta's horse thrust through, of lance.
To hollow heavens, rebellow yells of Britons,
A Roman king is fallen, for Togodumnos!

But the stout eagle-bearer of that legion,
Outran, against them, leading shielded press;
Of veteran soldiers, which, beside all hope,
With strenuous fight, their tribune snatcht from death.
Mounts Geta, only bruised, on new war-horse;
And dusty sweat wipes from his hardy face.
For his own broken, glaive of fallen soldier,
Is reached to him. Then Geta, his targe embraced,
He himself impetuous onset leads. Yet Romans,
Uneath, might beat, then, backward, glast-stained Britons!
Thick javelins' sleet, hurled of Italic soldiers,
Put Dobuni to the worse; whom pursue Romans.

Sith hasted Geta, taking bands of horse;
A compass ride, about dark alder wood:
Whence now he falls, unwares, on Britons' backs!
So brake their host, in two unequal parts.

Blue Britons' powers are hemmed, twixt stream and hill,
In narrow room; where only a part oppose
Can king Caratacus, against thick legions.
Stedfast, the Romans fight, with vengeful hearts.
Nathless, by ensample and his mighty voice,
Which reacheth far afield, whilst Gorran holds
The reins, Master of war, (whose mighty hands
Hurling aye sharp-fledged darts,) the king sustains,
Gainst plate-clad cohorts, that unequal strife;
Which raged, sometime, about his royal chariot.

Gorran bethought him, then, on a good wile.
He Beichiad calls, stand for him, in the scythe-cart;
And bear large shield, before the warlord's breast,
Wherein, twinned dreadful dragons shine embossed,
With coral eyes and white emailléd breath.
It forged a famous shield-wright, in West March.
Gorran, ran to the ox-herd, gathered drove
Of horn-beasts; which for whole-burned sacrifices,
And the army's funeral feast, had been reserved.
With withies and with ropes, then hastily knit
Those beves' grim necks; he chaces furious forth.
Running, with wide embowed horns, sharp as darts;
And, thwartwise, falling, on Rome's battle-ranks;
Those trample and confound their ordinance.

In this, the Icenian valour, deep caterfs,
Thick groves of spears, fall freshly on that legion
Vespasian leads, in triple stedfast ranks.
Vieing East and West March, in warlike worth;
Kynan's caterfs assail then, shaken cohorts!
Soldiers, that fly to Thames, pursue swift scythe-carts;
Whose hawk-like riders pierce the most to death.

Few win, to further bank; and dripping thank,
Trembling, in harness cold, their saviour gods.
Labours his legion; hark, bove battle-din,
Great duke Vespasian, shouting to his soldiers!
They, needs, must vanquish; else, most direful death
Them waits: their bodies rent at altar-hearths,
Of bloody gods, and should blue Britons' druids
Their panting bowels pluck, from their bleeding chests!
Vanquish, or die, then, as becometh soldiers.

Against Dumnonians, Cæsar's legate fights.
Those press on Romans, with returning force,
In river-mead. One wounded of his team,
To ground, leapt Morag, from his foundering chariot;

And drawn bright glaive, would smite atwo the trace.
Gainst him a knight of Rome, advanced his lance:
But valorous Morag smote atwain that wood;
And beat the sword this drew, then, from his hand;
And would have slain his foe: but in that point,
Fresh troop of Gaulish horse him overrode!

Who Morag thrilled with dart, was Flavian Titus.
Pierced through the navel, (where the hurt is death,)
Could Camluc's son not rise, to fight for life:
But to his foeman turned, with gnashing teeth,
His manly face, his eyeballs flame out ire.
And seest thou, ah, Togodumnos, mongst the gods!
Is Morag fallen, thy friend, thy loved companion.
Nor mighty men of Isca's royal house,
In so vast press of shields, might save his corse.

Stand still Dumnonian arms, at that crude sight!
And brake great mournful cry, from all their throats,
When abhorred Romans, o'er his body, pass!
Nor might the battle, then, Silurian Maglos,
Alone, sustain with his swart warriors;
For, backward, hurls them strong new head of soldiers
Nor might moon-shield Belerions; nor whom leads,
King Golam, Durotriges; nor main brunt
Of Trinobants; nor royal Catuvelaunians,
Being hemmed in little room, bear to them aid.

The battle staggers, partly joined in woods,
Part, in Thames' meadows, to his pebble brinks.
The day yet young, men's limbs run down with sweat,
And their sore-travailled breasts draw fiery breath.
Is purpled, with much gore, Thames' miry sod;
And quakes, as rotten fen, with warriors' tread,
And rushing steeds and battle-chariots.
But grows aye Britons' strength and hardihood.
Broad Thames runs down, among his sedges sweet,
Blood-stained, now full of fleeting carcases.

But when day verging to mid-afternoon,
Men say; amongst his silver waters, rose,
With hoary breast and sidelong dropping beard,
That, sedge-hemmed, antique Father-river's god:
Unto whom all streaming waters of the Isle
Be subject, on this part; as be all floods
His brother Severn's children, on West-half;
(Yet Severn's high fresh fords, his daughter, Deva,
Now rules.) And though, for Father Thames, this new
World's face; since o'er his channels Julius passed,
Bears strange mutation! (to his soul is geason. )
Yet pitying, in his mind, divine, blue Britons;
He Belin prayed, his radious gold-wheeled chariot
Drive down more vehement, in West bent of heaven.

Heard him the god. Like erne, stooped to sea-streams,
His team! that entering, towards their golden stalls,
(Cloud-curtained cloisters,) fades now the day's light.

Look, from that glooming firmament, then high gods,
On angry swarms of men, fighting in ranks.
Like to a fire the spears of Britons' front,
And legions' orders like wide-glittering waves!
And wipe desire of battle from all hearts.

Sith rising up, from Thames, cool evening breath,
Romans; and Britons, with Caratacus,
Who Morag mourns, with one consent, draw off.
Wends peaceably, so encumbers weariness,
The hearts of all, each army, then, to lodge.
Sith, mingled, go down men and beasts, to drink,
On pebble-strand of Thames' green oozy brinks.

Dark, without moon, and dreadful to both parts,
Night closes in; wherein Caratacus,
Warlord, for Morag, mourns. Uprising soon,
He himself, that, little moment, he did rest;
Who battled all day hath, to eat, reproves:
Whilst, yet, in field, unburied, Morag lies.

Him light forth, bearing brands of cloven pine,
Servants; with mighty men, o'er gore-stained grass.
Some shout! Is found already of Isca men;
(Where lie dead heaps of steeds, and warriors slain,)

Morag; how trampled, ah, of horses' hooves,
And bruised, alas, dead on his noble face!
That, uneath, without washing, his own warriors
Might read the hero's semblant! Lie confused,
(Where reaped Dumnonian glaives,) Romans with Britons.

Groaning, the hero, slain, on his burst targe;
They lift. The sire, with his own mantle, shrouds
His body. And treading, weary, on the dim mould,
His men, by turns, bear forth his nodding corse.
Goes up, great-paced, before them, Caradoc.
On that high hollow womb of Mother Night,
(Whose seed these flaming stars, which men call gods!)
Gazing, mused the warlord, in mourning mood:
How, to us wretched wights, no sign, those give,
That worship them, with daily sacrifices!
On ground. And bitter is his thought, had Thorolf,
Been here; and the four courses of his chariots,
Had this sun seen the Romans' overthrow!
Wherein, grief upon grief, is perished Morag;
Whom Togodumnos loved, as his own breath.

For need of provender; were the teams of chariots
Withdrawn. And the Almain ethling, yester, marched,
When had he sacrificed, for Togodumnos;
Heard tiding, that his keels, which sailed, with grain,

From Elbe's mouth, were, to Troynovant, come in.
Would not the hero, of his noble mind,
In so great war and straitness of the time,
Be chargeable, unto the soil of Brennus.

Passing, with grieved thought, forth, Caratacus,
The night-wind, to his ear, known weary voice
Bears; where lies gory most the battle-grass,
The warlord stands; whilst men bring torches' light.
And Morfran have they found, one of those twain
Forefighters, fosters of dead Togodumnos.

Ashamed, so long, they their dead lord survive,
They, all night, waked, in hoping soon for death.
But heard new cry of Romans; ready leapt,
Both, to yoked scythe-cart, longtime battled. Lies
Now Morfran wallowed, on this trod-down grass.
Fallen on his shield-arm is dead chariot-horse.
The sharp hooks wounded him, of their war-wheels,
And yerking hooves of his own dying steeds.
They sore have bruised and broken his pale face!
His other hand, yet straining spear, hewed is
Nigh off: ah, horrid war! And tarries, yet,
His warlike ghost to flit. On Camog, oft,
He calls, cast with him, from their foundered scythecart:
But this lies cold and stiff, already passed!

Brethren together fighting, in one chariot,
They a tribune pierced to death, for Togodumnos,
Frontinus Ælius, of the pia legion,
To them opposed. But flocking Gaulish horse,
Hurling thick javelins, wounded both their steeds,
That madding, in death pangs, o'erthrew the scythecart.

Here was fell Britons most, here thickest fight.
Hence lie blue dead, strewed to an alder wood,
All bushes sprent are with their jelly-blood!
The royal footstep Morfran knew and voice,
Of his warlord, germain of Togodumnos.
But his numbed other hand, being now released;
He, raught knife, fiercely his own gorge smote there-with!
Camog lies stark, under their battle-cart.

Bear forth the royal fosters, (made, their shields,
Their biers,) the warlord's men. Dumnonians march,
Before, that bear prince Morag's frozen corse.
Then, as the sire commanded, by red light
Of smoking torches, digged is one wide grave;
Before the altars of their sacrifices:
Wherein they lay them, in their bloody harness.

By the death-pit, upon his homicide spear,
Leans great Cunobelin's son; and in his spirit,

He curseth Romans, authors of this war.
Drop Caradoc's tears, on Morag's bruised dead face,
Companion of his youth, with Togodumnos.
First cast in, on them, mould, his royal hands.
Great loss have Britons, by prince Morag's death.

A. Sax. gesine; barren, empty, lacking.

Hark women's mourning, in this river-camp!
Now night; and Briton maidens war-bereaved;
(Whom formed had, as the lily flowers, high gods:)
For Morag dead, is their loud wailing voice;
Then, for all battle-slain. Had those even caught,
To-day, themselves up stones, and hurled on Romans!
Bear some ones purple stains of battle-wounds.
Other, in fury, advancing them; by the hairs,
Were haled, and slain, of swart wolf-suckled Romans.

Spread Gorran a bull's hide, for his warlord;
Whereon, now laid him, Caradoc sleeps anon;
For weary is he, with battle; and strong men
Him ward around, with hundred glittering spears.
Unquiet sleeps he, in this moonlight, and dreams.

Him thought he saw, flow, in wide firmament,
Then bloody stream, from altars of his gods,
Of Britons' wounds! He saw, thereat, rife spirits,
From faery hills, (that open lie, to-night!
And therein, dwell, men say, the newly dead;)

And gods descend, drawn of immortal steeds.
Him thought he saw, pale, come from sunless gate,
Of shadows, drive with them, his sire Cunobelin.

Gods held, to Cantion's sea, their course, forthright;
Whom all Red Taran's stormy cart forerides.
War-faring seemed they, in whose divine hands,
Were spears and glaives. And they were like to gods,
Whose imagery of sheen ivory and burned gold,
And marble stone, in temples of great Rome,
And clay, in Gaul's mainland, had Caradoc seen.
Yet, as he gazed, was left the sire Cunobelin,
On a white reeling cliff, looks o'er salt main,
Smitten by hollow, endless, surges round,
Wild daughters of the deep, in triple ranks.

And, to Cunobelin, came a spirit, upheld
The sire, that languished; who sits battle-armed,
And gave a long bright glaive, into his hand;
And cried; The event is hid, O glory of Britain!

Then waked, with sore constraint, Caratacus.
He sweats and shook himself, from sleep, uneath.
So rose, with mind to visit round the watch:
For he beholds yet shine, in heaven's wide steep,
Those plough-beves bright, which draw the wain of Samoth;
Still watching o'er his Isle, with jealous eye.

And, lo, new omen, without thunder sound;
A lightning flame, shot thwart the Summer night!
And, in the same, swift runners out of Kent,
To the warlord, arrive, from Dumnoveros,
With message; Claudius, now, from Gaul's mainland,
Embarked and paved the deep is with his fleet.

All sleep the hostile hosts, in both the camps.
Slumber, for weariness, lo, the Roman guard,
Even as they stand, upleaning on their spears.
Only the legate wakes, that, with few dukes,
Takes counsel; how might they win Verulam:
Since, soon, must corn be measured, to the soldiers:
Nor yet, unto their ears, comes, that sails Claudius,
From Gaul, with new supplies of men and victual.

Day dawning, Aulus sends forth certain Gaul,
One Laismor, wide-named for his great voice,
Like brazen trump, to publish, to blue Britons;
He would, that were observed, on both their parts,
A day of truce, for pious funerals.

Thereto sent heralds, to the enemies' vallum,
His answer made the sire Caratacus,
On this wise: Britons so much of their earth

Concede to Romans, as suffice to hide,
From the sun's eye, might their slain carcases.
He Britons' lord and king; in his own house,
For aught that he should do, of none, asks license.
He Romans grants, for this day, pause of arms;
And to call guests, (name sacred, mongst all Britons,)
Abhorréd soldiers! Send, then, each camp, forth,
Thousand unarmed, to gather in their dead;
Till this sun sets. Witness his truth the gods.

Sit Britons' kings out, in long parliament,
This Summer's sun. They drink brown dulcet mead;
But bitter, as their hearts, the idle cup
Seems in their hands. And who is there not hath
Of his high kin, some one, or friendship, lost?
In furrows deep, the slain together cast,
Men heap long mounds, on them; whence called that field,
By silver-streaming Thames, Mounds-of-the-brave.

A murmur is of lords, with untuned voice,
For grief; that reason, touching the new cohorts,
Which brings, from Gaul, in with him, Cæsar Claudius;
Soon, these should also come to land, in Britain.

Then fell a new constraint, on all their hearts.
Captains and lords, last, gave to this, their voice;
To send caterfs, to meet, at strand, Rome's fleet.
Their meaning is; (what though divine Manannan
Mislikes,) with a main power, even this same night,
Britons' warlord, towards Cantion cliffs, should march.

Absent the sire, should conduct of the war,
Be in his hand; on whom, by sacred lot,
Shall manifest high gods, they lay this charge.

Are demons which deceive your noble hearts,
O Island-kings, to Britons' extreme loss;
Even whiles they drink reek of your sacrifices!
Nor longer tarrying; fallen the fatal lot
Is on the Icenian war-duke, Antethrigus!
Who kings shall fare, make ready their caterfs.

With fifteen thousand spears, the warlord parts;
Bearing those with them, only five days' victual;
And with their fellows, left their bratts and stuff,
(As druids them prescribed,) they lightfoot pass,
Following, by Thames' side, Caradoc, who drives forth,
Before them, with an hundred Kent-men's scythecarts.

Strong Antethrigus, to Thames' lower ford,
Rides, with him. Leapt down, at dim streaming brink,

(Whence he must wade or swim,) Caratacus
Drew, joined their hands, the East-men's duke apart:
And took all-Britons'-king, of him an oath,
By moon, and these high infinite starry gods,
Upon his sword! he delve and cast, this night,
A bank; and crown with pales, round, Britons' camp;
Wherein the people closed, (whose warlike powers,
By half-part now is minished,) with their beasts,
Ere sacred dawn; in safety, still, might wait;
Till he, to them, may turn again, from shore;
With victory, that is promised of the gods.
And if should march, from Thames, the legions forth;
And to them other Britons come, in arms,
Withdraw to wood, and still outwear the Romans;
But not join battle, in an open field!

Caradoc, (unwist to Romans,) midnight, passed.
Are blowing warhorns heard, on Kent side Thames,
At day, of the king's marching Catuvelaunians.
Gather uplandish folk, to him, with bows

And shafts; wherewith they wont the flying hart
To thrill, in the dun brakes of Andred forest.
They pause, at noon, awhile, to eat and rest.
Sith lies by beechen hursts, and oaken groves,
Their path, whose mighty crooked arms embraced,
(Which guirland, oft, hoar woodbind's honey locks,)
Seem lulled, to slumber, of a smooth South wind.

Under night-heaven, which seems world's starry tomb,
They halt; they lie, till dawn, down, on their arms.
Comes Dumnoveros, then, with battle-chariots,
To meet them. The third day was, after this;
When Britons' host arrived to Cantion cliffs,
Now lodge king Caradoc round, on the white grass.

Lo, weary warriors, shadowing with their palms,
Their eyeballs! look, then, under the sun's shine,
Wide o'er salt waterfloods, towards Gaul's mainland:
To wot, if yet come sails of enemies;
Over the fleeting borders, which high gods,
Eternal fence, to this fair isle, assigned.

On the spring-flood, ere yester, Romans loosed,
From Gesoriacum, in six-score longships,
With hulls of charge; wherein stand elephants;

(Through Mauretania and Spain and Gaul, had marched;
And sith, were, at quay-side, hoised with strong engines,
On their high boards, uneath.) In other hulls,
There lie gross beams, huge unknit frames, embarked,
Of wheeled machines; to hurl huge stones and darts.
Shall train them, Cæsar's Afric elephants.

A full moon shining, lightens their sea-voyage.
But, (foes, in secret heart,) Armoric pilots,
So steer the Romans' ships; that though, towards Britain,
Be turned their beaks, yet in the tideway, driven,
Rome's fleet was, all night, towards the seven stars.
At day, a vast; then, open sea appears!
Whence, doubting, Cæsar hastily sends for Vidius,
Chief pilot: whom, eftsoon, before him brought;
To crucify, he threatens, on this mast!
If any, in him, unfaithfulness were found.
But Vidius shows, then, Cæsar, the sea's drift;
How wind o'er waves, then waves o'er wind prevail.

Till the mid-afternoon, they row and sail:
When bear down on them; that seem fleeting towers!
Tall barbare hulls. Were those Dumnonian keels,
Which sends Duneda. And as few Briton chariots

Invade a cohort; rush on, confident,
Not otherwise their prows, winged of the wind.

Glast-stained, on the brown stems, like men in scythe-carts,
Stand long-haired noble Iscan charioteers;
In whose hands javelins, long sea-pikes, slings, spears;
Grapnels and tallow and tar, in flaming pots.
The freshing wind, Britons' gross-timbered navy,
Drives, mainly, Roman longships now aboard.

Like flock of daws, cry, drenching, Cæsar's soldiers;
Which, loosed from port, had deemed, under the yoke,
Of Rome imperial, flowed the very deep!
They founder in cold billows, drenching, choke,
In bitter brine; whereon, can take none hold,
Their fearful hands. Iscans, which them o'errun,
Cry out, So perish Britons' enemies!

Chatter the toothless chaps of drivelling Claudius,
Known by his purple sail and gilded poop.
He dreads, midst mighty fleet, and marvels fast,
How full this sea-fare is of barbare arms!
Sowed dragon teeth, then, Æson's hardy son,
In these wild billows, under high plough stars?
Whereof spring ships. He would, to all his gods,
That, from Italia, had he never sailed!

Kowain, who captains the Dumnonian navy,

Is borne through Romans' South wing, (that they break,
Firing some ships;) then, fetcht about, returns,
With swelling sails, made borde, on the North wind.
And as great beves, on droves of lesser beasts,
Trample, so their gross barbare hulls Rome's navy,
O'errun! nor can contend Rome's stoutest soldiers,
Gainst Britons fighting from an higher board.

Those thrust through, nigh to the imperial galley;
Which seeing cried mainly out Cæsar Claudius!
Are ship's-wreck, cold waves' death, fire-streaming pitch,
Come nigh him; whilst the barbare voice affrays
His very soul, of yond tall blue-stained wights;
Rings o'er the unstable Ocean, in his ears!

Now falls the wind, men ween, at prayer of Claudius,
Lifting his pontif's hands, to Rome's great gods.
Made the fleet-soldiers, then, new force of oars;
And with no little loss, uneath, draw forth.
All rowing, they the wind-bound Briton hoys,
At length outgo; and, sithen, lose from view.

Till night, when covered are the stars, they row.
Then weary they lie-to, not daring show
Light, in their lanterns. Mariners shout, from ship,

To ship, all night; and clarions softly blow.
Nor see men aught, when day begins to break;
Nor, neath their swart-brown bilges, weltering deep,
For the night mist. With rising wind, this lifted,
They sail forth; and hope, come, then, to some land.

But soon, behold, longships of single banks;
Which rowed against them, with impetuous force!
Yell, in their forestems, shaped like swans and dragons,
Tall wights, of other barbare tongue than Gauls,
That handle other arms. Their crated, bulls'
Hide bulwarks, all along, and weather boards,
Ben hanged with painted shields. From the thwart banks,
Rise helm-clad wights; and on them lift bright arms.
In woven mails, shine who the rest command.
Swords, bright bills, bent bows, are in their tough hands!

Is that a pirate navy, from North-way,
And the East-sea; and from the Amber Isles:
Long blue-straked and wing-breasted keels, that walk
Paths of the wild salt waves, with hundred feet.
Though bark now swart-bleak billows, and wars rouned
The wind; with sway of oars, a battle-wedge,

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Of prows, with raven ensigns, they fall on;
Spurning, that spumes again, the surging brine.

Stands every earl, to steer, in his back-stem;
His champions, midst the throbbing banks of oars.
In the forestems, stand armed their mightiest ones;
And their hoarse throats chant, Thunder, Tiu and Woden!
The pirates' fleet, as four-score long row-keels,
This night, from warding under Britain's cliffs,
Put out: the same which whilom called Cunobelin.
And they, that, as their own, the sea-waves ride,
More than all men, which neath the stars have being,
Are valorous; and great Bloodaxe them commands.

The king of Jutes outwent then other pirates,
By fleetness of his keels. Stooping, at oars,
Those thrust now in, betwixt the soldiers' fleet,
And heavy sailing carracks: they hold scorn,
As ballast-sacks, of unseaworthy soldiers.
And aye the worse have Roman legionaries,
Men wont to battle only on firm land.
Then yells of Roman drenching multitude,
Resound: those grey waves foam out Latin blood.

But Bloodaxe steers, the legionaries' ships

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To pass, where lies less booty to his hands:
He Roman carracks mainly falls aboard.
Then grapnels hurled-out; some inleap, with swords,
Some lightly o'errunning, on their banks of oars.

And slay the pirates all which, in them, sail,
With weapon; or drive, o'er their boards, faint Romans,
With untuned laughter of loud barbare throats!
Men of high looks and hard unvanquished force,
Wolves of the stormy forest of sea deep.
But when the earl hath, of a pirate keel,
Some carrack cut or twain, from Roman navy;
Being that as much as he might handle home,
In haggart seas, such, with their preys, fall off.
They take the large, and steer forsaking Romans.

Boulogne.

Father Sky, and antique war-god of German tribes; of whom, the third day of the Teutonic week is named. The word is the same as Greek Zeus, Lat. Jovis, etc.

Yet sped not all of those bold Esterlings.
A pirate keel mishapped, of fifty rowers:
In whose long dragon-stem, o'ergraven with runes,
Hight Sigefugl, a Roman beak pight fast.
Running, with three-square sail, other longship,
Like courser, that takes bit betwixt his teeth,
Reaved of the wind, fell on that pirate-board;
And brake, even to the staves, her bank of oars
Seemed then, with opened seams, that keel should sink;

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Nor holp runes, graven on their rudder-blades,
Of victory, which should save the ship from loss.

Hurled Sigemund, the ship's earl, his renowned spear,
Knit on a thong, that never swerved before,
Hight Sigegar. It smote on the helmed front,
Of Ælianus, a captain of fleet-soldiers,
Fellow of Massa; who, in Rome, whilere,
Was master of a school of gladiators.

Fell Ælian down, astonished, as one slain;
Whence kindled Massa, who his fellow sworn,
Banning the pirates' barbare gods and Fortune
Invoking of great Rome; he, in their keel,
Leapt, without targe; and furious onset made;
Wielding two swords, with mastery of fence,
And skill of stroke. And Massa eftsoon pierced
(Though many, round him, their tough shields had cast,)
With that in his right hand, the Scandian lord,
Pirate of immense stature and huge force;
Who in scale-armour closed, that shines like ice!
With whom, he wrestling; flung then, with foot-cast,
Him backlong; and his targe, (smirched with his blood,
Which he, gainst him, upheld,) he cleft, with glaive;
And carved his gorge. He, Sigemund, shield-swain, sith;
And Segrim, steersman, slew: and were they of those
Which had them borne, o'er-proudly, at Camulodunum.

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Rent Romans down their war-keel's gilded ensigns:
And Massa, (slain tall thanes which it defended,)
Took, then, those pirates' raven-standard, Tufa!
And yet the Almains' champions and boats' carles,
In the steer-stem, fight, for their lives, gainst Romans;
Though darts rain, on them, of two Roman ships.

But seen their lord and Segrim, slain, and Tufa
Is taken; and how are fallen their strongest champions,
In the forestem; the pirates their life-days,
Like unto cable-roll outloost, that hangs,
All-ready, on a ship's pin; perceive now ended.
They may not choose, but sup, to-night, with Ran,
Under the billows blue. The creeky shores,
Of their own coast, their eyes, the forelands fair,
No more; nor Britain's rime-white cliffs, may view.

Disdaining sue that barbare folk, for life,
Wherein they, which were freeborn, should live thralls:
Intoned loud chant, to the Alfather Woden;
They, all sudden, from broad belts, pluckt blades, at once,
In furious sort, with these, themselves did pierce!
They, then, thus dying, heapmeal glide and start,
Like bloody take of herrings, in the water;
Leaving opinion of their barbare worth,
To soldiers that admire, still, with pale faces!

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Whilst those thus perish, with inrushing wave;
Surging, (like funeral mound!) lo, long grey billow,
The pirate snake-keel reels, under those Romans!
That hasten, to their longship, turn aboard.
Founders Sigefugl; and Massa, in the abysm,
And most who with him, in war-shining arms,
Sink! He brays horribly; and spuming his fierce mouth,
Buffets, with force, the sliding brine, a moment,
But for all Romans might, with quonts and hooks,
And strife of oars, they could not Massa save!

Almains draw off. And when the ships of charge,
Whereof the most were scattered, and some lost,
Assembled be again, to Cæsar's fleet,
Claudius, vext with continual flux of heart;
Seen now the dreadful rover sails, at length,
Sink under wave-brow of vast horizont,
Though little, yet, sun's burning wheel dismounts;
From middle-height, gan, for his wine-cup, call;
Drinks mulse, and gives commandment, Set on meat.

Has Claudius Cæsar supped, on golden plate;
And full of surfeit, drunken, on his bed,
Of purple; whereon, like draff-sack, him heaved,

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His servants, routs. And as one newly dead,
No more recks he of death, nor of late dread
Of foes, nor drenching fathoms of salt deep.

Yet late, in this moonlight, have met with Romans,
Other long barbare prows: are Thorolf's ships,
Sailed from Thames-haven, and steering for Elbe's mouth;
Thence to return, with a new charge of victual.
On Rome's long galleys, full of drowsing soldiers,
That heavy row, those rush, with furious oars.
And as few dolphins scatter school of fish,
They Romans sperse, in the dim night and chace.

Dreams, drunken, Claudius; and their dreadful yells,
Io triumphe! shouts, him-seems, of Romans;
Passing his triumph gates of sovereign Rome!
Loaden with spoils of the Britannic war.
But envying some wind-god, the glory of Thorolf;
Night-mist now breathes, twixt them and Cæsar's ships,
And veiled the heavenly signs. Have those the moon,
But these not light to sail. Before their stems,
Seemed Almain shipswains loom, then, as white cliffs:
Wherefore their steersmen, fearing fall on land;
They lie upon their oars; but Romans pass.

By Cantion's Foreland, have the Romans' navy
Now safely sailed, and entered Thames' large mouth;

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(Shines, estuary, neath vast chamber of the stars.)
Like immense swany brood, lo, hundred ships!
Long rows, that Medway, Toliapis, pass;
Borne on a streaming tide. In night's mid-watch,
Sith Cæsar's pilots bring up in an hythe.
At clarion's sound, being anchors there outcast;
Lie silent the longships, wherein there sleeps
The power of Rome! At cockcrow, waking, Claudius,
Commands, by trumpet, That disbark his soldiers.

Who first, to land, descend, trench on that shore,
Then naval camp, foursquare. The immense elephants,
Uneasy was, upon that oozy strand,
Expose; and hardly achieved sea-weary Romans
Had all this busy travail, till late eve.
With wheels and pulleys, soldiers of the fleet;
Sith, on Thames' tiding shelves, under their camps,
In double rows, draw up, the fleet's longships.

Then Cæsar offers, solemn sacrifice;
A sow to Hercules: and to divine Julius,
He pours wine out, great father of his house.
And yet admire Rome's war-wont legionaries,
To see, in hostile land, none enemies!
Sith Claudius, leaving guard of his fleet-soldiers,

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One banner and six cohorts, legionaries,
To keep this naval camp; with blowing trumps,
From Thames' salt meadows, marched, at morning red.

Sheppey.

Came swift-borne tidings, to Caratacus,
At day, of Romans, that, in Thames, take land.

Riding on-high, in heaven, the white moon-goddess,
(Like mother of this silent starry night,)
Wide overshines that sullen water-face.
Toiled some poor fisher, nigh, in bascad boat,
That creeky place, to get his children meat,
Kruin, the maimed; and having now outlayed
His wicker sales, he cast, with prayer to Nuth,
His net; paid-out, and gan it now spread-forth;
When infinite navy arrives, strange keels, strange sails!

Then Kruin, softly, rowed, in his frail bark;
And, in thick sedges, hid him, lurked for dread!
He watched an hour; sith Thames'-sound, fearful, passed.
But toucht his little skiff, to Kentish shore;
He wakes there hamlet, with his shrill hulloa!
Men roused; confused, run from their cabans forth,
To the salt-tiding river's oozy brinks;
Deeming that wolves, or some boars' hunt, it was:

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For chill, like reeds, that waver in the wind,
They stand! When those have Kruin's saw heard out,
They holp him in to land. Those straightway, choose
Then, two of theirs, strong runners on their feet,
This tiding, to bear forth, to warlord Caradoc.
As scudding bush, before some lenten blast,
(Yet night,) those leap forth, o'er fair field of Kent:
Sith, boldly swimming, they o'er Medway pass.

To a great village, soon, then, those arrive:
Whose old men, from their mouths, heard that war-word,
Send swiftest runners; which towards Durovernium,
Speed, on their feet. Others they send, warflames
Kindle, on beacon-hill, calling to arms!
And heard from mouth, loud shouted through the fields,
To mouth, is the Land's-cry, as the day springs:
Which cometh, shortly, to the warlord's ears.

On Kent's white cliff, sits king Caratacus,
Mongst long-haired, glast-stained, captains. Leanness is,
In all their looks, and cast down Caradoc's face.
A dread long night, them seems, to live; were sweet
Short death! for other, earlier, tiding brought:
The army is cast away, with Antethrigus!

He duke, when Thames Caratacus overpassed,
Continued, with his power, nigh that ford head,

109

Two days: but Aulus, levied from that place;
Had marched and pitched again, towards Verulamion.
Now when had Aulus tidings, through his scouts;
That minished is, by much, the island host,
He certain Gauls sent out, men of his trust;
Which should make semblant, come to Britons' camp,
Of treacherous mind, to Rome-wards and the legate;
Feigning Rome's yoke, (this ignominy, and servitude!)
All Gauls, alike, would shake from off their necks.

Lo, led those Gauls, before duke Antethrigus;
Who sits, like a grim boar, with woad-stained face:
Unto whom few lords, at new light of the gods,
Be come to council: and the hero gives
Ear, to those Gauls' lewd tale; as that, the morrow
Ill-starred day is for Romans, day wherein,
Defeated twice of Gauls, her consuls slain,
Perished great Roman armies; day, when fame
Is, (those affirm,) lie drunken Rome's great gods!

Wherefore, when Romans shall much dread to fight,
Britons provoke them forth. Gauls then, would pass
To them, from the two wings. Of Antethrigus,
Persuade those the high heart, to Britain's loss!
He, then, the Roman-Gauls dismissed, with gifts.

His spies returned, the same day, those, to Aulus,
Relate; how Thames Caratacus had o'erpassed,

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With part of Britons' host. They few caterfs,
This side found; and them leads another duke.

And was, with hasting feet, to Britons' camp,
New power of East-men, for whom Caradoc sent;
And not few glast-stained bands, from the South March;
Arrived at Thames, by night, to Antethrigus;
Whose confidence was, thereby, much more, increased.

At day, sent Aulus, to his legions' trains,
Word, that they seem, disordinately, to march;
As who remove in fear, with haste and noise.

Whereof, when tiding brought to Antethrigus;
He deemed this the occasion he had sought,
And loud commands, blow up Icenian warhorns;
That march his army and pass before them chariots;
But left, unread, the omens of his gods!
Icenians foremost sally, a wood of spears:
Then swart Silures, strange Belerions;
And those stout hill-folk, whom king Kynan leads,
(Proud warriors those of mountuous Venedot. )
Then Golam, with sea-dwelling Durotriges.
Now all these hastily marching, from broad leas,
Of Thames, as who pursue, approach the Romans.

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Aulus feigned flight, unto green hills nigh hand,
Whereas, who are first come, gin vallum cast.
But Antethrigus, sent, before him, chariots,
It caused, by noblest Britons, be proclaimed,
In the enemy-army's hearing, to allies
Of Rome; Who yield their arms, and pass to Britons,
Should have both saved their lives: and who, in Britain,
Would dwell, should ploughland, sheep and house receive.
Behold then, many treacherous Gauls outrun!
Feigning who bows fling from them, and who spears.
Stretch suppliant hands those, as they swiftly run!

Get them to hindward, of his host, commands,
Loud, Antethrigus; that helm-clad, in harness,
Leads up long glittering wave of shielded breasts.

Then legions turn, in triple ranks, their face:
And battle joined, the first impetuous brunt,
They easily all do sustain of blue caterfs;
On whom fall, from an higher ground, their darts.

From Britons' hindward, sounds then confuse shout!
Those Gauls, which fugitives seemed, assail that part;
Uncertain, yet, to most, what thing men shout!
Whence dread the more; and wrying back their necks,

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Ingenuous Britons, with poised spears, forget
To smite, or, with shields, fence their naked breasts.
Gauls drawn out glaives, conveyed beneath their cloaks,
Have treacherously fallen, on the people's backs!

And yet strong battle wavered, on hill's breast;
When bleak-faced Fear; one of the bounden spirits,
Whom heavenly gods embayed, in wall of frost;
But broken had, to-night, that caitif forth,
Transfiguring his vast shape, to winter cloud,
From heaven-dwelling gods, himself to hide;
Gan shoot, like icicles, down his unseen shafts,
On the blue naked tribes; whose bodies pierced
Are suddenly of a strange unkindly cold!
Britons recoil, then, sore amazed their hearts;
So that they fall on their own battle-chariots;
Which part o'erthrown, with madding teams, their own
Woad-stained bands do o'errun! These, that had been,
For Britons' safety, now become their bane.

Rector of scythe-carts, most expert of Britons,
To manage warlike steeds and painted chariots,
Fell Rutupiæn young lord, Heroidel, slain;
In that he arrived, in strength of some war-god,
Swift-teamed, before the main of warlike carts.
The hero, for he would not urge his steeds,

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In Britons' press, nor more might wend his warcart,
Would have leapt down to battle on his feet.

Was then, an arrow attained him, in the nape;
Sped from a Gaulish bow-string. Passed, from part
To part, the shot; and like as royal erne,
Whom thrilled, under the wing, hath hunter's shaft,
Plumbs from the loft; so fell, from chariot-beam,
The hero down: and trodden on bruised grass,
Mongst the mean people, was, of flying feet.
And overdrave his own hooked wheels, alas,
The dying prince; and spurned his steeds' bronze hooves:
On whom, (now tangled in the reins,) anon,
They overthrew his windy rushing scythe-cart.

And taken had prince Heroidel a young wife;
Little ere that coming-in of fatal legions,
At the fond nod of drivelling Cæsar Claudius;
Bright Erdilla, flower of noble maidens all,
And daughter to rich lord of Kent. Her left
He enwombed, with fruit of happy marriage.

And is, alas! Heroidel's this brayed face,
This the duke's front? ah, whose ringed golden locks,
Thus rolled in bloody dust! was this the prince
Of Rutupiæ, who leapt to battle-cart,

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At call of the warlord and Dumnoveros;
In stature, like a god, in sounding harness?
Whom, o'er a fourth part of the Britons' chariots,
Had set Caratacus, sire, to fight with Aulus.

Is this that helm and front, as Camulus;
Which Erdilla's gentle hands, with plumes of erne,
Dight, and whereon she girt the golden band,
Of noble charioteers? the bearded lips
Are these, where last farewell of her spouse-lips,
She smiling-weeping kissed; when, from his hall,
She brought forth his cart-quivers, filled with darts?
And to her lord's forearm, his nimble shield;
And the ivory-helved whip took to his right hand!

He leapt to scythe-cart, and the supple reins
Shook, not then looking back, on his young wife;
And though sore longed his heart. At their lord's voice,
Wherein seemed, in hoarse sorrow, her name sound,
His generous steeds rushed from the sounding porch,
Panting to battle; and cried the prince, Farewell!
And would she have cried again; Heroidel speed
Thee, and save, in warlike field, the holy gods!
But voice remained shut-up, in her dear chest,
In anguish; presage, ah, of coming ill!

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Yet running, like to wailful plover, cried
She after him, a space; last, losing sense,
When seen, like little powderous cloud, the prince;
Who foremost rides, mongst Cantion's pomp of chariots,
She, of her maidens, was borne in, dismayed.

Now Erdilla, sitting in her maidens' bower;
(For enters she, as morning ray, no more,
Heroidel's hall,) sighs, in herself, and weeps;
For spouse, and that which lives, unborn, in her:
And daily vows makes, to her saviour goddess;
That might she a man-child, like his hero sire,
Bear. Soft her women, which her sit before;
To spin, to weave, the raiment of his house,
Of line and wool; whisper and weep, for ruth;
In that they look on their loved lady's grief!
But she marks naught; so is her thought distract!
Whilst, from her long-lashed eyes, fall burning drops.

She a sampler broiders, all with silver wire;
Hoar sea-cliff's image, on fair Cantion shore.
There was repulsed, Cingetorix, (her grandsire,
One of four kings of Kent,) great Julius' ships.
Was there, her lord, her love, did meet with her,
In the truce-month. Her needle she applies,
Gainst that glad day, wherein she hopes the prince,
Her spouse, come home, with famous victory,

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Should, mongst his lords, arrayed in this bright weed,
Sit feasting, in high hall of Rutupæia:
But, ah, he untimely dead, may turn no more.
In tunic stiff, with dusty sweat and gore,
Of mastery of brave steeds and battle-chariots,
He all unmindful lies. Foul ravens' beaks,
Shall fight, for spoil, o'er him, of his blue eyes!
Craking, and beating their stiff sheeny wings.

And, in one chariot, with Heroidel, slain,
Young Tulamor fell, fell pierced by Roman javelin;
Brother of Erdilla. Tempting him to save,
Golug, renowned, called the Black-hand-of-war,
Was himself slain; and generous Serpiol,
Leapt forth from his caterf, Belerion captain.
Hemmed-in the hero, of immense enemies' press,
Prevailed not his great force. When might, no more,
He his bloody lance, which slain hath many Gauls,
Advance; him flocking horsemen thrilled with spears.

Derwain, to succour; or, which he had vowed,
(His entire friend,) to give, for him, his life;
With scythe-carts' brunt, brake through Gauls' power of horse:
But in the jaws, a Gaulish lance him pierced,
Over his hide-dight targe. Tumbled from cart,
He astonished gaped; and dying vomits blood.

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Silurian champion passed by, in men's view,
(Is this one of great name, in his West March;)
Driving foes, like a flock, before his glaive!
This morn, had Uthol sworn, in battle-rage,
Which breathed in him war-fury, (wherefore bound
His helm, of shining broad oak-leaves, is seen;)
That would he slay, mongst thickest enemies,
Forth, without pause; till he himself fell slain.

Like some tall hoy, that strides before East-wind;
Deep battle-ranks he wades. Morgallion! calls,
Hark, his great voice. (He wist not that proud warrior,
Whom he, his father's son, himself, in place,
Of a dear son, had nourished on his knees;
And skill of arms, in his first manhood, taught,
Is fallen, already; even where rushed forth, of soldiers,
Great shielded press!) Thick fledged, lo, with Gauls' shafts,
Is now, of bull's hard hide, the hero's targe,
That seems a grove. As robust foster hews
His billets in a wood, this champion fares.
He shields and plate rives, on the brazen chests
Of little-statured, swart-strange Roman soldiers.

At many's cry, that call on him, to save
Heroidel's corse, he, turned him to that part;

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Then seemed some craig, that loosed of strong night-tempest,
Down-leaping from hill's crest, to plain beneath,
Through thicket breaks, and sith a shelter is;
So scattered he, before him, Gauls and Romans.

But, in that point, being come his hour, from earth,
Forewrit in the eternal stars, to pass;
Unwilling, him forsook strong Camulus.
Smote slinger of the Gauls, then, his helmed front.
Reeling his sense, astonished at the stroke,
He fell to knee; and stayed him on his hand.
And in that posture, running Rome's allies,
Him pierced Batavian swordsman of huge force;
And battle raged, round Uthol's bloody corse!

North Wales.

119

BOOK XV

120

ARGUMENT

Antethrigus' host is smitten at Thames. Romans march forth then towards Verulam. The dukes of scattered Britons are come together, in a sacred grove.

Caratacus and kings on Kentish cliffs. Good counsel of Dumnoveros. Britons march to Troynovant. Horsemen bring tidings, that Caer Verulam is taken. Generous oath of prince Marunus. The Roman conquest of Verulam. Claudius now marched from Thames' mouth; and Aulus journeys to meet him. Legions with Aulus pass the Lea. They come to Claudius.

Caratacus withdraws the Briton army to Camulodunum. Manannan journeys to Mona. Cartismandua. The North Britons' armed powers, marching with Velaunos, come down to Ouse. Cartismandua is seen approaching to Camulodunum. The next day arrives Velaunos' army. Ergund, lord of Mona.

Briton kings offer sacrifice. Warlike counsel of Cartismandua. She herself goes forth, to beset a woody place: whence her young warriors fall out upon the legions, which are marching by night. Vespasian saves the army. The Romans draw now nigh to Camulodunum. Their wartowers and engines. War-hags summon from hell the demon Wrath. Cartismandua, among the kings, rails on her lord Venutios. Vellocatus protests his innocency: but, gone forth from the council, he slays himself. Found of the watch, he is borne again to the town. Grief of Cartismandua. The kings' sacrifice on the wall.

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Was Cerix, mongst Silures, sore beset;
Though ward about him hardy champions' shields.
Maglos, uneath, like mighty ram, yet Romans
Rebuts. His brother's peril neither knows;
Nor germain might, of germain, receive aid.

Rector of war-carts, kinsman of the queen,
Is fallen young Brentyn, from his bloody chariot.
This night-time, had he driven, from fresh leas;
Where, pastured, three days, were his war-worn steeds.
Duke of a thousand, riding in swift scythe-carts,
He, at dawn, drew nigh, to vex the Romans' march.

Then glittering seen, this battle afar off,
Led Brentyn mainly forth: and hurled on Romans'
Light-armed, strewed much field with their carcases!
But falling, now, on cohorts of a legion;
There many teams were pierced: and the first chariots,
Being overthrown, was soon, that violent javelin,
Where thickest strife raged, pierced the hero's chest.
And to the mould rushed Brentyn! like as falls

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Tall pine, by lightning rent, on wind-scourged cliff;
And lay full still, dead body without breath.

Dungannon, the old, fell, spread his hardy arms,
With bracelets girt of gold, to stay the flight:
Stout lord was this, mongst Kynan's Ordovices.
In that he, father, each, by name, rehearsed
The young men's fathers, he, by Gaulish shaft,
Was pierced. Off-smitten Dungannon's head, a knight
It bare forth, on his lance, ruth to all Britons!
Madron and Berriol, his oath-brother's sons,
Fighting, amongst who foremost, to their aid,
Called their king Kynan; lest were spoiled his corse.
But could not Kynan, Hammeraxe, then break,
Of spears, that hurtling press! They, eftsoon, both
Fell on him slain. Cigfran, with sheeprich lord
Cadoc, and Aerg fell, Demetans, in that place.

Prince Kondilan, when now certain Rufus Cuspius,
A cohort's first centurion, he had pierced;
In that to gird-off his helmed head, he stoopt,
Him overran the triple-rankéd legion.
Stout duke he was of thousand Western men.

Fell Guelti and Devron, lords of Troynovant,
And Morchel, leading, (white-locked magistrate,)
Young warriors, archers, in his battle-chariot.
Blue Britons, clustered round their reeling ensigns,

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Yet turned their face, at shout of Antethrigus!
To strive, again, caterfs, with phalanxed Romans.
They woad-stained, naked, fight, with plate-clad soldiers!
Are those Vespasian's thick-ranked faithful legion.

Then, like as thresher, in the winter moons,
Smites stubble, in a barn, a long-haired warrior,
Gormael; who sometime dwelled, under blood-ban,
(An exile from North parts,) with Antethrigus;
One held in honour, for his matchless force;
Down-leapt, mongst stout Icenians, from shrill warcart;
Helms hews, bursts plate on panting breasts of Romans.

Gainst Flavius' thick-set ranks, another duke,
Trevorion fights, whose dune is in wide heath;
Whence fenny Ouse slides, tardy, to salt deep.
Is fame, could this outstrip the flying hart:
Seemed glittering chariot wheel, his burning glaive.
But, now, on his long heavy bull's-hide shield,
Stumbled the hero's foot; and slides his heel,
In slough of gore. In-thrusting, with strong pulse,
A stout centurion, midst the belly, smote,
With glaive; and pierced the iron the prince's bowels.
He fell, like half-hewed tree, drawn down of ropes.

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Casnodin nigh him fell, lord of dune-cliff,
In pleasant summer-land of Durotriges.

In Antethrigus' arm, is two men's pith.
And Romans he hath slain, from his swift chariot,
In heaps. Yet now he might sustain, uneath;
That Britons fly not, whom gin legions break.
On lofty steed, of Roman Gaul, his hand
Then slew, he mounts; and cries to stout Icenians,
Hold fast! whilst he recomforts the caterfs.
He, wheresoe'er he rides, finds wounded dukes,
Deformed caterfs, uncaptained chariot routs;
Whose lords, he calls, in vain, for are they dead:
Whence all dismayed blue Britons' warlike breasts;
Gin Gauls, with rushing spears, them override.

Returned; when now Icenians he dispersed,
Beholds, by new assault and poise of legions;
He alone, would desperate, then, have hurled on Romans,
So he abhors day's light, so covets death's
Great Night, which should him hide. He would might split
This mould, and hell-deep open, neath his feet
And let him sink, whereas men's bandied spirits,
Have rest, at length! War-druids, with mystic chant,

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And prophecy old, (as they allege, of Samoth,
Or Sarron, Star,) allay the hero's mood;
Even whilst, each moment, they convert their faces;
To see, if come not some new course of chariots.

Is broken the East-men's host, into two parts.
In this one, Dibon, gathered main of spears,
Them bound, with hasty oath of up-cast palms!
To turn again, and fight against the Romans.
He, in thick battle-wedge, with knitted shields,
Them leads. And all that cometh to their hands,
Romans, aye and Britons, (those which turn their backs!)
They spare not smite. Thus Britons' cumbered chariots
They save, though many fall. Last, hurled dart, pierced
Dibon, twixt belly and ribs; where mortal is
The bitter stroke. Groaning, he fell down, glorious!
Yet looked that dying champion, from the earth,
Like adder, which some cart-wheel bruised, to death;
And bade, with dying breath, fight on, gainst Romans!

Swift scythe-carts, those of the third course, which Caradoc
Sent out, to waste before the legions' march;
Yestreen, together, squadroned, by fresh streams,

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Where sprouts much tender herb. At morning red,
Beichiad, like Belin, for his shining locks,
Upleapt, in glittering arms, in battle-cart:
And he commands, instincted of a god,
All hastily drive, to ford of Thames, their chariots.
Standing, in war-cart, with aparted feet,
Bowed bodies, o'er their reins, and intent looks;
Behold, of Britain's Isle, the noblest youth,
That manage steeds, and incite, with loud shout!
Steeds that, from plashéd gore, were, lately, washed,
And dust, in the clear brook. On the yoke-beams,
Diffused are their long weld -stained gracious manes.

In every cart, ride two companion-warriors:
And each hath, o'er his warlike shoulders, cast,
Some goodly weed of shining needle-work.
Might seem the young men drave, (so each pair vies
In course, in glittering arms,) to joyous feast!
Yet nigher viewed, bear war-bruised shields the most;
Nor few have hurts: seen fretted are their carts;
And draw them, oft, unlike, and leany steeds.
Nor, (were they numbered,) more than an half-part,
Of them rest, o'er whom captains set king Caradoc!

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Now were they ridden, with jumping wheels, few leagues;
When, seeing much powderous cloud, before the sun,
They, drawn the supple reins up to their breasts,
Halt. Riders, leapt-down, fix their scythes and hooks,
Of glittering bronze. Shouts Beichiad, from his chariot;
Few words. Then put on all, with ivory whips!

Now those approaching; with some fugitives meet;
Of whom, they require tidings. Camulus, then,
New force infused, in their young valorous breasts;
And adds new wind, to their well-pastured steeds;
So that, like tempest-driven waves, they rush,
In full career. Uneath, their shrill swift chariots,
Seem touch the mother-bosom of the ground.
Like hawks, they stoop, on thick pursuing Romans.
Outrunning, to the yokes, on their cart-beams,
They hurl down darts; or lightly leapt to ground,
Fighting on foot, they fall, on blood-stained soldiers.

But seeing new cloud arrive of Britons' chariots,
With iron glittering tires and naves of bronze;
Bade sound, recall, duke Aulus! Halt his light
Armed, from pursuing; heavy legions halt.

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Yet only, of part, was that commandment heard;
For immeanse din, to heaven, of battle-noise.

Great Antethrigus, captain of the Britons,
This seen, assayed, with new grave voice, of warhorns!
To call again, reorder his caterfs.
But they, like wind-cast shocks, in Autumn field,
Lie dead: and scattered, like leaves blowen forth,
And without shields, the rest fly fugitive.

He, duke of the woad-stained, on his war-gods;
Which found, at need, no saviours, loud complains.
Dies any, and he were clad in adamant,
Whom Calad smites, his violent renowned glaive;
Which cleaves, in desperate hand, both iron and bronze,
Nor Calad swerved, which now a Roman knight
Slew, and in men's dumb seeing, which shrink, for dread,
Severing the brutish head, clave his steed's nape.
Hurt now by javelin's shot, his own war-steed
Sinks: lights the Icenian duke. In his war-rage,
Roars Antethrigus, like wild bull in forest!

In field, is fallen the flower of Briton warriors:
Around great Antethrigus, fall his peers.
For when Gauls' horsemen knew, that he, it was,
(Whom would those fence; whose head, unhelmed, for heat,

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Some blossomed bush seems of the island furze!)
Who to-day Britons leads; all hurl their javelins,
Greedy to reave his life. With thick pressed shields,
Those rush, then, in to take the prince, alive.

But seen, from far, his peril, valorous Kynan
Hath, Hammeraxe: and he, though hurt himself;
And lost much of his Ordovices' folk;
With strong extreme effort, of men and scythe-carts,
On gods loud calling! bet back Gauls and soldiers.
Kynan adjures him, hardly snatcht, from death,
Mount hastily in chariot, with him, save his life;
And give not so great vaunt, of war-king's death,
To Romans. Hardly yields duke Antethrigus;
For, erewhiles, these strong lords, in Britons' wars,
Twixt East and West March, had been enemies!

Dyers'-weed; wild mignonette.

They twain, now looking towards the Britons' flight;
Behold, how scattered far the armed caterfs,
Now in wide field are spersed, like water-drops,
To the deep woods; and little hope is left,
Gather again blue Britons, to their ensigns.
Nor they, for powder might discern and mist,
How set, on Romans, Beichiad's rushing war-carts;
Nor wherefore legions halt, now, in pursuit.

They grieved, then, drave apart, to a void place;

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Where covered thicket-hollow is from view;
Such as, whence wont outrush swift ambushed scythecarts,
Gainst marching legions. There light those great captains,
With drooping looks, and fastened on the ground;
Womb-god, which seems to-day devour her sons!
And drink their blood, which fostered had her paps!
They leaned, on their long spears, and the teams' yokes,
That seem to mourn, hanging their long-maned necks;
And other lords, there now together met;
With few hoarse words, hold hasty parliament.
They stare, each, upon other! and want breath.

Of certain druid, which ran by, fugitive,
They hear, (ah! might forfend it holy gods!)
Is fallen the generous son of Moelmabon.
Fell godlike Maglos, in one battle-cart,
With Cerix, who, beside his germain, drave;
When broken, that was never broken erst,
Silures' battle, was by new and last
Assault of shielded men, of Geta's legion.
And Maglos peer was of Caratacus;
Next him, in beauty, esteemed and warlike worth.

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Gainst whom, he saw, (cried that distraught wardruid,)
Advance, like to tall ash, strange battle-god,
Whose lance some ship-mast seemed of Troynovant.
Thus hastily spake that druid, and passed forth.

When fell upon the Romans, Beichiad's scythecarts;
They slew men runners, mingled with Gauls' horse
They set then on who foremost expedite cohorts,
Which Britons, on that horn, had turned to flight.
With their hook-wheels; like field of shining corn,
They reaped them down, alive: and, in their midst,
Men that bare ensigns, killed they and centurions.

Now dying, o'er the field, the sun divine,
Chariots run hither, as new rushing flood;
Whom Fythiol leads: and these have stayed the flight;
(He valorous seed of the Icenian gods:)
So have they troubled the pursuing Romans.
Smoke, with foam-dripping bits, now, his tired steeds;
They bloody-stained, do, men and teaméd chariots,
Lo, halt, before the great duke Antethrigus!
But woad-stained dead lie, strewed forth, many a league,
Pasture of fowl and beasts of hill and wood.
Great was that victory of the Roman legate!

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These things, with sorrow-huskéd voice, had told,
Of comfort, empty, man with war-stained weed;
With travail, lean, and all deformed with grief;
In whom, uneath, rests kindly life and breath:
(But like to one on whom look angry gods,
Is Redoc, named in praise of his swift feet.)
Ere-yester, Redoc ran, from field of fight.

He, the king's smith, at Verulam, and shield-wright,
Was teller, oft, in king Cunobelin's hall,
Of old war-tales, which wont the royal ear,
To please. Whilst hearkened all, to Redoc's voice;
Wax cold the princes' hearts: for that is sooth,
They wot well, which this wearily doth rehearse.
But thou, O Britain's Muse, recite the rest!

The morrow of that sun, gainst eve, wherein
Britons were vanquished, with much blood, have Romans,
(Buried who fell, and spoiled the island-dead,
Of bracelets, collars, arms and seemly weed,)
At moon-rise marched, which now hath filled her horns;
Towards Catuvelaunian royal Verulam.
Before them, fugitives to Cunobelin's town,
Came in; and entered, with them, Fear of Romans.

Of dukes, which, that day, were, with Antethrigus:

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The more be gathered, to sequestered grove;
Where holy well-bourn is, and sacred holm.
Come the most warlike Britons, to them, there,
Which scaped that overthrow. Behold not dead,
Cerix and Maglos, nurselings of the gods!
But they, sore-wounded, lie. Their servants made
Them have fresh shadows, of sweet hazel boughs:
And, lo, there booths, of other warlike lords.

Hurt be the most; and sorry is the plight
Of all that, lost their wains, find meat uneath.
Halts swart Belerion king, lo, on his spear,
Decet. Him Golam saved, when, (both his steeds
Slain,) on his iron crest, he pight, from cart;
And his bruised trunk leapt, on the gory heath,
His shoulder broke. From midst thick strife, uptook
The swooning king, in his shrill justling chariot,
With hard assay, the lord of Moridunion:
And laid him, borne out of the battle-press,
And bound his wounds, under elm's freshing shade.
Wherefore have swart Belerions crowned his brows,
With holy misselden. Lo, great-statured duke,
Idhig of tawny herdsmen of the hills;
Gored in the side of spear's thrust, Demetan druid
Cures; and his wound foments, with sacred vervain.

Though wounded early, of shaft-shot, Marunus,

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In his shield-arm, he ceased not fight, in chariot:
A leech, with certain salves, it mollifies;
Murmuring his idle spells, in the wind's ears.
This eve, Marunus will to Troynovant, ride;
To meet with Thorolf. Iddon, of great Verulam,
Old warlike lord, who late returned from Rome,
Lies wounded, in the hip, of javelin-cast;
When had he bet back, thrice, the Gaulish horse;
Leading strong band of old men warriors,
In his own cart; that would not cede to Romans.
But in the battle, was not noble Kowain.
He holds the seas, in king Duneda's ships.
Three oak-crowned warriors laid there, newly dead,
Behold: one, (omen strange!) on his helmed face,
Gin bury moldwarps, in the leafy earth.

Under oak-bough, upon wild mighty stone,
Of some old hero's tomb, sits Antethrigus;
Like to great drooping erne. For little slept
The hero hath, and tasted little meat;
And hang his beard uncombed and yellow locks,
Sith day of battle rout. By Britons' duke,
White-headed Dulas, this grove's sacred druid,
Stands; ready, lay swift hand, on the lord's mouth;
Should he, in woodness of his mind's amaze,
As they unrighteous were, blaspheme high gods.

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Nor Moelmabon, nor divine Manannan,
Were in that field. Both ridden to Durovernium,
Were, from Thames' ford, consult with Dumnoveros.
And many hold, through lacking their wise read,
That journey lost. And who, a young lord dead,
Yonder, lies, under shield, in Almain weed,
Was Friedemund; dead on his comely face!
Cheruscan earl, of the great house of Brennus,
Kinsman of Thorolf; for whose love he sailed,
With his own prows, five keels, to island Britain;
Seeking war-praise, abroad, in his first arms.

Mild-hearted warrior; and for such, held dear
Earl Friedemund was, of all duke Thorolf's Almains.
Parting, him, sick, had left that prince, mongst Britons;
With twelve-score spears of his, by Thames' green brinks;
And him commended, to the island kings.

Rose Friedemund up, from bed of languishment,
In fatal day, when led forth Antethrigus.
Nor the ethling valiant stroke, for Land of Brennus,
Might smite: nor, walling their stiff shields him round;
His champions and house carles might long defend,
Though stout, their lord, gainst weight of rushing soldiers.
A Gaulish shaft pierced Friedemund, in the bowels.

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He yet drew breath; when Almains saved him forth,
Borne on his targe. Last, in well-pit, they cast,
(When might they not thence scape,) Friedemund's warm corse!
Which sith uptook his servants; and have brought,
Hither; in their land's wise, when this sun sets,
To bury. O'er him make Almains, now, lament;
Who sacred, (weapon-slain,) to Woden god.

Much confused voice, is, in that sacred grove;
Where men, of many tribes, of unlike speech,
And painted shields and warlike ensigns, lodge.
Now washed with water of that holy well,
The most, with gathered herbs, cure their green wounds;
(Comfrey and orpine, healing setewell,
Valerian, golden rods and galingale.)
Men sleep, in shadow laid of antique boughs,
Numbed with cold juice of darnel, kex and dwale;
Wound-worts, best gifts of the immortal gods!

Sits, on hoar-headed windy cliff of Kent,
Which looketh forth towards Gaul, Caratacus,
In the wind and the rain. His lords, hold; o'er whom hangs
Immane new cloud of ruin! parliament:

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And, with dark grief, astonished are all hearts,
And void of read. He gazes on grey waves,
As one on whose soul weighs dark direful dream!
Few proffer speech: nor hope nor comfort is,
By sea or land. Of Britons' warlike youth,
Men sigh; were, in Thames' battle, half-part lost!
And tarries yet to send, in aid, North March.

Ah! and nów, stroke upon stroke! the warlord hears,
Romans' rife sails have entered, in Thames' mouth.
Before him, panting, lo, those messengers stand!

King Dumnoveros, in the midst, uprose;
Whose joints stiff, with old aches, and like is his
Courbe shoulder to bent bow: the word, nathless,
In day of trouble, weighs of his ripe lips,
With a caterf. Send, Dumnoveros reads,
Now chosen lords, on speedy wheels of chariots,
Enquire; Why come not yet Velaunos' powers.
Thereto consents divine Manannan's voice;
Consent all hearts, and king Caratacus.

Cadoc, Dumnonian, Verulam lord, Ruellan;
These two, on whom then lot, among them, falls,
They send from Dover cliffs. Each, with his druid,
Eftsoons, parts forth: for whom, lifting their hands,
Make Britons their fond vows, shut-up their hearts,

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To heavenly gods! Then, hastily, levied camps;
The warlord leads, with loud trumps, forth, Kent's scythe-carts.
His foot, from those white windy cliffs, remove,
To march back, day and night, with cumbered hearts;
Till Thames' wide ford, by Troynovant, they might pass.

The third eve, to that river's bank, arriving;
They, nightlong, in thick battles, overwade.
Is hardly the sun risen, when warlord Caradoc
Offers swart bull, an whole burned sacrifice,
At old grave-mound, of Corwen and great Brennus:
Omen of ill! uneath, might kindle priests,
Their cloven, hastily laid up, dewy, wood!

In that were seen, disordinately, to approach,
Three horsemen, like as who flee forth for life!
Each, on his steed's mane droops, for weariness.
Men help them, soon, from trembling steeds, to light,
Before the kings. The men are Catuvelaunians;
Which cry, with little left in them, of voice;
Is taken great Verulam! and there failed their breath.

King Caradoc, pluckt the garland from his head,
And the wreathed gold, from off his royal neck;
And bracelets strewed forth, on the meadow's grass!

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Nathless, by reason of their former jars,
(Heard that cold tiding,) covert pleasance creeps,
In some lords' breasts! But leapt, eftsoons, Marunus,
To chariot, generous, in his sounding harness;
And, like a god, upstanding, the hurt prince,
(So comely he is,) above much Britons' press;
His word spake to king Caradoc, with great voice;
And were, with spears of only Troynovant,
He would redeem Caer Verulam, from strange Romans!
Likewise sware Golam, and the prince of Almains.

Hark! as not blown of mortals, sound iron throats,
Of warhorns. At that portent, warriors' hearts
Leap in their breasts. Lords run to the caterfs.
And, lo, those which came, weary, from long march,
Stand ready, impatient, in tall battailous ranks!

To royal chariot, leaps Caratacus;
Strong of a spirit which inspire the gods.
That seen, his captains mount. To Camulodunum,
Fenced with banks and towered gates, the warlord leads;
(City inexpugnable, in old Britons' wars.)
Wide, follow their kings forth, the blue caterfs.

In four-wheel wains, are borne those wayworn wights,
Scaped out of Verulam. Come again their spirits,
Yet trembling, bleak of hew, to warlord Caradoc,

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Their king, who, with them, questions, in the way;
They answer make, how cast victorious legions,
Their vallum, by slow-streaming Ver, and trenched
It deep and wide. Soldiers, then, having crates
Wrought and bound faggots; under knitted shields,
Approached, Cunobelin's dyke, by night-time, filled:
And, hewed down alders, in the river's mead,
They timbered mighty towers. At third day's end,
Those over-looked already the dune walls.
Were most-part striplings left therein, in arms,
With old spent wights: all men of likely age,
As known unto the king, in the king's wars,
Being then in field. Those rammed-up Verulam gates,
Nathless, did man, wide-round, the city walls;
And many sieging Romans slew, beneath.

But come fifth dawn, in twilight and thick mist,
Blown from the river meads, with ladders, soldiers
Made sudden assault; and taken was, in a moment,
The wall. Descended Romans, in the town,
There cruel slaughter made, of age and youth;
Killing all whom they met: sith Verulam's streets,
They put to sack, till eve. Young men and maids,
All which they saved, were bound then to be sold.
(Permitted, and had longtime promised Aulus,
Spoil of the royal dune, unto his cohorts.)

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When the long baleful light, of that day's sun,
Was ended; drunken of the Britons' mead,
Soldiers reeled, with lewd songs, in Verulam streets.
They yelled, like wolves! Shrieks then of wives and maids,
Outraged, by their own burning thresholds' light!
And wretched Britons, dying, cursed their gods;
So rich in heaven, that offerings of poor wights,
Despise; nor heed men's immense miseries!

Sounded the last repair, gainst midnight, Romans:
But not ere few remained, yet hidden, Britons,
In their foul luxury and drunkenness, had oppressed
Many abhorréd Roman legionaries.
In the night's dread, those die an enemy's death!
Was, in the market place, and murk cross streets,
Then set strong watch; and standing at the gates,
Did tall Batavians keep Cunobelin's court;
For Aulus so commanded, as wherein
Were all their chiefest captives stived that night,
Under the tower of the king's treasure-house.

At day, and when now portsale should begin,
Of comely young men, virgins, noble wives;
Cast up the bronze-dight, great nailed, oaken doors,
Whereas, since yester, were those captives pent;

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Behold, all lacking needful nourishment,
Languished: mongst whom were lying many dead!
For not few striplings, not few noble maids,
Beating their golden heads, on the flint stones,
Slew themselves, that night; and so scaped from Romans.

And now hath Claudius journeyed from Thames' frith,
Two days; but foundered, in the fenny reeds,
Were two, his great Numidic, elephants lost.
Gauls have and Roman knights, lost, likewise, steeds.
Now, from short march, he measured his third camp;
Will wait, there, coming of his legate Aulus.

And he, left Roman sick, in conquered Verulam,
With garrison; is marched forth, to meet with Claudius;
Who, in Thames' mouth, he hears, now gone to land.
Lo, glittering trains of his victorious legions!
But, for the field lies open, where they pass;
Nor wots he, where became Caratacus;
He, each eve, lodged, fenced with a nine-foot bank,
(Which, stranger scars, yet, in our soil, remain!)

Then, to vast salty tide, his army arrives;
Whence merchant Troynovant, beyond, appears;
Which, he omitting, pitched, at poplar grove,

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That sanctuary is of Lud, the river's god:
Place, where discern the heavens, in age to come,
Be built, the Mart of men, another Rome.

Thence, to wide fleet, Rome's legions be come down;
Where flows out, shole, to Thames, soft-streaming Lea,
Bordered with sallows, whose deep fenny brinks.
And, lo, a remnant of blue scattered Britons,
Of Antethrigus, hold that further shore!
And though this Summer day be young, blows Aulus
Halt; till to-morrow, here should rest his cohorts.
But fallen the night, he sends out tall Batavians,
Well-nigh five hundred men, to overswim
That oozy sound, on udders, with their arms:
And promised meed, if ford, of them, were found;
Where might, at low ebb, pass his heavy cohorts.

Those enter, with their floats, at the moonrise,
(Encouraging, in Almain tongue, each other,)
The stream. To Britons, that keep watch, beyond;
Those seemed some harts, that wont, from Epping forest,
By night-time, overswim, in Summer season.
But, angry, river-gods, send water-sprites;
Them to confound. Following whose flickering brands,
The most, on shelves, fell unwares and vast flats;

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Whereas, their fellows calling, long, in vain,
Their limbs stick fast; and drencheth them, ere dawn,
Inflowing tide. Being few, like worms, crept forth,
From slough; those found, then, of fierce ambushed wights,
Were slain; and left, in stinking weeds, to rot.

Upward, in forest, thence, his guides lead Aulus;
Where, marshal of his camps, Primitius, such
An hasty bridge devised, as they might pass.
He laid hewed-alders on great cables, stretcht,
Twixt the two brinks; and bavin strewed and earth,
Thereon. Armed Romans, by the moon's lamp, march
Beyond; holding now drift-way of the Britons,
Which leads to the imperial camp forthright.

Utres: blown-up bags of leather.

Wide-dawning ray, lo, utters in the East,
Chacing night's cheerless murk; and seen is gleam,
Of arms and ensigns, of approaching legions,
From the imperial vallum. When now Aulus
Views, from his horse, the castra and Cæsar's tents;
He with chief captains, præfects of his legions,
Rides forth, upon the spur, to salute Claudius.

With knops of gold, lo, shines, towards them, borne forth;
Nodding, with purple and pall, the imperial litter.

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(Soldiers, irreverent, gibe, Is Cæsar's corse!)
Which ward, lo, round, three hundred spears, of Almains,
With knights of Rome and glittering Gaulish horse.
Being come to a stone's cast, dismounted Claudius;
And gravely on foot, towards those that light to earth,
Cæsar advanced; and giving his right hand,
Salutes, by name; and calls them fellow-soldiers!
And Claudius communes with them; he extolls
Their conduct of this war: and in this sense,
Will he, from point to point, write to the Senate.

Sith Cæsar viewed those four, now marshalled, legions,
The squalid looks admires, of his proud soldiers!
That stand, unshorn, in lean, war-wasted, ranks:
And the army salute Claudius, Imperator!

Warlord of Britain, enters Camulodunum
Caratacus; where keepeth well queen Embla,
The walls; and watch the city's magistrates.
The sire sends word, then, to all tribes and lords;
They, here, with him, gainst Cæsar and the Romans,
The Foster-land defend, with all their powers;
And that in view of divine Camulus!
God of their Father Brennus, which burned Rome.
But the East-men's magistrate, strong Antethrigus,
Whom gods, in so extreme infortune, cast;

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Hath sworn, no more, to see the face of Caradoc,
Till he himself might smite intruding Romans.
Kynan and Idhig, gathered their spersed warriors,
With Moelmabon's sons, have Northward marched;
And now is word, they wait, at Ouse, in arms,
Velaunos' coming, with the Northern powers.

Divine Manannan, wisdom of the Britons,
Hath sick lain, many days, at Durovernium,
But heard, the royal dune of Verulamion
Was taken and burned, and Antethrigus' army
Perished; and Cæsar's navy come to land;
Nor longer able to support disease,
(Heavy with years,) of march, and daily camps;
He journeys now, with wains, in Watling street.
And will he dwell, henceforth, in dim Isle Mona;
Where Samoth's god, with daily sacrifice,
He may entreat, for this afflicted nation!

Thorolf, next after king Caratacus,
Most valiant prince of all that live on ground,
Continually misleads in isle of Brennus,
Some hostile god; where time is not yet ripe,
Of the stout Almain heirs of Heremod,
Of Fridia and Brennus' blood. And lest stout Thorolf,
By his only valiance, break the god's decree;

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They, night-time, sending to him lying visions,
And daily, with false soothsays, him deceive,
And neighings, strange, of his white battle-steed;
That might he ne'er be nigh, to aid of Britons.

His vow to accomplish, which the hero spake,
In hearing of the Britons' princes, late;
When sacrificed at merchant Troynovant,
By tiding Thames, was, to the hero Brennus;
He ready makes, to march, with spears of Almains,
Eight thousand, to reconquer royal Verulam.
Swells his great heart, impetuous, to achieve,
So notable high emprise, gainst enemy Romans.

To Caradoc, marching are, with king Velaunos,
The Northern powers, in aid now of South Britons.
Long was their tarrying; chiefly, and that by cause
Of Cartismandua, who, Brigantine queen,
Infamed is, for disloyalty to Venutios,
Her noble spouse; lot-chosen of their gods,
Next to Velaunos, captain, in these wars.

Her sire, great warrior-king, was Cunobal,
Of the blue-shield Brigantes; but Venutios,
Though a king's son, was of a subject tribe.
Yet he all noble youth, in Cunobal's hall,
Did far, in every warlike skill, excell.

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Wherefore that king, young valiant prince Venutios,
Advanced, to stand, by him, in battle-chariot;
And bear the royal shield, before his face.

Ere well his beard was sprung, this prince's breast
Was seen, with glorious scars, in his lord's wars,
Adorned, like magic signs, which in their flesh;
With pen of ivory imbrued with woad, prick druids.
Last, token of his love and high regard,
His daughter gave king Cunobal, to his squire.
But she more fair, bright Cartismandua,
Than good, usurped, deceased her glorious sire,
All sovereignty; even his leadership in this war.

In these late days, when coming heard of Claudius,
She, whelmed, on her fair head, had star-bright morion,
Like goddess sheen; and fenced with scaly brass,
Her froward chest, upleapt, in emailled war-cart:
Like as some serpent, which in tawny brakes,
Pastured of cankered herbs, her slough offcast,
Now, in the sun, displays her glittering boughts.

And by her beauty, enflamed, the younger sort;
Then followed her much pomp, of noble youth,
To Roman warfare, on shrill wheels of war-carts.
Nor wonder, when feel even relent old wights,
At Cartismandua's view, their frozen hearts.
With silver gingling bits, and barded steeds,

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Her people shouting; from king Cunobal's dune,
Isurium, then the royal pomp holds forth.

The same eve, marched Velaunos, with caterfs,
From hill, whence triple fires have flamed five nights;
Appointed place, where lords of the North March,
Assembled their caterfs: with mighty sound
Of trumps and shout, they wend, and noise of chariots.

Are the Brigantine ensigns diverse shapes
Of beasts and birds. parisii first remove;
And ride their war-wont lords, in iron scythe-carts.
Round the Fair-havens, are this nation's seats;
Whereto, is fame, arrived their sires, in ships:
Like to the people of Samoth, they from Gaul's
Mainland o'erfared; but in a later age.

Next them Novantæ march; whose border is
Nith's shining stream. By kinships, then, armed throngs,
Segantians; little statured are whose steeds.
From wide Segeia's flood, these take their name.
Voluntii follow, woad-stained naked warriors;
Save of some hanging goat's hide, from their napes;
Which they, shield from the cold, turn to the wind;
And, for an harness, serves them in the wars.

Next them, Selgovians, hunters, whose quaint speech,

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To few, is couth. Clubbed staves and herdmen's slings,
Bear these; and spears, with rattling knops of brass,
To affray their enemies. Fence they on their heads,
Have all, of red-stained great upbounden glibs.
And delved pits are their bowers, in the waste heaths;
And caves, in cliffs. Their young men, the ureox
Hunt, on wild hills, and slay, with stedfast heart,
For meat. Then, of the lordships of Velaunos,
Men march; and of Venutios, glast-stained host,
Following, thick spears and ensigns, their lord's chariots.
Beside whom, yet another power doth pass;
Whom leads stout Hælion, a young comely prince.
Are these Dumnonian tribesfolk, of North March;
Kin to Dumnonian dwellers in Duffreynt.
Their warlike bands come glittering, with long spears.
They hurl-stones bear, in bosoms of their shields.

Warlord Velaunos, as they neighbours ride,
Hath prayed the, now grey-headed, lord Venutios,
Master of war, to mount, with him, in war-cart.
Venutios numbers, (passing with swift wheels,
Before this host,) of peoples of the North,
Fifty, upon the fingers of his palms,
Caterfs of foot-folk; are five hundred spears,

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In every one. Follows-on, great trimarch,
Of the North parts, five squadrons; and, in each,
Eight score of steeds. And lords, in their own marches,
Are all who on them sit. Two hinds, afoot,
Hath every lord, each leading a third horse.

Aldborough, in Yorkshire.

And now come down Velaunos' powers, to Ouse;
And Cadoc and Ruellon, with them ride.
And, lo, receive them there Moelmabon's sons;
(That languish, yet, of wounds;) and Hammeraxe,
And Demetan Idhig, with war-wasted powers.
And Briton lords thus met, from far-off coasts,
Gaze, each-one, inwardly, on the others' looks,
And arms and warriors! To the warlord, Caradoc,
When the new morrow springs, shall all fare forth.

First of the Northern powers, from Camulus' walls,
In blue emailléd cart, with gilded moons,
Drawn of white steeds, is Cartismandua seen.
In proud career, o'er her steeds' flying croups,
She shakes the reins and lifts bright ivory whip.
Her famous wind-born steeds, whose horny hooves,
Glittering, with plate of gold, spurn the wild clod;
Come fleckt with foam, as whiteness of sea flood;

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And follows her, bright train of steeds and chariots.
Is like to changeful rainbow, this queen's weed.

She nighing now the town, the royal morion,
Which shone on her fair head, for heat, hath doffed:
Whence loosed, that sunbeams seem, her amber locks
Flow backward in the wind. Is this queen's countenance,
Hardy and free; manlike is her mailed stature.
To look, in her steep eyes, were deadly feast!

But he who stands, in Cartismandua's chariot,
And bears, like the horned moon, nigh to her full,
Her silver shield, wherein of Morrigu goddess,
Be effigied the eyes, great heaven's queen,
Turning to stone hearts of her enemies,
Prince of the noble youth, is Vellocatus.
She bridle eftsoon draws, abasht, somewhat,
Her witches heart! to see, (of doubtful omen!)
Tower ravens o'er yond Camulus'-city walls.

Straight, rides to meet this queen, Caratacus;
With pomp of war-bruised chariots, from the town.
How measure her false eyes king Caradoc's stature!
When he, her warlike hard right hand, receives,
In his; and of her welfare, courteous, asks;
And if she come not, weary, from long voyage?
He, warlord, then, with worship, brings her forth.

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Passed the tower-gate, they mount up, by paved street;
Amongst fast-thronging people of this town.
And lighting, soon, the warlike Northern queen;
Her, Embla, issuing, midst her noble women,
With gentle looks, receives; and, by the hand,
To royal bower upleads, prepared for her,
On the town wall; whence she the camps of warriors,
Pitched in fair meads of sliding Colne, may read.
Was that day lateward, when arrived her army.

At morrow's noon, approach Velaunos' powers;
With whom great drifts of beves and thousand wains.
To welcome them, outrides, anew, the king;
With lords and captains, and shrill pomp of warcarts.
Now ben they met; and touch those Northern lords,
Loud naming their lands' gods, his hand and glaive!

King Caradoc looking forth, from Camulus' walls,
Sees raised, in river meads, ten thousand bowers,
Of men of war, new lodged in their caterfs!
And feels, with hope of victory, again refreshed
His royal heart: and looks on that trimarch,
Which vanquished Roma, in old days of Brennus!

And hath Duneda sent new bands of warriors,
With hundred wains of victual, beves and flocks;

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And Kowain leads stout mariners of his ships,
Expert with ropes, and nimble of their feet,
To climb on rocking masts: and those are wont
To travaillous and so strait sea-faring life,
That, seems them holiday, war upon dry land.

And comes a lord of Mona, at afternoon,
To horse; one known from far, with shining greaves,
Ergund. But for his sire, to Moelmabon,
Was foe; from that king's sons, he goes apart,
To lodge. In force and stature, doth exceed
This prince all Britons come to Camulodunum.
Men say, he assails, as sudden storm from heaven!
Six hundred footmen, he, to Caradoc, leads.
Persuaded him Manannan, to the war.

Kings, captains, white-stoled druids, on his wide walls,
To Camulus offer solemn sacrifice!
To them, comes Cartismandua queen, anon,
With jewelled neck, and jetting like to dove;
And tyred her broidered locks, with fret of gold,
Wherein the plume, is seen, of a grey erne.
Issuing from her dune-gates, to Roman war,
In battle-cart, is told, it fell, upon her.

She harnessed is; lo, on her warlike breast,

155

Shines plate of bronze, with dragons, wreathed, embossed;
And silver moons. Beside Caratacus,
She sits: and when had all declared their minds,
Opens this queen her lips. With a stern voice,
She reads; stop all nigh ways, before this town,
With great felled trees; and weave the woods around.
With trench and pit, (wherein sharp stakes be set,)
Cumber the plain: so that the enemies' horse
Were broken, nor might soldiers keep their ranks;
Wherein much lies, she hears, the Romans' force.

Labraid, who pilot of Duneda's ships,
Upspake then, and persuades; with cables, knit
The caterfs' ranks; that they, with mighty brunt,
Might strew Rome's cohorts. Cries the Northern queen,
She would, alone, set on the marching legions!
For tiding now is brought, of their approach.

Was then, when kings and captains well have supped;
And they had poured, to Camulus, the brown mead;
Queen Cartismandua, in bower, her ready made.
She, on hér white shoulders, cast a spotted pilch,
Of wolf-whelps' hide; who fenced, with a ringed harness,
Hath her lithe flanks. Then high, upon her shanks,

156

She buskins laced, with tinny scales, beset.
Sith Leddiad, the victorious glaive, renowned,
Of Cunobal, on her luxurious loins,
Fair Cartismandua binds. On her bright locks,
She morion set, and silver shield embraced.

When now the moon is rising, she descends,
To Embla's court; where, ready made, her warcart;
And stand, beneath the yoke, two high-necked steeds,
Long-maned, whose generous chests, to battle, pant.
Calls Cartismandua on Morrigu, witches' goddess,
Great queen of heaven, in that she leaps to chariot!
With Cartismandua, ascénds young Vellocatus.

Now by dim street her wheels, and her team's hooves,
Resound. Open the porters, to her, gate
Of Camulus; and, with cry, the queen speeds forth!
Being come to her Brigantine camp, without;
Follow her all the power of her young men;
Which, ready in arms her wait, in this moonlight.

To Camulus' dune, descending from the North,
Had Cartismandua a certain thicket place,
Thence, Eastward, marked; whereas deep drift-way passed,
Twixt two, which crown dark cedars, opposed banks.

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There, is, these, marched few silent leagues, now wait;
Whereby, the queen looks, Romans soon must pass:
Nor fails her forecast. Levied camp had Claudius:
Before him tread the elephants; and enclose,
The imperial litter, band of Almain spears.
Therein he slumbers, midst his trains of soldiers.

Is heard, in clear moonshine, now in night's wind,
Mules' gingling bells, that bear the Romans' stuff!
Approach the legions: they, few furlongs passed,
Gin enter in this wood. Then yells of Britons,
Sound, súdden, out, to dim night-stars, on both parts!

The queen's young men of war, from bushments, rise.
Bliss they it count, of heaven, feast of war-gods,
To die even, in beholding of her eyes!
So makes her aspect drunken their young hearts.
Five thousand, mainly, and hurling darts, outrush.
Body to body, as hunters that slay beasts,
They thrust with spears; with bronze long knives, slay Romans.

Queen Cartismandua, (is springing now dim dawn,)
Romans behold, amazed, in glittering war-cart;
Like to that huntress goddess of the night,
(Neath whose swift wheels, is fame, our Britain lies.)

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In chariot sheen, like Cynthia crowned, she drives!
Seems the new moon shine, in her broidered hair:
And glisters, on her front, as the day-star.
And that tall young man, fighting beside her,
They gin, from mouth to mouth, Endymion! name.

Is none so hardy, who dúrst hurl, ágainst her
His javelin; whiles she by them shining drives!
And terrible beams seem lighten, from her eyes:
So that, on her, gaze confused, Roman soldiers!
Which hear, above the din, her cry, divine!

But after-marching Romans', warlike, trains;
Heard tumult in the va'ward, yet unwist
The cause, press forward. Then, in the blind night,
Cohorts rebutted of the former legion,
Recoil, and trouble their well-ordered ranks.

Romans, in derne wood-path, contend with Romans.
Nor perished few, by their own fellows' glaives;
Ere might, who friends, be known, who enemies.
And, whom, air-riding spirits, the Morrigu sends,
In the tree-tops, quench the few beams of stars.
There fall stout soldiers, one on other, slain;
With their centurions: fell Marcellus, tribune.

Waked Claudius, trembling, quoth, He was a-cold!
And would, had he found heart, have slain himself,
Looking for dreadful altars of the druids,

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If him mishapped. But eftsoon war-wont Flavius,
Prickt, with few valorous Gauls and Roman knights;
Restores the troubled orders of his legion.

He erects, then, double acies, of three ranks,
Facing to ambushed enemies, on both parts:
Behind whose backs, holding above their heads,
Their shields, on whom, from wood, falls sleet of darts,
As in a lane, the trains might, safely, pass.
Whilst, then, by clarion's sound, the rearward halt,
He hastes bring forth next after-marching cohorts;
And them, beyond, enranged he in like sort.

Thus hath great Flavius saved, this night, the army;
Mongst whom, seen Claudius riding on his feet!
Who quitted, for faint heart, had a knight's horse,
Which erst he mounted; and his cloak had cast;
And, men say, cast his shield! Trode cohorts' press
The imperial purple! Cæsar, as he passed,
(Now issued the armed trains, to open ground,)
Calls Flavius, Father! There the Britons cease,
Being few, with onset, to provoke the legions.
But many are wounded seen, among the soldiers:
Who slain, were left, unburied, in dim grove.

Shrink the clear stars, those watchfires of high gods,
In vast night-camp of heaven: and cometh forth, soon,

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Veiléd with grace, and amber her bright weed,
Broidered with pearl; (for she, glad-eyed and mild,
Is maiden heavenly pure,) the sacred Dawn.
Whilst, forth, her goddess feet do gently trace:
Her crystal front, and long, ringed, golden locks,
The Graces, like to virgin bride, have crowned;
With rosebuds pluckt from garden of the gods.

Legions then march, of Rome, in wide waste heath,
Gilded with budded brooms and whin-flowers sweet,
Where drink the early bees their morrow's mead.
Blithe partridge-cock pipes, on that bent; the hare
Scuds, startled, from the powdered feet of soldiers;
Whose war-wont, swart, Italic face is set,
Towards Trinobantine city of Camulus.

Lo, where that great dune, built on an hill's breast;
With river's fence, and walled of rampires round!
Whose field, beneath, shines full of barbare arms;
Each nation, by itself, caterfs and ensigns.
Fearing some hardy assay of Britons' war-carts,
Claudius, whose va'ward now arrived, commands,
His castrum mete, at distance of a league;
Whose trench-breadth shall be fifteen feet, the depth
Twelve; so assault he fears of hardy Britons.
Britons have breastwork heaped, beyond their stream!
Whereon, long gazing, drivelling Claudius;

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Gins call this, with his solemn toothless chaps,
Scamander; he names yond towered dune, high Ilion!

Sith, Cæsar charged slay beasts; and to every soldier,
Mete rate of Gaulish wine, fetched in his ships.
Cure they, to-day, their bodies, prepare arms;
To-morrow, look to fight. Chat weary soldiers,
That pitch their leathern booths, and say; should Claudius,
The third day, give them spoil of yond good town;
And sith, to winter-camps, withdraw the legions.

Lo, where wide-stretched the imperial pavilion,
Of purple silk of Seres, ceiled with line,
Azure, with silver stars! midst legions' camp.
Therein now Claudius sits, midst Roman dukes.
In skill, he deems, of battles, they excell;
But he in arts: witness this ordinance, which
His youth devised, of tower-machines; that charged,
On wagons, (great squared beams,) now, with the legions,
Arrive; and build his shipwrights, in the plain.

Archers and slingers shall, on those machines,
Stand; wherein are, of steel, stringed mighty engines,
On stages; that hurl beams, with dreadful din;
And stones of poise, each able a caterf,

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To pierce. And tower, by tower, will station Claudius,
On his two wings, and longs his middle front.
He trusts well; should the headlong Britons' chariots,
Rushing to battle, thereby be repressed.

Standing the elephants, longs his battle-face,
Well-fenced with scales of impierceable brass,
The beasts' huge breasts, bearing their castled chines
Numidian archery, (and in each tower, five soldiers,)
Him thinks, should needs be broken, by their force,
The forward running of loose blue caterfs.

And, lo, queen Cartismandua is come again,
With war-song, and loud vaunt of her young men;
And spoil of arms, and bloody polls of Romans!
And, from their camps, all Britons, where they pass,
Clapping their hands, those young Brigantine warriors
Applaud! In this, they plash through shallow ford,
Of streaming Colne; and go up, where their ward,
Is, under gate of Camulus, to lodge.

Druids have warned, which read the sacred omens,
The island-kings, to fight, in this day's sun;
Wherefore, left their teamed carts, without, they sit
To watch, on Camulus' toweréd gate: and thence
Those new great camps behold of sea-borne soldiers;

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The tower-machines, and strange huge buffle-elephants!
Which druids deemed, some river-gods of Rome.

And seen that come not legions, but they rest,
In four-square vallum; captains of the Britons
Contain their warriors, in the camps at Colne.
Blue Britons, chanting, whet, on wild whin-stones,
Glaives, and broad brazen heads of their long spears.
Some fret, at fires, and supple sinewed bows.
Pasture, with much white grain, the charioteers,
Beside the carts, and comb their long-maned steeds.

Bare-footed, brazen-girt, in vestures white,
Now druids offer solemn sacrifice,
Of beasts, with gilded horns, to battle-gods:
To whom they vow all preys. (Soothsayers, priests,
Are those, whose foaming bloody mouths, the flesh
Of victims chaw; and who yond sacred fires
O'erleap; and that chant magic spells!) Till eve,
None certain answer have vouchsafed the gods.
Last, kings departing, in the evening red;
Each turns, with heavy heart, to his caterfs.

Two ravens stooped, then, from the twilight loft;
And, on stiff creaking wings, the camps o'erflit.
Wrying their carrion necks, with serpents' eyes,
They surview Britons, that to sup now sit.

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Then, on war-wain, they lighted; with crude beaks,
And crooked claws, each other rend to blood.

Are war-hags those, whose impious carrion breath,
Doth taint the evening wind. To gore-swart cloud,
Forerunner of murk night, which nigheth fast,
They called have Wrath; who, fame is, once burned heaven:
(Wherefore him thunder-thrilled the gods, and cast,
To earth;) him promising, to-morrow, drink,
(To slake his entrails' ever-burning thirst,)
His fill, much reek of young men's lukewarm blood.

In place, where sinks sun's chariot down, to light
The under-world, in crooked valley-steeps,
Like to some monstrous newt, mongst blind black rocks,
Exiled from heaven's fair face, sleeps demon Wrath.
Sprawling, enrolled in long loose spotted boughts;
There, in swart tide, his train, for boiling sweat,
He hangs. Drips venim from his poisonous jaws;
And like black stinking reek, ascends his breath.
There his loath maw, he thrings, twixt two sharp cliffs;
And else his carrion snaky ribs should burst,
For cankered hate, and swelling inward fret.
Leaving the scaly horror of his corse,

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Then, on those drossy banks, expired his spirit,
Uprose, in the moist winds, the damnéd fiend.

Britons feel grow then lean their warlike breasts.
Men sit, at watchfires, with distempered looks;
Some blame their captains, in the war with Romans:
Some, desperate, plain them even of the land's gods!
Britons sore dread, what shall betide to-night.
Neath their long shields men lie; and cannot sleep.

The warlord calls, anew, on Camulus' walls,
The kings to council. But come Cartismandua;
She scornful queen, now, on her lord, so rails,
(Though all eyes her upbraid,) that ache men's ears:
As strings, being toucht amiss, alwere the harp
Of gold, mis-sound. And Gorran vainly, then,
Mingles new mead, and noble youth bear round;
Mongst Briton kings, descended from the gods.
Amidst the council, rose up and went forth,
Then, from among them, the Brigantine queen.

It Vellocatus is, who enters soon.
Combed and perfumed, comes this, seems, from the queen!
Gold-wreathed his noble neck. He, the high gods,
(Prickt to the very soul, before them all,)

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To witness calling, much protests the prince,
His perfect loyalty unto his lord Venutios:
But, silent, captains gaze, on him, reproof.
Venutios turns from him his royal face.

When Vellocatus, to the night, outgoeth,
Is hell in his proud looks. From Camulus' gate,
Passed forth; he, in sullen, dark, disparted place,
(Come nigh to tiding Colne,) drawn his glaive forth,
Smote deadly his chest; and wallowed in dank grass!
Towards midwatch, haply, of the sacred night,
Of certain was he found; which kept that path;
And bruit, as groaning, in the silent murk,
Heard; for not dead, but as in trance, this lieth.

Put-to his light, then, rude man of the round;
(Quoth he,) Who, lies here, slain, in so fair weed?
Whose this bleak face? Be'th not, another saith,
It, fellows, he whom loves the Northern queen,
That prince, that daily arides with her, in chariot?
A man might silver win, bearing this in,
Here, bleeding corse, to her. Ha, a sikes, a breathes!

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A nis not dead! How's all black-run a's blood,
In this moonshine! Heave we him, on our shields.

Those rude wights, rugged shoulders, undersetting,
Him bearing forth; return, with matchéd steps:
And passed the porters of the gate of Camulus;
They mount now up, to lodging of the queen.

Sleeps Cartismandua armed; and in her dream,
Is vext her sense, of some familiar spirit.
Her rumour wakes of arms, and tread of feet,
In the paved court, beneath! She, anon, upleapt;
And as she was, is come forth to the porch.
She now descries, by flickering dim watchlight,
Ah! shield-borne body, of her loved Vellocatus.
All is he bloody, and seemeth dead corse, alas!

With bosom loosely knit and untressed locks;
She, amongst them, is run down to the queen's court;
Nor more keeps measure, in her woman's tongue;
Nor more dissembles love, nor hides her grief.
Him, upborne to her bower, she them commanded,
All softly to lay down, on her own bed;
That yet is warm, where she herself was laid:
So gives them, hastily, meed. But those, fared forth,
Now sparred the door; she maketh, ah, so loud moan,

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That heard the queen's complaint is, in the street!
She lifts, as would she lull him in her arms;
Now foldeth her bright limbs, upon him cold.
She waxed nigh mad; and fall her tears, like rain,
On his wan face; more pale than his, her face.
And oft her lily hands she winds, and shrikes!
Lamenting much, that her untimely speech.

Then kissed she, thousand sithes, his parted lips;
Which like to those twinned shells the falling tide,
Leaves on some silver sand, of sea's salt shore;
Which seeming dead, therein as pearls appear.

Swooned the queen's heart; but when, at length, gan mark
Her blubbered eyes, that staunched the clottered blood;
She rose and called to her, her wandering mind.
With cunning fingers, she, in leechdoms, skilled,
Now searcheth every part: with waters warm,
(Wherein night-gathered herbs, in the full moon!)
Foments his hurt. Then whispering healing spell,
She binds, with salve of baume and sleepy morel.

Now is the hour, when most, twixt eve and morn,
Men wont to slumber: but taste Britons, yet,
No kindly rest, in camps of their caterfs;
And cause are fiends, that, baleful, fly to-night.

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War-hag, stands nemon, in terrific vision!
O'er woad-stained warrior, mongst the Trinobants;
Commanding show, what he of living wights,
Alone, hath known of Togodumnos' death!

He rose up, trembling, from cold dream; and drave
Him the hag-fiend, to council of the kings;
That, yet, with Caradoc, sit in Camulodunum:
For, on them, heavy is of public cares,
The weight and hourly conduct of this war.

Before them standing, soon, the recreant wretch,
With faltering knees and dazing brain, at length,
Beknew the sooth of Togodumnos' death.
His neighbour Trugon had he, dying, found,
He tells, past knowing man, cast in a bush,
And heard him, (knowledging his treason,) breathe
Out last words, to the gods. He prayed those gods'
Forgiveness, which are judges of the dead!

Kings feel, as a cold spear smote through their loins:
Thrice, sighed the warsire king Caratacus.
Upleapt, impetuous, Cadern's son Marunus!
And, by the throat-bole, caught, in his first heat;
Would slay, with glaive, that man of Troynovant:
But white-stoled druids did interpose their rods!
And yet gin hands slide down, of kings and lords,
Whilst fail men's hearts, to handles of their swords.

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Those demon-hags confounded have to-night,
All divination of the land's pale druids.
Then sent Caratacus, as bade Verulam's priest,
Mempricios, for a swart-haired bull; that brought
Before them, kings and captains lay their hands,
To purge the guilt of Togodumnos' death,
Upon the victim's head, between his horns:
Which slay, on Camulus' walls, then, the king's druids.
In pan of gold, received the gurgling blood,
Mempricios touched their foreheads, all, therewith.

Parted, the kings sleep weary, under shields;
Save the strong arm of war, Caratacus;
With whom wakes, yet, Velaunos and Venutios:
For they dispose them, send forth the trimarch,
At day-star; which, a compass having fetched,
Should lay a wait; that when is battle joined,
They might fall suddenly out, on the legions' backs.

One come in, to the supreme lord, contends,
(Tasgetus, prince of strange Selgovian nation,)
That chief place were, to his young men, assigned,
To-morrow, in fight, against the elephants.
Hunters, in their wild hills, of the ureox;
They, boldly upleaping, sinews of his nape,
Wont thrill behind his bowéd threatful horns,

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With their long crooked knives of whetted bronze.
So that the roarers sudden start to ground!
In such wise, also, in sight of all the Britons,
Will they slay those Rome's monstrous snout-head beasts.
This their request, grants king Caratacus.

Then, unto Decet's warriors, (wont to frame
Scaffolds, with ladders, in deep tinny mines,)
The warlord king permits, stand next in place;
Beside Dumnonians of Duneda's ships,
Over against the towered machines of Romans.

King Caradoc, looking on night's starry watch,
Sees little now, to Summer's dawn, remains:
So laid him down, on splayed elk hide, was gift
Of noble Thorolf: and, with hundred spears,
Their lord around, wake valiant men-at-arms.
Then slumbers Britons' warsire, soon, and sleeps!

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BOOK XVI

174

ARGUMENT

Camulodunum. Morning, before battle. Cæsar, amongst his tribunes. Young Titus responds mirthfully to Claudius.

Caratacus arrays his blue caterfs. His speech to the Britons. The armies stand arrayed now, face to face. Roman elephants. Claudius admires the blue barbare host. Horsemen and runners are seen approaching on the plain; with whom Britons perceive is the bard Carvilios: come, men of Erinn. Britons intone a warlike chant of Carvilios. Warhounds of Erinn break out; and they leap upon the elephants. Scythe-carts of Parisii chace forth, and with them, run Kentish chariots. Selgovians assail the elephants. Belerions first draw-down Cæsar's war-towers. The like then do Duneda's shipfolk. Carvilios forth-rides, chanting lays of heroes and high gods. He is suddenly pierced by a shaft, in the eye-hole of his morion; and falls amidst his enemies. Battle joined; Britons at first prevail over Romans. A Recording Angel. A battle-wedge of Atrebats is seen rushing terribly in the field. Segontorix.

Verpatalos, lord of a band of Gaulish archers, with the Romans, goes over now to Britons' part: but will not those receive him, and Verpatalos is slain. Flavius leads on his legion. Many scythe-carts are taken. Trinobants then first yield ground. Caratacus yet heartens the blue Britons: but being hurt by a venimed arrow, the king faints and sinks down, in his royal chariot. Venutios, done-on the warlord's helm,

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returns into the battle. King Caradoc is borne back swiftly to Camulodunum. Romans outrush to the last overthrow of blue Britons. Velaunos is slain.

Vellocatus, waking from his trance, hears the cries of approaching Romans. He besought then the queen, to send out his young men, warriors; in succour of the Britons. Cartismandua makes sign from the wall; and they break forth. She herself issues in war-chariot. Flavius, seen these new Britons, approaching; severs them, as they run, into two parts. Young lords of Cartismandua's bands are smitten; and the queen dismayed hastily turns her chariot. After her pursues Titus.

The city-gates are shut. The sun goes down, when Romans return from the pursuit. Claudius banquets with his tribunes. Past middle night, cometh the great Erinn host, which followed Carvilios' harp. Ith, the naked king, them leads. They halt and hear, is fallen Carvilios; and king Caratacus is slain. The Erinn men march on, to smite Carvilios' enemies. They, o'erleapt the vallum, make dread nightslaughter, in the camps of legions. Claudius fled secretly forth, from his pavilion, mounts to a war-tower, and hides himself therein. Erinn warriors break again forth from Roman castra. They find Carvilios' corse, and bury him, where he fell, in Roman blood.

On the morrow a great storm rageth till eve. Claudius rides, to view the situation of the Britons' dune. Aulus sends letters to the Longport.

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Bright Dawn, on throne of ivory and of gold,
Is mounting now, beloved of men and gods,
In purple weed; and kings under yond walls,
Harnessed, helm-clad, in battle-carts forth-ride.

Then the high sire, as Belisama inspired;
That none them count disparaged, this great day,
Day wherein they should fight in Camulus' view,
(One people of Samoth, gainst intruded strangers,)
Unto each assigns, by druids' sacred lot,
Which they, before the kings, had last night cast,
His place. Save only as it, by ancient right,
(Keepers of West and East March of this Isle,)
Pertains; Silures and Kent men shall hold
The wings; and midmost, Catuvelaunian nation.

But hark; whilst Britons, to the camp of legions,
Gaze forth, speak Roman clarions a stern note.
And, lo, of bloody hew, scarlet, in grain,
On Cæsar's tent, is splayed the imperial cloak;
Token, that should, this day, be battle joined!

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Straight, issue cohorts, from all ports, at once:
And digged part down, part razed, of the paled work;
Lo, led now harnessed forth, huge nozzled elephants!
That seem like rocking ships, mongst trains of soldiers;
Whose painted castles full of light-armed archers,
Of strange aspect. Behold then tower-machines,
Nodding, on immane wheels, forged hardly forth;
With travial and with pain of men and elephants.

Array them, in long battles, Cæsar's legions;
And Roman knights prick forth, with glittering spears.
Lo, on white Gaulish steed, where bald-pate Claudius,
Rides; to whom now obeys the world of Rome!
Aulus rides, with him; legates then of legions,
His marshals of the camp and of the horse;
And noble Asiaticus Valerius,
Who of consular state: and friend is named of Claudius.
(Is greatest this, of all that live in Rome,
In riches and dispense!) From Gaul to Britain,
He, whom the Senate sends, to wait on Claudius,
Is lately o'erpassed, in his own three-banked ship.

From Cæsar, now, his legate, Aulus, parts;
And where he comes, Fight, valiantly, he exhorts,
In the imperator's view; in whom, remit,

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Lies, or else punish, fault of their revolt.
Record their antique virtue and achieve,
To-day such victory, as may end the war.

And merry, in his fond mood, carps gat-toothed Claudius,
Mongst Roman captains, nodding on them fast,
His totty brow; and shows, crowned with clay dykes,
The Britons' dune, set on an hill's high breast,
With the imperial finger; and cries oft,
Ha! high-walled Ilium! and Colne-stream calls he,
Scamander! and yond clustered blue caterfs,
Teucrians; and Britons' scythe-carts, Phrygian chariots;
Whose king the Priamid blue Caratacus;
With whom Sarpedon, and some queen or goddess,
Come from a land of women-warriors.
The Oiléid, Geta is; great Ajax Telamon,
Vespasian Flavius; busy-headed Aulus,
Odysseus; Diomed-like, is this young Titus!

To heaven's high stars, quoth he, quaint-witted Greeks
Have overmuch extolled their little deeds,
As children reck much of their saddle-reeds,
Whose sanded towers them seem a mighty world.

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Till now, have Romans sooner wanted words,
(And they shall soon want worlds!) to set theirs forth.
Who lives, he cries, were able to record
Ten-years' war-glory of Quirîtes Romans.
Were leisure, he would so great argument,
Himself entreat. Should certain letters help,
Which he, a private man, found, in his youth,
And since set forth; whereby he could endite
All barbare sounds, even these war-shouts of Britons!

Ache his great tribunes' ears, of Claudius' speech.
Them seems, like culver, becking on a bough,
Cæsar's white poll; and like a flickering leaf,
His maffling tongue. Is fain, this morn, fond Claudius,
To look on his proud war-wont marshalled legions.
Yet most he, in his secret, doth admire;
That Claudius is that army's imperator!

This portent of a man, in covert breast,
All mock, faint germ of great warfaring Drusus;
Who subdued barbare nations, to far Elbe.
Them thinks, that was this rightly naméd Claudius;
So his tongue halts. Impatient, wox his captains,
Before whom lies a day of strenuous fight.

Young Titus answers, in his mirthful vein;

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(Who nigh to Cæsar rides, mongst Roman knights;)
Did certes not men fight, before high Ilion!
But bladders, wine-sacs, scudding in much wind;
Unto whom each bodkin's prick was certain death.
He accounts them all not worth one Roman legion!

Many a poor hunter, lion, in field or forest
Hath hardily pierced, whereof heard little vaunt,
Being wight of mean regard and barbarous: but
Had such one not Achilles haply slain?
Whom could not Hector kill. Were not, less strong,
The better of them both, than horse? or swift
Than is wild ass? What three men, leagued their force
Had not that son o'erthrown of a sea-goddess?
What Roman bestiary had not tossed his noose,
On that proud neck, for all his furious boast;
And him repressed, aye, and slain, like salvage beast?

Hart-swift Achilles, what though he were strong
As is a Titan, stripe yet of slung whin-stone,
Or quarrel, shot from steel-stringed Roman engine,
Methinks, had slackt his divine knees anon!
Nor Greeks used any certain discipline,
Before Troy town; more than, now, Gauls or Almains;

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Men without all invention, in the wars.
Thus jests young Titus; who, with ruddy face,
Comely, straight-limbed, pricks forth, then, confident,
To the left horn, o'ergainst blue Britons' scythe-carts.

But Cæsar seeing lower, hastes answer Flavius,
His father; Yet bears Titus certain scroll,
Aye, in his bosom, of that blind Homerus;
Wherein he studies wars of old Troy-town.
Is this the fountain of his noble nature!
And sings he, crowned at banquets, with fresh flowers,
Those verses of sweet sound; even in men's ears,
That skill but small of letters, of vain Greeks;
Such as himself, who homely Roman-born.

Bestiarius: a fighter with beasts, in the public games.

In presence of his foes, Caratacus
His glast-stained tribes arrays, in thick caterfs:
Wherein the valour of the great North March
And South shall vie. Are hundred seen their ensigns.
He, twixt the hosts, rides forth, with king Venutios,
Drawn of white-rushing team, in swift scythe-chariot.

All Briton dukes speed, likewise, in shrill warcarts.
Where they draw rein, they hearten, with rapt speech,
Their nations, to do valiantly, as in view
Of all the army. Ride Moelmabon's sons,

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Upon that further part with king Velaunos.
With Kowain Hælion drives; whom king Duneda
His son names, sith fell noble Morag slain.

Right worthy prince is this, with martial face,
Who North Dumnonians rules, a kindred folk;
(Though parted, yore,) with those of fair Duffreynt.
Their aspect one, speech, shields, bright arms and ensigns:
Whence, as one people, have they joined their camps.
Is told, when travailled, of old time, Duffreynt
Famine; part of this nation, which fared forth,
Had in North parts, found seats, and livelihood.

Hark! cries Caratacus: and caused his main voice,
Some aery gods, rebellow from steep clouds,
(Like flitting tents, pitcht in void element;)
If we do fail, to-day, then falls our state:
Kinsmen, expect the Roman servitude!
Be not one household, of our Briton gods,
This island's peoples. As one father's sons,
Then fight all we, gainst strange invading legions.
And ye, from your high seats, O heavenly ones,
Our fathers' gods! with shield and spears, descend,

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Into this battle. Stretch, from Camulus' walls,
Our wives, and weeping babes, to us, their hands,
Beseeching, they were not made Romans' thralls!

Appeased was all contention, mongst the Britons;
For had their gods sent, with the morning breath,
Before the rising sun, an healing spirit,
Upon their camps. Then spread their swart-sheen wings,
Casting a cry, which every heart amazed,
Those hags took heavy flight. Sith, on iron cart,
Wherein flits shrouded Night, the hag-fiends ride;
To her abysmal deep, beneath the earth.

Queen Cartismandua, in despiteful grief,
For Vellocatus, cometh then, no more, forth:
Who fights, who falls, she little recks or naught,
Nor Romans fears; her world is Vellocatus.
Lie idly encamped her power, at the town-gates.

Stand the great armies, in long opposed ranks,
Still looking on each-other's threatful face.
Are legions confident; but wait Claudius' dukes,
That Britons see, to-day, so much increased,
Upon advantage, to spare Roman blood.

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Though ready to rush forth, inconstant Britons;
Are they as tide, which wafts no certain wind.

This dures, till midday of that Summer-sun:
When horsemen, on both parts, now light, from steeds.
Be seen the great towered elephants; that, like some
Swart rocks, do stand in glittering waves of bronze;
Their long snout-hands to sling, and wide lap-ears
To flag, impatient of their immense force.

Cerulean Britons, which, with dreadful shout,
Were wont rush, headlong, on their enemies,
Now sit on the green herb. None, from his place,
Removes in the caterfs. Dull are their hearts,
A sapless squalor creepeth in their loins;
Whom nourished hath no kindly rest, to-night.

Under a state of gold and purple cloth,
Cæsar sits shadowed, mongst Rome's shining ranks;
Whose helms with leaves are bound, for Summer heat.
Britons far-off behold, that this is Claudius!
Mongst them, the king, great-voiced Caratacus,
Lighted from chariot, midst white-stoled war-druids,
Invokes his battle-gods; Bran, Camulus,
(Whose image sheen, set o'er the dune's tower-gate,)
And heroes' spirits, Cunobelin, Togodumnos.
Choired druids begin, then, solemn battle-chant,

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Intone; whereto response, with one vast throat,
Make Britons' host; wherewith, hark, shrilling note,
Of women from dune walls. And heard their gods;
That, in the island powers, infuse new force.
Then Britons clash to shields their glaives and spears!

Looks Claudius forth, on strange Britannic chariots;
And in the plain, still, in his wavering thought,
Sees city of Priamos, sees blue Hellespont:
Then trembles he; and quakes his various heart.
Yond countenance of fierce nations, he admires;
Whose shields, like painted doors, before their breasts.
Seem sea-gods' children, yond blue-painted warriors!
Long yellow-haired, tall and great limbed, as Almains.
He would, of such, he might conscribe a legion!
Aye, and this will he do; and them, also, send,
(When Isle Britannia won,) to wars of Rome!
And Claudius drew his tablets forth, anon;
As that he somewhat would endite; and questions,
With knights, (come in from field,) and libertines.

Erst seen of women, which man Camulus' walls,
Is powderous cloud, o'er the hot champaign wide;
As rolling smoke, ascending to the gods:
To Britons, in the plain, seems cattle-droves.
Romans fear coming of new glast-stained nation.

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Sith, those, not many horsemen, are discerned;
With mingled runners, wavering on the plain:
And scouring on, before them, battle-hounds,
Of Erinn kind, renowned for force and stature;
That two might break the neck of a wild bull.
Now Britons all perceive the bard Carvilios,
That with them rides; and hail, with infinite throat!
On shining wheels, to meet him, kings outride.

Comes, powdered, lo, with dust of their long voyage,
Carvilios, mongst strange pictured wights from Erinn;
Isle of derne altars of the dying sun.
Mother of heroes, seed of the god Dagda:
Pricket, on whose flesh, beasts' and birds' images,
Are seen; and limned the like on their broad shields.
An army of foot-folk, after these, rush on.

Hark, a new shout of glast-stained nations' throats!
Which rising, in their ranks, intone vast chant,
Known to all Britons; and which bard Carvilios,
Had made, in that long year before the war;
Chanting from court to court, from hall to hall.
When, on your hills, ye see smoke warning fires;
And hearken, through the land, calling her sons,

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The battle-trump, with bloody mouth, to arms:
Leap-up! young warriors, gather from all hearths.

Before you, armed, shall go your battle-gods.
And when, in field, ye, with the foemen, meet,
Stand with pressed shield to shield, and fellowed feet,
To feet, a strong pale-wall of valorous breasts,
In stedfast ranks. None, from his band, thrust forth,
To vaunt his several valour, without fence
Of harness, gainst bronze-sharded Roman soldiers.

Shall like entunéd music, in your ears,
Of harps and reeds, at feasts and altar-fires,
Sound bloody, immane, confused, dread battle-noise,
Of smitten shields, twixt striving opposed fronts,
Yelling of infinite throats, to men and gods;

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Shrill axe-trees, neighing of fierce steeds, the shout
Of dukes, hoarse trumps; strange mighty cry of legions!

Not only stands, in brightness of his arms,
A warrior's praise; he, valorous, covets wounds,
Bove bracelets and ring-gold. And when with scars,
Adorned, in public feast, he leads the dance;
Him maidens praise, men envy in their hearts;
Honour old men of war his glorious youth.
Worship and dignity, unto such, accrue;
To their lives' end, with heritage of name,
Unto their children. How much better were,
Young warrior fall upon his comely face,
Amidst his fellows, on his war-bruised targe,
Than, void of honour, scape, from field, with life!
Him heroes old shall, in the underworld,
Last, to their glorious fellowship, receive.

What time, with adverse ensigns, ye rush on;
Whereon, with flittering wings, sit gods of death;

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Like as the bolt, ye were, of thundering Taran;
Be rage of famished wolves, in your fierce breasts:
As their sharp teeth, the iron and bitter bronze,
Which in your violent hands. Under your shields,
Like wild bulls, leap your bodies' matchless force.

Those warhounds, venting then strange sent of elephants;
Have burst their leashes, with resistless force!
They, now, deep-baying, scour betwixt the armies.
Then cry rose up of thousands, on both parts.
Some Erinn hounds pierce slight Numidic shafts!
The remnant raging forth, with open throats,
On those huge nozzled beasts, leap, twixt their tusks;
And, with their sharp claws, rend, and snatch with teeth,
Their leathern flanks. Those bellowing, and waxed mad,
Their castles hurl; and Afric soldiers cast.
Some founder, some roll, furious, in the field;
Some turned, confound the orders of their legions.
They tread down men. Enforced were some centurions,

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Shout to their soldiers; The beasts' bellies pierce!
Those sink; and yell to heaven, cerulean Britons!

That seen, Parisii chace forth, in swift scythe-carts,
Of iron. Vie with them, Cantion's noble youth.
On Romans, fallen, with full career of chariots;
They enter hardily, in breaches of the legions;
And reap their hook-wheels bloody swathe of soldiers:
Gainst whom, from yoke-trees, on their painted beams,
Running, they hurl down iron sleet of javelins;
And on the elephants; being gored whose chines,
(Wherein, stand Britons' darts now, thick as grass,)
Lo, like some strange huge urchins, tower aloft.

Shrink, from before their burning wheels, whole cohorts.
Men fallen and wounded, loud lament beneath.
Soldiers yell, Dogs devour them! in whom force,
More than a man's, upleaping on their shields.

Behold Selgovians, running, on their part,
Gainst the elephants rangéd, on that league-wide face
Of legions. Of those snout-head immane beasts,
Some swerve, some, wounded, hurl their girded towers.

Those hunters, leaping on the monstrous beasts,
That trémble and some ones, lo, are fallen to knee;
Do, lightly, as children, from their painted holds,
Pluck forth those tawny strange Numidian wights;

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And hurl, with death-wounds, down, or break their bones.
They, with long hunting-knives, of hard-ridged bronze,
The nerve do thrill of the huge elephants' napes;
That founder, slain, in sight of the two armies.
Britons smite hands, exulting, and their shields!

Fast follow, (fenced their flanks of squadroned warcarts,)
Bearing, on shoulders, ladders, swart Belerions.
Under long moon-shields, these, in sleet of shafts,
Reared up their stairs, to Roman towered machines,
The rungs, lo, nimble as squirrels, now, upmount!

What though, of Decet's warriors, many an one,
Tumbles by javelin pierced, back, without life;
Yet some in-fixt and hammered, have, iron hooks;
Wherethrough reeve, other, cables; which, drawn up;
Hundred thereon, and hundred, strong arms heaving;
They make those towers, eftsoon, to nod, to stoop;
To oversway: they fall, with ruin great,
And dreadful death of all within them, Romans!

Yond, Kowain's ship-folk likewise, under shields,
Armed their stout hands, with grapples, cords and bills,
(Them Labraid leads,) war-towers, to them, opposed,
Assail; and, with sharp iron, hew axe-trees huge;

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Whereon should roll, upon their timbered wheels,
Those mighty storied frames. Other up-hurled,
(Though shafts, though stones hail on their targets, lifted
Above their heads,) have ship-gaffs, whose sharp beaks
Hold fast. They heaving then, by companies, with
A loud raised shipmen's chant; make rock, lean, reel,
The staged war-towers; that last their valiant hands
Do overthrow! Rose cry of dying Romans!
Nathless, durst cohorts' soldiers not their ordinance
Break, in face of swift squadrons of shrill scythe-carts.

Helm-clad, on startling steed of Gaul, outrides
Crowned, (king Cunobelin's gift,) with gilt oak-leaves,
And Gaulish shining mails, on his large breast,
Behold that noble warrior bard Carvilios,
Chanting loud lay of heroes and high gods!

Then pause men fight, for he upholdeth glaive!
Carvilios, with loud voice, hark, curseth Romans.
Cleaved sudden the air Numidic scudding arrow:
It thrilled the eye-hole of the hero's morion!
Nathless, not turned aback that noble bard,
His dying face: but pricking fast, on steed,
He falls, now, amidst his thick-ranged enemies!

Britons do set their teeth, to avenge Carvilios;
As each should wreak him, for his father's son;

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And who, of all their kings, was public guest.
Erst Trinobants, the people of Camulus, whose
Is yond great dune; when, from their toweréd walls,
They see how women, all ungirt their paps,
And loost down their long comely locks, stretch forth,
To them their palms and lift their little ones!
No longer wait for sign, from the warlord;
Who, in far field, from tribe to tribe, swift rides,
In glittering chariot, mongst the blue caterfs:
But straight, as by impulsion of some god,
They break forth, shouting, like to rushing flood.

The royal tribe of Catuvelaunian Britons,
That next them stand, in vast array of shields,
Whom Iddon this day leads, advance then foot.
Carvilios! (is their cry,) Cunobelin's guest.
Would they, from Romans, save Carvilios' corse.
Shout Roman soldiers, of the opposed legions;
Which running hurl their darts. Come to hand-strokes,
Britons, like billows, fall on plate-clad soldiers.
They rent, with fierce tough hands, down, Roman shields:
Their gorge, with bronze-head heavy spears, invade.

Assail Silures, and stout sons of Kent,
At once, both wings of Romans and allies.
Make head renowned Brigantes, with thick powers.

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Rush mainly and battle join, with dreadful cries,
Demetans and Durotriges, Ordovices,
And Coritavians, whom Velaunos leads.
Leads on king Hælion North and South Dumnonians:
With whom Icenians, new caterfs and war-carts,
Valorous bands of young warriors; that in fight,
As those their kings, now follow Hiradoc.
They áll hurl on the Romans' triple ordinance!

Prevailed, on the two wings, erst, stern Silures,
And men of Kent. The middle have enforced
Warriors of stature, royal Catuvelaunians.
Howbe their duke, whose warlike youth renowned;
(When his swift feet could outrun three-horsed warcarts,)
Now, sitting, rides, in chariot; and uneath
The hero's palsied hands the supple reins
May hold of his fierce steeds. In rushing wind,
Hover his wintered locks. Joys Iddon lead,
Gainst legions of invading Rome; (yet green
His heart,) in field of glory, his young men.

Return, which erst brake through, Brigantine scythecarts,
And seem, with iron glittering wings, those rush,
On wavering Romans' backs; (like as in days,
Of peace, we see an hen, for her young birds,

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Leap smiting, with her feathers, beak and claws.)
Whom follow that great trimarch of the North;
Which darts cast then on hindward of the legions.

Beholding red-haired Taran and fierce-eyed
Andates, and man-slaying Camulus,
And comely Belinus, who, the archer-god;
Is, next to Camulus, the shield of Britons,
(Nor yet, in field, seen Fortune of great Rome;
Which leads even gods, as children, by the hand,)
Britons' proud deeds rejoice their divine breasts.
And marked the valour of each duke, record
They, from what loins he sprung. Are Roman arms,
Bet back, on every part, and staggering legions.
And Cæsar hasted mount to steed; whom saved
Seemed hardly his body, amidst thick squadroned horse,
And strength of knights and stout Batavians.

The gods, to thee, give, great Caratacus,
This glory, in recompense, that henceforth is lost
Thy kingdom. Rumbles, with the myriad-tread,
The sod, of warriors; whose long opposed ranks,
Be like to wrestling waves, that fall in blood.
Seems the immense bosom of the element,
Shudder, to heaven, with mortals' confused noise.

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And, quoth the Muse; An heaven-descended One,
I saw, above the battle-rage; and kneeled,
In a white mist, he, on his knees, and leaned,
On his bright wings! and he recorded names
Of all war-murdered ones, Britons and Romans!

Comes the warlord, with triple rushing team.
As shard, cast of strong pulse, o'erscuds sea-waves,
Such Caradoc's leaping wheels seem and winged warcart.
Standing, the sire, aloft, in battle-chariot;
Some war-god seems. Raging, by him, in fight,
The hero of the North, Venutios, rides.
Demon of death, Dis, snatcht each flying shaft,
In the flit air, or dart of his, doth pierce
Some chief one, of blue Britons' enemies.

Riding, from tribe to tribe, from duke to duke,
With great voice, Caradoc heartens blue caterfs.
And now he sends forth all that rest of chariots;
Them Beichiad guides. Those ruin on the cohorts,
Of Aulus' left wing: hurling they, as tempest,
Ranks overthrow; and bray them in the dust!

Immense new shout! seen, rushing from South part,
Armed men, in field, are Belges by their shields.
Is Cunoglas, lord of old royal house;

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Plough-wise, with valour of a god, them leads!
His helm is braided steel, his hauberk plate,
Of proof, inlaid, with floweréd Gaulish work.
He the head; the ribs are stoutest Belges' champions:
For like long row-ship, smitten forth of oars,
On bloody waves, those break the battle-press.

But turned again, from their tremendous voyage;
Who was their captain, bleeding much, uneath,
Men uphold, midst their wedge, tall Cunoglas!
Dead soon, they cannot choose, but let to fall
On ground, that glorious spoil. Who, in his room,
Helm-clad, now leads, is man of immense force.
Leaf-crowned, this runs; and fenced is his vast chest,
With swart-stained mails, lo, smirched with much war-blood.

This their wedge-head, he battles, without shield:
And by his shout, an Atrebat he is!
And seem men hear, when terribly he cries,
(The stature his,) voice of Segontorix!
Insomuch, that his swift career upholding,
Who hastened thither is, in shrill scythe-chariot;
With cry, hark, great warlord Caratacus,
His name enquires and house illustrious?
Unto whom that hero, a moment stayed his course;

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Spake, Nurseling of the foster-gods, thee, Caradoc,
Give they war-glory and endless victory!
Know that am I, unworthy seed of Commius,
He that was king, whiles stood our happier state,
In dune Calleva, now burned walls and waste.
So crying, he hurled forth yet more vehement!

When scaped Segontorix was, from Cogidubnos;
He, went to forest, warred, mongst thicket brakes,
On beasts; till all his royal weed to-rent,
And tawny so, and scratcht his noble face,
That no more known the Guledig was, of wight.

Befell then, certain horsefolk, Gauls, which ride,
With guides, post-messengers, unto nigh Longport,
Before that Belges' forest, needs must pass.
Them found Segontorix, lighted, at brook-side,
That watered their tired steeds. Few vassals, come
In arms, unto the king, were with him there:
And some ones, of the Gauls, those slew, anon;
And fled the rest from Guledig's great force.

But he moved of some god, spoiled a Gaul, dead,
Man of great stature, of his bright mailed harness;

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Him rayed in that war-weed; but, sith, it stained,
(Still madding in his mood,) with warlike woad;
That druids had, for the king, ere, of that wood
Simpled, in the wild paths, and it prepared.
This, likewise, did, to pleasure him, his few warriors.

At Guledig's cry, those, mounted then, Gauls' steeds;
Had issued from wood-side. Men gathered, armed,
From many a grange, to them, and homestead burned;
Which their warfaring cries heard, as they rode:
Yet none durst ask, Is this Segontorix?
And were they joined, to-day, to Cunoglas.

Yonder, fight cloud of archers, from main Gaul;
Which, lately passed the narrow seas, with Claudius;
Fenced with round bucklers. Them, four hundred bows,
(Ambacti named; and gessetas, his hired servants,)
One leads Verpatalos, lord in a great dune:
But runs derne whisper, in his people's ears,
Had Pallant, freedman of the imperial palace,
Their lord's young wife beguiled. In this hour, was
Seized extreme passion, on Verpatalos' soul;
Seen those great deeds, of Atrebatan Britons.
He them, with both his Belgic hands, applauds!
That, oak-leaf-crowned, hurl, fighting-on, to death!
And now those cleave Vespasian's pia legion.

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Mongst his light warriors; (that do cast-up tufts
Of grass, to know how stands the wind aloft,
Which mars their arrows' flight;) hark, cries Verpatalos,
Upholding hand! (his bowmen cease then shoot,)
In common speech of main and island Gauls,
Is come the day of vengeance, for our harms!
Just gods, which passed Italic Alps, with Brennus,
Conjoin, again, our arms against proud Rome.
This said Verpatalos, raised loud Gaulish chant,
Steed mounts; and issues from beside the legions!
Follow, with rattling quivers, his most warriors;
That, running, cast their shields, behind their backs.

Lifting, to Kent men, that rush nigh, in chariots,
Verpatalos suppliant palms; he, Kinsmen, cries,
Give passage; that to king Caratacus,
We may us join, and Britons' blue caterfs!
These grant: Gauls then, still running, come to part,
Where kings, of all blue Britons' tribes, had left
Reliefs, strong mingled bands, in covert place.
Gauls, loud, as they nigh to them, name, (right hands
Outstretching,) common gods. But minding those,
Alone, that former overthrow, at Thames,
By fraud of Gauls; whereby, was Antethrigus

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Smitten, and Britons' army cast away;
(And Dryg, hot-hearted lord, to-day, commands,)
Would not receive, though those their crooked bows,
Have cast: but Britons, unsheathed furious glaives,
Closing them round, begin the foremost slay:
They pluck, then, lord Verpatalos, from horse!

He, nobleman, would not recoil, nor fight.
An hasty dart, hurled through his gorge, alas;
His woes eftsoons have ending. Ceased his voice,
Tremendous, whelms, upon his reeling sense,
Of never-ending sleep, the purple night!
And fled lamenting, from his comely corse,
Pasture of crows and kites, in land of Brennus,
His ghost. Snatcht Belges bowmen up wild stones,
Gainst Britons, which them slay; die, desperate!

Being raised new clamour, in their hindward, thus;
As erewhile in Thames' field, wry back blue Britons,
(Which hear that cry!) their necks, doubting their hearts;
And pause their battle-weary hands to fight.

Flavius then, making head, leads on his legion:
And they, thick shielded hedge of glaives and spears,
With strong effort, long loose ranks of blue Britons,
Beat back: and Sabine's horsemen them o'errun.
Then taken were many teams of broken scythe-carts,

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Whose riders slain to ground. And Roman engines,
Launching from scaffolds, laid on heavy wains,
With hideous randon, stones and great winged beams,
Confound and strew that trimarch of the North.

Celtic, gwas, a youth, servant.

Legions, confirmed their ranks, with brazen clarions,
All give, at once, new onset. They fall on,
Like winter waves. Long-shielded Trinobants,
Which erst advanced; must yield first ground to Flavius!
Yet fighting, foot by foot. Nigh whom, (Marunus,
Their duke, being hurt now of a Roman javelin,)
Shrink valiant bands, of merchant Troynovant.

Then, were caterfs o'erborne of Durotriges;
Seen, sudden, valorous Golam plumb from chariot!
An hurled huge engine-stone brast all his chest.
At his steeds' feet he fell, and lay full still;
Forgetful of his people and Moridunion.
Pendol, his friend, a prince of fenny march,
At Pedred's stream, leapt down, before the enemies,
In the field's midst, from swift scythe-cart; who sought,
With rapt effort, to save the hero's corse;
Fell, shield and body, pierced, of Roman darts.

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Among the island kings, seed of the gods,
That, breathing in their living breasts, infuse
New force; out of the battle were withdrawn,
Awhile, some ones, to fresh their sweating steeds,
And bind their wounds. The sire Caratacus
Yet rides, sublime; and seems the battle-god.
He everywhere doth comfort, with main voice,
The Britons' woad-stained breasts, gainst harnessed soldiers.
And, with him, Gorran guides the royal team.

Returned Venutios, to the king Velaunos,
Restores the battles of the Northern powers.
But, whilst his raging wheels, in warlike field,
Reap living swathe; is noised, young Fythiol fell,
In further part; and with that valorous duke,
Of East-men, are cut-off both men and chariots.
An hundred, thither, ready scythe-carts leads
Caratacus, then: but o'er the island gods,
Gin now prevail the mightier gods of Rome!

Early in the battle, had a roving arrow
Attained the flesh of great Caratacus.
Sped of Numidic bow, it upward glanced
Had from courbe brow of the white royal chariot.
Gored the lord's thigh; him, like a snake, it bit,

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With poisoned fang, under his mailéd harness.
King Caradoc had that hauberk of Manannan,
Woeworth! left uphanged, in Caer Verulam;
Where was it fallen a prey, these days, to Romans:
(And which, being sent to Rome, that same year, shown
Was, in the triumph of returnéd Claudius!)

But, privily, drawn the shaft, forth, had Venutios;
And bound, with precious salve; (which, in an horn,
He bare aye to the wars,) the throbbing sore.
Would not the supreme lord, for this, forsake
The field; but, longtime, hid his rankling grief.
And seemed his chariot the sun's burning cart,
(Illustrious lamp, to all succeeding ages,
Hail glory of Britain, great Caratacus!)

Yet, covertly, under bands, the hero bleeds.
Corrupting, then, the venim, all his veins,
Creeps, little and little, in his heart, a frost.
Sighs Caradoc, feeling now decay his force:
Sighs to his gods, he now for-weary is.
And languishing, on this tardy Summer sun,
Looks, pales; and eftsoons faints his living force.
Issued his golden whip, and fall the reins,
From his high hands; which Gorran, by him, caught.
Sinks, sunlike, Caradoc, in his battle-cart!

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Gorran, his right embracing him, afraid
The sire should fall, out of his jumping chariot,
Him pains, with left hand, rule the royal steeds.
But, is not his, that pulse, which wont them guide;
Nor their lord's martial voice, that cheers, that chides;
Whence, looking backwark, they, a moment, stand!
Stoopt their broad croups, then, they forewent the wind;
Turning from battle, bearing their lord home:
They break back, towards tower-gate of Camulodunum.

Thwarts to the royal scythe-cart, king Venutios.
And Ergund, erst, in field, he called, by name;
Known by the homicide gleam of his broad glaive,
His immense stature and his towréd targe.
Running, in three bands, Ergund and his warriors,
With inclined shields; beat back their bleeding spears,
Nigh harnessed Romans, and tall Gauls, allies.

At Caradoc's weary voice; uneath whose steeds
Were stayed, Gorran and Kowain him uplifted,
Bear to Venutios' cart. His helm, unlaced,
With dragon-crest, doth hastily on king Venutios:
Then Kowain, shield, which Gorran bare, embraced.
Those giving Gorran charge, speed to the walls,

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With Caradoc, couched in iron Brigantine chariot;
They both upleap, in the lord's winged white scythe-cart!

Returned into the battle, seemed Venutios,
Cunobelin's warlord-son, his steeds and chariot.
There now had stern Silures repulsed Romans;
Though fallen a third part of their naked warriors.
Maglos they find, with Ordovican Kynan:
For joined had those two valorous their armed powers.

Loud heard, then, bove the tumult, voice of Geta!
Who, on his tribunes calling and centurions,
Erects, foursquare, amids the field, his legion;
(Which order this old duke, like to a castrum,
Outfound, of late.) They grounding their stiff spears,
All easily, then, sustain, on every part,
The impetuous swarming force of barbare enemies.

Thus those; whom onset, ere, of battle-carts,
And brunt of that famed trimarch of the North,
Cut-off approach, again, to the main army.
By whom r'enforced, of new, outrush those legions,
To the last overthrow of blue caterfs;
Confusedly now arrayed. Then, by vast poise,
Of Roman shields, is naked Britons' front

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Borne back, in routs. Were even then, who most valorous,
Constrained convert their face. In that assault,
Velaunos fell, great duke of all North Britons!
Who, for his oath's sake, would not turn his chariot.

Certain centurion was, which him advanced,
Desiring glory; and that his hands robust
Might slay some chief one of cerulean Britons.
This man's hurled lance, then king Velaunos pierced,
Twixt his right mammel and the golden belt;
Which entering the frail bulwark of his life,
The liver thrilled. And fell down from his chariot
The war-king, at that stroke; and gave the ghost.

Riches, nor hundred champions of his house,
Nor sacrifices, nor mails of hard brass,
In this his fatal hour, might save Velaunos:
Whose destiny, already, had shaped the gods, what night
The gentle Aguitha, flower of maidens all,
Him, in her bridal bower, of royal seed,
Conceived; and Tees, betwixt his flowery banks,
Making his streams run slow, her lulled to rest.
Nor aught availeth, with the fatal god,
To turn away his stroke, our mortal gifts.

Loud shouting, they have slain great barbare duke!

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Lo, bronze-clad soldiers of invading Rome,
Trample, as they rush on, in bloody dust,
His royal fortune, and his reverend face.
And they slew, with him, Kelidon in the scythe-cart,
His cousin's son. Enveloped of the reins,
Was dragged his breathing corse. In bitter throes,
His limbs, like smitten adder, beat the ground,
Where, hewed of swords, he yields his warlike breath.

New shout raised! rush in all the field forth legions:
That hurl, now, back blue warriors, on all parts.
He, then, in vain that seems Caratacus,
Venutios, whom draw forth the royal steeds;
Before whom Kowain lifts the warlord's shield,
Reproves, exhorts, with voice magnanimous.
As ere, in valour, now, the glast-stained Britons;
In whose hearts, fallen blind fear, contend in flight!

And, yet more, weakened is the warlike force,
Of East-men, and discouraged their caterfs:
For Gormail, that fights with duke Hiradoc forth;
And, in his targe, bears thirty Gaulish shafts;
Perceived one, his nigh kinsman, whose blood had
Erewhile the hero shed, in far North parts;
Fell Vergomar, who now rides in the trimarch.
This approached, from the backward, on swift horse;

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Or ever men might warn, ward or withhold,
Twixt shoulders smote him; and with so huge force,
His spear ran through warlike Gormail's ribbed chest:
Who fell down, bleeding carcase, without breath.
In fury, Icenians turning, Vergomar pierced.

Then Aulus sends out, his reliefs and aids;
And light-armed runners, mingled with his horse,
To cut-off Britons, from their city walls;
Whence women's shrilling shrieks now pierce all ears.
From far, king Caradoc wounded, those have seen;
And see how driven caterfs, before Rome-legions.

Clamour young warriors; that, in idle camp,
Of Cartismandua, blame the lustful queen.
With hardy looks, before the gates of Camulus,
They clash bright arms, all, to their warlike shields.

In that, waked Vellocatus, from long trance.
He languishing, calls to him, all his powers:
For well, mongst mingled cries, he could perceive
Loud-tongued strange voice of nighing Roman legions!
Him rousing, from fell dreams of dread and death,
He, faint, uprose; and for his hauberk calls;
Would arm him! but eftsoon fails on the bed.

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Then he besought the queen, send his young warriors;
Into the battle, in succour of blue Britons.

Went Cartismandua, as bidden of some god,
Out from the chamber, being ready dight;
And standing on the wall, like Camulus;
She uplifted, lo, sun-glittering, her bright glaive,
The sign of war, in sight of her young men.
Rise, in fierce heat, those young Brigantine warriors;
Which followed have the queen, in their caterfs!

Nor longer tarrying, they, to field, break forth,
And battle, little curing keep their ranks;
Eager to pierce, to hew the enemies' flesh;
In succour of Brigantines and South Britons:
Nor waited they the queen. Shouting, outwent
They, in furious haste, their captains both and ensigns:
And now, through Colne, plash their impatient feet.
Whence they leap forth, in number as a legion;
To weary Britons' aid, and Romans smite.

Closed Cartismandua, in Cunobal's hard mails,
A silver morion whelmed on her tyred head,
(The whiles fell hope creeps in her serpent's breast,
That might she find Venutios hurt to death;)
She, by the stairs, to Embla's court, descended:

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Leaps there on scythed wheels of her great sire's chariot,
Of iron. Her long-maned steeds, in hands stand of
One Calduc, her light steward: who now, with her,
Mounts; and large pictured targe, before her breast,
Lifts, wherein effigied, lo, her saviour-goddess,
(Belisama,) emmailed, in many hews, is seen.

She who, in chamber, her luxurious limbs
Hath smeared with magic salve, help gainst war wounds,
Now shakes the reins; and rush forth her swift steeds,
In Colne-street; where she smally of impotent folk,
Recks, or of babes, though she should them o'erride.

Lo, in the porch of Camulus' city-gate;
Where, softly, now the magistrates have him laid,
Is swooning great war-sire Caratacus!
Queen Embla stands, beside, full pale of face;
For dread, and busy thought, towards her gods;
Whilst druid leeches, kneeling, cure his wound;
Which they, with cunning hands, have cleansed and closed.
But coldly, on them, bright Cartismandua looks;
In that her shrill wheels issue from the town.

Seen how new Britons pass, so rathe, the Colne;
Flavius (opposed, to them, his wide-ranged legion,)

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Severs, with hasty wedge of captive war-carts;
Which, (with their teams, together, he had bound,)
Those battle-throngs. Rush Cartismandua's warriors,
Parted, by the two sides; thick barbare bands.
This one he envelops, with vexillary soldiers;
That other hurl forth, to unequal fight.

They encounter, valiantly, with certain cohorts,
Set in await, (with whom the guard of Claudius;
And Cæsar, in the midst, fenced round of elephants.)
They, naked, fight, with warwont, harnessed, soldiers,
That take small hurt. Young perfumed Briton lords,
Which guide, with gingling bits, their barded steeds,
Valorous men's sons, fall from their painted carts;
And stain their glast-stained brows, and their bright locks,
And party-coloured weed, with their own blood.

Which seen, queen Cartismandua beat her haunch,
For poignant grief; and turns, as one dismayed,
Her cart; with hope win back to the town walls.
Fast, after her, pursue young Roman knights;
(Is Titus, and few, with him, Gaulish horse,
As falcon, greedy attain so glorious prey.)

White-armed, mongst the woad-stained, that Northern queen,

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By freshness of her team, (she incessantly smites,
With ivory whip, upon their smoking croups,)
Them weary, outgoes: nighs now to Camulus' walls;
(Her tunic fluttering, in this Summer-breath!)
Whereas, being hardly arrived; with shame of face
And dool, again, the queen doth enter in:
The flower, well-nigh, of all, in so brief space,
Her young men lost. Who, from dune-wall, look forth,
See Britons travailled to and fro, in field.

Old men that, from the tower of Camulus, watch,
Behold most warlike nations of the Isle;
How each from other, now, like boughs, dispersed,
Which shake forth winter blasts. Cut from the dune,
To covert of hill-woods, flee the caterfs.
Like fowl of broken wing, scape the maimed chariots.

Vexillarii.

Loud wailing; and the city-gates are shut!
Weeping of wives, which stand round on the walls.
The gods of Britons seem to mourn aloft,
Which veil that welling passing radiance,
Of the unweariable sun, with skies,
As rusty gore: in whose now waning beams,
See druids, from lukewarm blood of fallen warriors,
In battle-plain, to rise disbodied spirits.

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And still, toward house of heaven, they upward mount;
Like evening dance of silver-wingéd flies,
O'er crystal water-brooks, in harvest month.

O'er fallen men and wide-strewed arms and steeds,
Pursue, still killing, Romans. Nor yet cohorts,
Turn, their victorious face, till may, no more,
They see field's blotted gore. Call them then clarions!
They come, in the late twilight, to their vallum.
But not till shine, in vast night-camp of heaven,
O'er earth's dark face, high watchlights of the gods;
Weary with slaying, turn the knights of Rome;
Besmirched their steeds, their harness and their hands,
With the cerulean Britons' barbare blood.

Soldiers that rest, in conquered soil, and sup,
At thousand watchfires; with hope, recreate,
Of morrow's prey, their wolvish Roman hearts:
Whiles, fallen to-day, their wounded fellows lie,
(Not few,) yet, in wide slaughter-field, without:
Nor, till moon-rise, should there wend companies forth,
To seek them, mongst the dead, from castrum gates.

This sun gone down, to light the underworld,

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Of heroes and passed souls and ancient gods;
Sits Claudius now, to banquet, with his dukes.
He drinketh deep; and of the battle carps.
But soon they part forth, from fond Cæsar, weary:
Who sith all drunken, in his vomit, lies,
Alone; and routs in his pavilion wide,
Of purple silk, midst Rome's victorious legions.

How dreadful is this shrouded night, abroad!
Wherein lies strewn dull bosom of earth's ground,
With her war-murdered sons, mingled with corses,
Of stranger enemies, in much spilth of blood.
The agony, ah, is, of all their myriad deaths,
Now silent; dread corruption only is,
Atrocious spectacle to those starry gods!

Sound frantic women's shrieks, from yond dune walls,
For this great day of death! None, seems, the world
Now hath, but wailing voice. Where, yester, was
A gracious Summer field; whence wont, to sound,
Ruckling of sheep-folds; and from meads of Colne,
The lowing of fat beves; and dulcet chant,
From flowery haythorn, by the river's brinks,
To silver sickle of the moon, all night,
Of the heavenly nightingale, that cannot sleep,

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For love: (so gurgling, in his trance, exults
He, on the spray, the tardy night so chides,
That all did ring of his melodious voice!)
Now only springs the shrilling crickets' din,
And noyous fenny paddocks' bark, far off:
And night-fowl light, that follow warlike death,
On whistling dreary pens, with creaking joints;
And clarions bray derne watches of strange legions.
Then sends out Aulus, servants of the legions,
Bearing some lanterns, other wine and bread;
With guard and wains, to take up wounded soldiers.
Those wandering lights, see widows, from the walls;
And faint their hearts, doubting were spoiled their dead!

Have crowed now midnight clarions of strange legions,
That, in their castra, sleep. Under derne woods,
Of the far field, approach to Camulodunum,
Lo, long-haired caterans and tall gallowglashes,
Footbands, which follow, from dim land of Erinn,
Carvilios' harp. And Ith, their naked king,
Them leads. And those had passed Vergivian seas,
By favour of god Nuth, in wattle-barks,

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Hide-dight. And they are half-god Ier's seed,
Lineage of his two sons, Emer and Airem.

Are Erinn's caterans naked, from the belt,
(An hoop of iron, about their middles, bound;)
And cudgyls arm and hurling-stones, their hands,
And thonged sharp darts: their captains bear iron glaives.
Kynesians, some, Cruithni other bands
Are named; for birds' and beasts' similitudes,
Seen scotcht in their tough flesh, or prickt, with woad;
And daubed on their light shields. Are other-some,
Maccon, (as who would say hounds'-kin:) yet some,
Which, Children-of-the-mist, are hight in Erinn.
With Ith, be priests high-shorn, upon their heads,
Culdees, (which Servants sounds, of Erinn's gods,)
And brehons, that declare the nation's laws;
Men girt in long-haired weed, they lanas call.

Carvilios vates' githern's silver sound,
(Which the ever-murmuring gulf, Deucalidon,
Appeased,) from cabans, holds in misty woods,
And pits, like earths of salvage beasts, for bowers,
And caves of the wild crags, drew Erinn's sons;
Which gathered to king Palador, at the shore.

Of all men, that beneath the stars have being,

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Are those most poor. Ard-righ, (high, sacred-king,)
Is Ith; who nephew named of Ier in Erinn.
Wherein, what time deceased a naked king,
Is chosen some goodly child of priests and brehons;
Whom in all innocency they, of life, upbring;
And void of malice, naked, for a sign,
He needs naught, who of kindred with the gods.
Yet hath he all, wives, cattle, house and field.
For in what place he enter, men account
Them blesséd, which minister to him of all these.
Thus, without ire or envy or covetise, is
Ith arbiter, like a god, among their tribes;
That, once a year, from Tara, hear his voice.

Ith, naked king, Carvilios' chant persuaded.
Then he, Ard-righ, banned, from that sacred mount,
War, gainst a stranger nation; which doth vex
Britain the More, unjustly, and her oppress!
His middle girded, with an hoop of gold,
He arms nor harness hath, who bears no weed;
Nor, on his feet, binds soles, in so great voyage.
Shines, in his amber-locks, a golden fret.

Now halted, in the moonlight, in the path,
Ith's host. All hail, with him, the rising god!
That cometh, with broad gleam, up, like to vast torch;

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Now climbeth in starry-steepness of East heavens;
And pray, Give happy event, of their emprise!

They meet then, in vast heath, with fugitives,
Men of some Northern speech of the blue Britons;
And those, that pass, in twilight of the stars,
Pronounce; The bard is fallen, Carvilios!
Romans have overthrown the Britons' armies:
And fell king Caradoc, the high war-sire, slain!
Cumber, that fleeter were than roes, their knees,
The gods, and cloy their feet, then, in clay-ground.
At word of his Culdees, Ith cries; They lodge!

There caterans slay and eat their evening meat,
Of oxen they had found: they chaw raw flesh:
So slumber, an hour, forth; whilst Ith consults,
With priests, Culdees, that skill of divine omens:
Carvilios being slain, should they march on?
Reads Corb; and sware, by the Ard-righ's high hand,
(Chief priest is Corb of Neit, war-rage of Erinn;)
His god would smite Carvilios' enemies.

All uprose, hastily; and sithen, at a run,
O'er wide waste field and cold; where now they rife,
Hear groans of wounded wights; those Erinn's sons
Speed, stumbling, oft on corses, shields and arms:
For many, escaped from slaughter-field, with wounds,
Be fallen down in their blood. Then Cerig put,

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(Cerig, with Palador king, next under Ith,
Their thousands leads,) his finger in his mouth;
And cast, in hollow twilight of night-stars,
Shrill cry! and caterans all suspend their foot;
The whiles he of some concerning Camulodunum,
Enquires: and seized on those new fear, of death,
In whose ears, enters Erinn's uncouth speech.

Sleep legions, battle-weary, and even the watch
Rest leaning on their shields; when barbare shout;
Sudden, thrown up, from far, is heard, Carvilios!
Whilst the moon wide, o'er bloody field, outshines.
As when some scour of wolves have pinfold found,
Fierce sons of Ier, that light on Romans' vallum,
O'erleap the dyke; and pluck down thick pale-work,
Their barbare hands: and come, eftsoons, of Erinn,
The violent spears, to tents of Cæsar's cohorts!
That like cockt hay, they tumble to the ground;
Slaying all whom they find, Rome's drowsy soldiers.

In that dark watch; under their rushing spears,
Crispinus, first centurion of a legion,
Fell and Licinius, of the knights of Rome.
Was Amnius wounded, marshal of the horse;
And Clodius, præfect of the Roman fleet,
Which stationed at Thames' side, was hurt to death:
Nigh Cæsar's wide pavilion, he fell down.

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Cry went up, tumult in their leathern streets!
Came hideous strife, to the camps' forum-space.
With barbare yells, loud Irishry and strange Britons,
Night-castra invade, and smite victorious legions!

Cateran, a kern or warrior; from cath, battle.

Irish, galloglach.

Under skirt-hem, of his wide-stretched pavilion,
Backward, with ashen visage, trembling Claudius,
Creeps! steals without: so flees, alone, to tower,
Remained afoot, within the legions' vallum.

There heartless quite he climbs, who imperator
Of Roma, and without breath, as some mean soldier,
To highest scaffold. Panting, from the rungs,
Like flitter-mouse, he him flattens, then, in chink:
And, in his blind fear, quakes he evermore:
Whilst the stringed engines, in this dim night-wind,
Make murmur dread; and Cæsar fears to fall.

In that, yet retching from his late debauch,
He, if he wake or dream, gins wonder fast!
What means this panic terror, in blind night;
Laid he not down, midst his victorious legions?
And, else, him-thinks; and he, indeed, be Claudius
And wake; yet never, in like evil case,
Was he, to this: not even when he him shrouded,
In curtains of Caligula's chamber door;

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What night, in Rome, fell the foul tyrant slain!
Whence drew him, half-dead, forth, prætorian soldiers.

Nor what time Gaius' servants, at his word,
Flung him, (the tyrant's uncle,) in Rhine-ford;
For mockery: nor when he, in late sea-voyage,
Under sere Ligur's coast, was like to perish.
Nor since his swaddling-clouts, him-thinks, he was
Like vilain wet, as Claudius is to-night;
What for this flux, and for his coward sweat:
And for, in that, from tent to tower, he scaped,
A Summer shower, before the moon was falling.

Him liever were a night-crow be than Claudius!
Or quiddering swallow, neath these warlike eaves,
He himself devised. Then might he, safe, flit forth.
Would, on his bed, he were, again, in Rome,
Couched with some courtesan, to keep him warm!
No more would he, (he it promiseth to himself,)
O'er lands and seas, tempt these cerulean Britons.
Would gods now even, in Messalina's arms,
He were, his spouse; (what-though misdoubts him Claudius,
For every lithe-limbed libertine of his.)

And, aye, thrills deadly dread his craven breast,
Of some here lurking homicide enemies.
Shall Cæsar, living gods, and spirit of Julius!

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In barbare soil, mongst yells of salvage wights,
Perish? Must he be cast away to-night!
How were Rome dimmed, to all succeeding ages,
If, of Etruscan folk, so great a lamp;
If he, miscarried! Over land and seas,
Should seem the Latin sun, no more, to rise!

Thus, like a cart-wheel, whirls his foolish thought;
Aye, full of shrinking dread, in the tower-loft:
To hear those fearful slaughter-cries, aghast.
Shivers cup-shotten Claudius, at each sound!
He starts, gropes then, to find him some new sconce,
Among these grim balistæ and catapults.

Last Cæsar wries him, in hard leathern lap,
Of hammered ox-hide; pitched, and two-fold plight
It is; full, (that tower's apron,) of iron studs.
And, aye, his brow, yet totty of his must,
So swims, that now this tower he fears should fall!
He, all aghast, the ladder would truss up;
Lest here him find his enemies. Ah, great gods,
Augustus, Julius! Is it nailed so fast?
Whence, almost, in him, dies his panting heart.
He felt, as through his reins, cold glaive did glide;
And come is now dark death. In that, his spirits
Dismayed, he hears men mounting by the stair,
With barbare shout! Him-seemeth his soul, then pass!

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Ubba, tall captain of his Almain guard,
When Cæsar, in the imperial tent, he found not;
Hath the imperator sought, on every part.
He, scornful, smally accounts now exile voice
Of Claudius, whom he finds, last, in this sort:
But drawn forth dazing Cæsar, by the hand;
To stair-head, sternly, leads; and bids dismount!
So brings on Claudius, in this moonshine, midst
Tall glittering spears, to Almains' place of guard.

Erinn's fierce rushing warriors, clustered bands;
Fighting their naked king around, this night,
King Ith, the living ensign of their arms;
(Hath every cateran, coursing their tent-streets,
In his first sleep, some Roman soldier slain,)
Discomfited had Rome's imperial castra;
But that some enemy-god confused their minds.

As wind-flaw, out of the East's vast frozen jaws,
Descends, somewhile, in forest, roaring wide,
Gainst the wood-gods; and having felled large path,
Mongst the thick beams, at length, breaks bellowing forth;
So leaving wake of bloody overthrow,
Those furious sons of Ier, mongst Cæsar's legions:

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Nor durst them, in vast hostile soil, pursue,
Which covers the night-shadow, Roman Aulus.

Few furlongs' way, those Erinn-men now passed,
The stars their lamp, and moon with shallow face,
Halt around Ith. The glaives, the spears of Erinn,
Drip enemies' gore; and slimy is their weed,
Like to sea-wrack, with Romans' jelly-blood.

Yonder, lo, glimpsing lights, on Britons' walls;
From whence they hear loud wailing women's voice.
But Palador's warriors, which know no fenced dune,
Mislikes, to enter within hold, that they,
Despise, as helm and hauberk of a town.

Whilst, then, the naked king, with his Culdees,
Takes counsel; by high favour of some god,
Is found that sacred guest, avenged, of Erinn,
Now a cold corse, the warrior bard, Carvilios;
Whose crowth, that from his warlike shoulders hanged,
Gives dulcet sighing sound, to the night-wind!
Watcheth the noble bard, a great white hound,
In bloody field, which nourished, known to all,
His cunning hand: and wail the men of Erinn.

Their spears they wipe then, all, on his fringed weed:
And bury, in place he fell, in Roman blood,
The mortal part of that undying bard.

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His mantle-full, then, each one delves, of earth,
Mognet, who noblest, erst, with Palador
And Cerig; then, at brehons' word, all mound
Isle Britain's mould, o'er Gaul's great vates, dead;
Laid in his shining harness, arms and weed.
But the harp, king Ith uptook, of bard Carvilios;
To hang in Tara's house, of his sun-god:
Which aye, stirred of an heavenly wind, might sound.

This hastily ended, neath the bloody sod,
Of battle-ground, they leave that glorious dead.
Then, slowly, Erinn's bands; for many are hurt,
Now towards West-shining stars, returning, march.
Ere day was risen, they entered, in swart wood.

Ah, when shall this dark womb of Mother-night,
The morrow's day bring forth, with cheerful face,
Ambrosial dawn, wide-shining from the East;
That seems, of righteous gods, new reign of gold?
How tarries Belin's cart again to rise!
On wretched Britons, that night-long have waked;
Day, which to dool and mourning shall be given,
For carcases, that lie cold, on the clay-ground.
Far scattered were the glast-stained hosts, to-night,
In the wind and the rain: and fasting still, for grief;

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Men deem, in holt and heath, they hear their gods;
That make lament, in forest skies, above.

Within wide-girding walls of Camulus,
Wakes Dread, and paceth up and down the streets.
Few sleep; uneasy groans Caratacus.
As childing woman longeth, in her pangs,
To bear; so by her lord, Embla, to-night,
Much having watched, to see him wake and live.
From him, she wends, with dear constraint of heart,
(Daws now the day;) to visit round the walls.

But, in that hour, the gods, that mourn, for Britain,
Another night whelmed, on her weary face.
Ride furious gusts the field; is the dark grove,
With lightnings, rent. With immane thunder-sound,
Ruin the heavens, in rain; and with sharp dint,
As shafts, smite hurled-out hail-stones, on men's shields.
Were heard as divine voices, in thick mist.
Seems dry land then vast river rolling blood.

Under the dripping eaves of bramble banks,
Neath teil-tree, thorn, broad beech and great limbed oaks;
And where the squirrel leaps in dim pine-forest,
Shield them the scattered and afflicted Britons:
They cower, in brakes, a wounded multitude!

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Romans, when day is risen, yet keep their camps,
For hurtling rain; which chaceth tempest's rage,
Of the wild wind. Their leathern tents, till eve,
Might hold, uneath. When goes sun's eye, at length,
Down, from that bloody brow of slaughter-world;
Hand-clappings, strange; and women's funeral chant,
Sound from the dune. Down-howling, from the hills,
Wakens this sullen night, then voice of wolves:
That even the enemies rue, which cannot sleep!

Now the after-morrow of that day, when Claudius,
(Whose inward aches, what, for the fear, forepast,)
Yet pale, beheld, nigh-hand, death's griesly face,
With Aulus and his præfect, of the camps,
The legions' tribunes, and few Roman knights;
He rides, the situation and the strength,
To view, midst guard of horse, of Britons' banks.
Doth his heart boot, to see wide field of fight,
The enemies' gore, yet purpling as an heath!

Gazing those Roman captains, long, admire
Bulwarks of Camulodunum, gates and dykes,
Wide rampires more than banks of Verulam ere.
Vaunts gat-toothed Claudius; Like Epeius' steed,
Those walls, of Britain's Ilium, soon o'erride,
Should towers of his. Then Aulus, in two castra,

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Departs his legions. Whilst shall that, yond Colne,
Watch; should this other, in great Cæsar's view,
Begin the siege. He sends men, hew down trees;
And frame new towers, for battery. And certain horse,
Sends back, with Cæsar's letters, from these camps,
Bidding them speed; and that by only night,
As fearing yet the spersed blue Britons' war-carts.

They rescript bear, unto that naval castrum,
Which by Thames' mouth. Servants of Cogidubnos,
Them guide by woods. The third day, they arrive.
The letters read, prescribe; that sail the ships,
To Camulodunum, to the camps of legions.

Cælius, now naval præfect, drawn his fleet
Out, to the tide; embarked his eager soldiers,
At eve: and sith, by covert night, stands forth
To the sea-deep, to shun the pirates' navy.

Blue Britons' corses all unburied lie,
This third day in the field, before the walls
Of Camulus. Even spoilers of the dead,
Pity; so loath the carrion-hopping crows;
And snarling voice of wolves sound in men's ears.
And, yet, ward many of the woad-stained dead,
Gaunt hounds, gainst howling wolves and all the world,

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With grinning teeth; and abay carrion birds.
Nor, hunger-slain, a moment, they forsake,
This third day now, their dead: mote spoilers pierce
Them, with their spears; to reave, of their slain lords,
The bracelets, brooches, fine lawn weed, bright glaives;
Collars of noble wights and charioteers.
But lest such charnel should breed pestilence,
Tribunes of legions, sieging round the town,
Send captive chain-bands forth, that, strewing earth,
Should cover, from sun's ray, blue dead of Britons.

BOOK XVII

Genio Terrae Britannicae

Corpus Inscr. Lat. 1113.

ARGUMENT

Thorolf and Antethrigus march together, to recover royal Verulam. Battle before the town; which is taken, and the Roman garrison therein slain. Higelac.

Camulodunum beleaguered; queen Embla sends forth all women and impotent folk. Roman navy enters the river's mouth. Caratacus languishing to death, is, by Embla, saved forth, in a covered cart. Guitelnus, the city's magistrate, bids all, which would have saved their lives, go forth. On the morrow, hurt and aged Britons, and few warriors, which remain with him, and druids, burn themselves, in the temple-court of Camulus!

Claudius, at afternoon, drawn of elephants, in the royal chariot of Cunobelin; enters the dune gates. Asiaticus, a noble Roman, bids to banquet, the emperor Claudius. They sup together. On the morrow, Cæsar lustrates his navy; and the legions. He makes donation, to his soldiers; and bestows military ornaments. Claudius decrees, that here were founded a Colony of Roman soldiers. He bestows the diadem, on the treacherous Cæsarian Briton kings, Bericos and Cogidubnos. Asiaticus sets forth stage-plays, before the army and Claudius. Captive Britons are sold, under the spear.

Claudius, hasting to his triumph, embarks for the Continent. He comes, in Gaul, to Lugdunum, city of his nativity. That town's folk decree public honours, to their fellow citizen, imperial Claudius. Herod Antipas is in exile, there. Come again to Rome, Claudius sets forth a great triumph-spectacle of his Britannic war.

In Britain, Troynovant submits. Vespasian subdues Vectis. Moridunion is taken. Vespasian's legion winters at the Baths-of-Sul. Story of the king Bladud. Aged Dumnoveros, fighting with the Romans, is slain. Durovernium taken, Kentish havens submit then, to the Roman arms. The saints and brethren succour the poor, in Avalon.

Now Bath.

Was in that fatal sun, when the blue tribes
Were smitten, under walls of Camulodunum;
That the ethling Thorolf, with stout bands of Almains,
And wains, marched forth, from merchant Troynovant.

His noble heart is set, reconquer Verulam,
That royal dune, whilom of sire Cunobelin:
Whereof might tiding spring, to Wittig's ears.
But lords which should, with him, Marunus, Golam,
Have marched, to win again Cunobelin's town;
Crowned with oakleaves, and leading blue caterfs;
Valorous contend, to-day, with Roman legions;
Before great Trinobantine dune, by Colne:
Where, déstiny is, they both, to-night, must lie,
Out, in cold mead, among the battle-slain.
Nathless, shall Cadern's generous son, Marunus,

(Though occupy his limbs a mortal frost,)
Not breathe forth, in that field, his warlike ghost.

Now, in place called the Three Wents; where Verulam path
Verges, by heath, beyond the Potter's Wood;
Behold, where long-haired bands already pass!
Are they blue Britons, East-men; and them leads
He, whom late Aulus vanquished, Antethrigus:
Unto whom appearing Andates, to-night,
Hath promised Victory, before Verulamion!
Whence, at new day, three thousand valiant warriors,
(And, most-part, those were clients of his house,
Which gathered, to their lord, erewhile, in forest;)
Exulting in this hope, with him, march forth.

Known, from afar, each other; then approach
Almains and Britons, with loud welcome shouts!
Soon Antethrigus, who stands, in shrill scythe-cart;
And Thorolf, ethling, sitting on white horse,
Knit warlike hands: so march they on, one host.

Ere noon, strange portent! in Caer Verulam walls,
Romans hear, from the trembling element,
Sound confuse trump, shout, din of divine arms.
Woden and Thunor, furious gods of Almains,
Inspiring in their breasts, make ethlings' harness

Seem light on their proud chests; their weapons reeds,
Which, of themselves, seem wag in their tough hands:
Force they, to Almains' limbs, impart of steeds.
Then riseth, in them, as a tide divine,
Diffused in all their veins. To victory, intend
Their hearts; or else to sup, this night, with Woden!
Contend Icenians, with them, in swift course;
In whom, the battle-rage, breathes Camulus.

Half-afternoon was, when, lo, Verulam walls!
Rome's watchmen, on that guard-hill of the dune;
And who on tower-gate stand of Cassiobellan,
Sun-glittering host descry, and hostile arms.

Straight Ulpius, tribune, bids his clarions sound.
Cohorts assemble, in the market-place.
He, Roman, and disdaining, pent in walls,
To suffer barbare siege, leads forth his cohorts;
And them erects, in threefold battle ordinance.

Britons, in thick caterfs, ascend and Almains!
Who, wading Ver, had seemed, now, dreadful wood,
Of wavering spears, to little-statured soldiers.
Their dukes, with shout, lead on: they fall on Romans,
With immane brunt, above the human wont.

As fierce ureox, that pusheth with his horns,
The Icenian hero fares. All, in his wrath,
He brings, to naught, that stands before his face!
And when brake Calad, in his hand, his glaive;
Resistless giant, he with outrageous lance,
Among them wades. At each stroke, he some Roman
Strews; piercing, (through hard shield or brazen plate,)
With fury, his body, or his open gorge.
So spurns, (that came this land, to reave, of Brennus,
In long row-ships,) their dying carcases!
The furrows run, with strange Italic blood:
For smitten was this battle, in eared field.

Thorolf, like mower, reaps Rome's sharded ranks.
Him follows main of warriors, from the Elbe,
Terrible of countenance, of unvanquished gods.
In the ethling's hand, is Brennus' divine blade;
Which sledged, (men say,) for Balder, the bright-faced,
Brown dwarves: it heired, of blessed gods, his house.
And Romans fall, like reeds, before his force.
That battle-king, above the mortal press,
Surges great shouldered stature, in bright harness.

Seems Thorolf's helm to lighten! Sacred boar,
(Gold-bristles,) is, of gold, the hero's crest.
(Token of Nertha, Elbe-land's mother-goddess.)
And, lo, amidst the fray, down-lighted raven,
On Thorolf's neck, sent from his father Woden!
Which, with his wings, doth fan the ethling's heat.
Whence yet more grows his pulse, that seems his brand
Thor's hammer, which thwart-smites dark rumbling clouds.
He went through Romans, as they were a mist.

Not otherwise than as some nesting thrush,
In sweet spring time, her gaping birds to feed,
Hacks silly snails, till she the mangled life
Out-snatch; his hard unconquerable force,
Shields bursts, shares sharded plate, on Romans' breasts;
And drives the groaning spirits from their pasht chests.
Than these, none mightier lords have fought in Britain!

The same as Thunor or Thunder.

Erewhile, save that wherein fights Antethrigus,
In field, was seen no scythe-cart. From thick grove,
War-wheels then issue, of an antique guise;
Whereon stand two old warriors, whose hoar locks

Fly backward, in the wind! Loud, on war-gods,
Those call; in that, with furious team, they set
On, slay, pursue, outlandish enemies.
For Scævola seen to fall, noblest in Verulam,
Of Roman knights, his soldiers turn their backs.

And were those certain brethren, Pen and Keth,
Champions, whilere, in king Cunobelin's court.
Stout Keth, (who foster-sire to Togodumnos,)
Hurler from chariot was of the king's spears:
But Pen was tamer of the royal steeds.

Bereaved of sons, those sally, anew, to wars.
Howbe, with eld, now stiffened are their joints;
And pith lack their old limbs. The sires' intent,
On whom, to-day, new battle-woodness falls;
Is smiting them, before whom fell their sons,
(Camog and Morfran,) end with the self death.

Last, when forsaken of all, Silvanus Ulpius
Had turned his face, and spurs set to his horse;
Him, lightly, hart-swift Thorolf overran,
Upon his feet: and from tall steed, that tribune,
Smote, with gore-dropping plat of Brennus' blade,
Bruising his helméd brain, adown alive.

Thorolf, left Ulpius swooning, on the grass;
Commands his thanes, him spoil of arms and bind!

His oath, to accomplish, he o'erseas had sworn;
To slay some Roman captain on hill-tomb,
By Thames, in Bret-land, of the hero Brennus!
(Glories great Thorolf, to be called his son.)

He, loud, invoking then, his sires' sire Woden;
After Rome's flying cohorts follows fast;
To strew them, with his spear, kill and cut-off.
But envying, whilst thus Romans fall, some god,
The glory of Thorolf; Ulpius, not yet bound,
Come to himself, and now despaired of health;
With his own secret steel, did smite himself,
Even as his mother's uncle, Uticensis!
And sighed, in that he breathed his spirit forth;
In him, should none unworthy bands, distain
The honour of his ancient noble house!
So dies, not vanquished, midst his enemies.

Britons, which lately thralls, shut in their dune,
Seen these things, from the walls, rise, and slay Romans.
They all within put to avenging sword,
Man, wife and child, that bear a name of Rome:
Then run they, all bloody; and cast up Verulam gates!
Where now, o'er Roman dead, in, boisterous, pass

Almains, Icenians. Thorolf enters first:
Great glory is his, win Britain's royal dune!

The minor Cato.

Were Pen and Keth remained, in cart, without;
With Antethrigus, who yet courseth Romans:
Nor, in Caer Verulam, enter will that duke;
For vow he made, he would not lodge in walls;
Nor wash his face, nor comb his ravelled locks;
Till driven, from Britain, were again Rome's legions;
And should they have the narrow seas, repassed.

Then brother spake to brother; and the spears,
(Which, in their stout old hands, have fugitive Romans,
Till evening, slain,) both cast, from cart, to ground:
Why linger we? See'st not, my father's son;
How goeth low, to her setting, this late sun?
When, windows closed in heaven, should overflit,
Under steep skies, our souls, this field, all night;
Nor find, with happy spirits, a resting place.
Their team they stayed: then lighted both to ground;
And each fell, groaning, on his weapon's point!

And sink their corses, at the powdered wheels,
Of their scythe-cart, and hooves of their war-steeds.

Which seen, come running Britons, from the dune.
They lift those old proud warriors dead, in wain:
So lead towards Verulam gates, or were they cold.
And whilst give gods yet twilight on the ground;
Thereunder they them hastily grave; as druids
Read and appoint. And many, in dream, to-night
Met Pen and Keth: whose praises bards shall chant!

Britons, to Andates, heap, in Verulam streets,
All spoils of Romans. Washed, from battle-blood,
His hands and war-weed, wends, to sup, now Thorolr,
In king Cunobelin's court, with earls of Almains.

But so it grieved his high heart, to behold,
What scathe, in royal dune, was wrought, of Romans;
He would not enter, in king's wasted hall;
Where, with his Briton kinsmen, Togodumnos
And Caradoc, warlords both, he lately supped
The dulcet mead, in antique cups of gold.
Nor, after meat, yet sitting at high board,
Would the ethling drink, though Roman wine be brought,
Sap of a tree which drink, men say, their gods!
He it disdains; nor Bragi's bowl he tastes:

Nor Thorolf hearkens to victorious lays;
Though Higelac be come in, his father's reeve;
Who newly arrived, with three swift keels, from Elbe;
And song-smith, passing-well, in Almains' tongue,
Can make and chant, of heroes and high gods;
But weary of fight and darkened is his mood!

Of Higelac fabled is, in forest Almaigne;
How light-elves, of the stream, (whose shining weed
Of glass,) him, elf-born, out of faery, brought;
And cradled left, by moonlight, in the house,
For his own child, of Leofstan, the king's steward;
Where was he fostered then, of woman's breast!

But grown the babe, (and being now of man's right;)
One morn, before the sun, twixt sleep and wake,
In Easter-month, when gin sweet birds to sing;
Lying, by shield and arms, in his king's hall;
Midst Wittig's slumbering warriors; Oin, elf-king,
Horn, (heirloom old, hight Gold-beak, mongst home-sprites,)
Him brought, of Woden's dearworth stolen mead;
Whereof his young lips tasting, he received
Shape-craft, as fiery billows in his breast!

Was he; sith steersman bold, and royal steward,
Who that lay made, wide-known yet in North parts,
Hight Wisdom of the gods. Him in Elbe's forest,
Men say, had, (his first Summer's sea-fare past,)
Taught antique spirits, of the white water-floods;
That stream from hills of heaven. Wont rise, at even,
Those singing clear, to harps of golden sound,
Under the hollow wave of waterfalls!

The Teutonic April; named from (A. Sax.) Eostra, goddess.

A. Sax. scopcræft; (poesis,) the Poets' art.

Cold fleeting Ver, mingled with blood, ran down,
All night; and corses of slain steeds and men,
Cumber his sedgy brinks. From Camulodunum,
Vast field of swollen Britons' carcases;
Foul ravens flit, to sup at Verulam,
Of fallen Romans. Few, 'scaped forth, have round
Them, in that twilight, mounded bank of mould;
Weak fence, in an hill-place. Wounded the most,
In the dank herb, they lie, and daze their hearts!

When risen new cheerful light is, on wide earth,
Those Roman soldiers, creeping faintly forth,
Did leaves, for hunger, gnaw, of trees and grass.

Then footsteps finding, of some fore-past cohorts;
They journey on, fearful; staying, who are hurt,
On wild staves of lopt boughs. Dread fills their hearts;
(Had many, in flight, their shields and harness cast;)
Whiles they pass forth, in hostile wilderness,
By unknown paths! where hips and bramble-berries,
And worts, those, in the way, must seek for meat.

For naught those, (minding overthrow of Varus,
In stories old,) now cure; might they but save
Their weary lives! When of those fugitives,
The first, to Colne brinks, now sixth eve, arrive,
Already, is their discomfiture known to Aulus.

Lighted one Tertius, servant to the quæstor,
(His tabellarius, mongst the Gaulish horse;)
One, whom had raging spear of Antethrigus
Hurt. Weary after battle; he, with few,
Which, scaped to horse, had all that night ridden forth,
Towards rising stars. He lights, by the brook Maran;
To rest, and wash his angry wound and bind.
But feeling come, with trembling, the cold death;
Rent Tertius, hastily, roll of his account:

And part, (on Jovis Vindex, calling!) binds
He, round light scabbard of his horseman's glaive;
And wrote, Ex clade Romanorum, Ver .
So cast, in Maran's stream, his dying hand!

Certain, next eve, post-riders to Longport
(With Belges, guides,) it fleeting found, by hap,
In ford of Lea; where watered they their steeds.
Those one sent back then, who this bare to Aulus.
Have perished, all which lingered in the path,
Fainting with wounds and thirst and weariness;
Whom finding, angry Icenians did cut-off.

Lo, Roman towers, that now wide walls o'erlook
Of Trinobantine war-god Camulus.
Is sway in some and battery of ram-head beams:
From other, mighty archery, of steel-stringed engines;
Launching both great winged darts, as shafts, and stones
Of poise: walls, whereon now beleaguered Britons,
May stand uneath. Few days, they, yet, them fence,
With countermures, gainst that strong siege of Romans.

Helm-clad, like Belisama, lo, queen Embla,
With archers' guard and spears, walks hourly round:
And where, war-lady, Embla stedfast mounts,

There power, with beauty and grace seems of a goddess.
And who is there, hearing her heavenly voice,
His shield not strains, in sterner wise, and arms.
Who, even the aged, feels not then revive,
(Beholding her, clear glory of womankind!)
The flowers of spring-time, in his withered blood?
All, after Embla look, where she doth pace.

And weight is aye, of sorrowful dark thought,
And travail, in all breasts, for Caradoc,
And cannot be repressed; because not yet,
He, Shield-of-Britons, wakes out of his trance;
(Fighting, for mastery, in his royal veins,
The radical heat, with venim's deadly force.)

Murmur, who barefoot go before that porch,
(Where the lord lieth, not tasting meat, save oft
Is little milk and mead poured, twixt his teeth,)
That Togodumnos perished by a shaft.
Opinion also, mongst blue Britons, is;
(It druids sought out, of some Numidian captive;
Which this, by signs, to them, declared!) the shot
Was tinct in venim; (namely of hornéd asp,
Bush-adder of their droughty wilderness;)
Whence must the strongest die; whom not preserve,

The gods! By day and night-time wakes queen Embla,
Singing aye spells, by loved Caratacus.

Vol. iv. p. 26.

Archers of Andred, nigh five hundred bows,
Keep Camulus' walls; else weak were their defence,
Which hold the dune, wives, striplings, and old men.
Each eve, they watch, to dawn; come day, till even,
For the returning armies of blue Britons.

When that first rampire, which girds-in their town,
Have Romans won, part-razed, and choked the dyke;
(Wherein sharp tree-trunks, which so bound, beneath;
And wreathed their boughs, and that in rows, above;
They, by the soldiers, could not be removed;)
The inner bank, their miners under-delve;
Bank of heaped earth, it is; that, Gaulish wise,
Bonded with pillared beams, and rammed with stones;
Gainst which prevail, not lightly, battery of engines.
Moreo'er, by day and night-time, have relays,
Of cohorts, digged wide trenches, in the plain;
To lead away the currents of the Colne,
That naught might, to the sieged, but brine, remain;
Which daily infloweth, twice, of the salt tide.

Wherefore, when whelmed is now, on the low world,
Night's hollow shadow, without gleam of stars;
The queen, all who unapt, by kind or age;
(Wives, little ones, old wights,) to fight on walls,
Gathered about her, in the market-place;
Sends weeping forth, with three-score Andred bows;
Where path, o'er fenny strand, lies, at low ebb:
And thence, by privy ford, unwatcht of Romans,
(Through favour of some god,) those silent wade.
Seemed Camulus go before them, in a cloud;
That, unmarked, they pass sentinels; and beyond,
Come safely o'er Colne fen, soon those take wood!

Is Cartismandua sitting, sad in bower!
She, though the dune be shut in, by assiege;
And Caradoc lies at point of death, she hear,
Comes no more forth; she wakes, by Vellocatus.
Though wood her heart be, for her squadrons lost;
Would not she reck of loss, would but crude heavens
Her, ah! restore this deadly Vellocatus!
Whose wan lips seems already, to have kissed,
Goddess, abhorred, of death! would but her save,
Her gods, from this last loss of hoped-for love!

On Morrigu, she, great queen of witches all,
Loud frantic calls; and on false Arianrod,

For succour, goddess of the silver wheel.
By spells, sith, summoned her familiar spirits;
She enquires, how fatal stars, might from their courses,
Be wrested, and compelled the very gods?

Again, the Roman siege, till eve, endures.
Then carracks' sails and masts, of long-beaked ships
Seen standing, navy of Rome, into Colne-mouth!
Had tarried them the wind, which verred, when past
They were Thames' frith; and fell on them, sea-reek:
Whence the third morrow, (being Southward cast;)
Returned, by the two Forelands, steering North;
They, fetched Thames' tiding mouth, had safely passed;
And Fowlness sith, ingathering with the land;
Where seemed them, the element snowed of feathered kinds;
Whose clangor like to voice, at dawn, of legions,
That levy camps. Night-time, by stormy banks;
Where hollow waves and mingled Syrtes seemed
Contend, and yelling Britons from sea-brinks;
They slowly sailed. But undescried Rome's navy
Was, of those swart, wing-breasted, long-ribbed, keels,
With nimble dragon-stems; which for them wait,

Under the grey East wind, of Saxon pirates.
Land-inward now they fleet on Colne's salt tide.

Sent Embla; and called then elders of the dune.
And come those, soon, in king's hall, to the queen;
They do behold, (who seems, ah, nigh to death!)
Laid on a bed, warsire Caratacus.

And seeing now they, by sea and land, beset,
Not longer, might endure; but every hour,
This city in danger lies of leaguering Romans:
She deems, (as was established before-hand,)
The sire to save forth, in a covered cart.

In troublous hour, of sorrowful last loss,
They thank queen Embla, and praise her pious read.
Make ready, a líght wain soon, some, and yoke-steeds;
Other call Andred archers, for their guard,
From the sieged walls. Who noblest do therein,
Lo, reverent lift, (on pillows, now borne forth,
Swooning, yet all his sense dismayed,) sire Caradoc!

With mournful cheer, and harnessed as she is,
Queen Embla mounts. His sacred head upbear
Her wifely knees: and troubled cast to ground,
Britons their weary looks; when now they fare.
For, (queen of all their hearts!) were, without her,
As moonless night, this dune besieged, on Colne.

She, more than walls, was rampire of the town.
They, lifting up sad eyes, on Caradoc, gaze,
Britain's warsire, whom should they see no more;
Looking, for their own deaths, upon the morrow!

Now covertly, on float of beams, is wafted o'er,
The king's wain; to yond fenny brinks of Colne.
(Claudius, new muster maketh of his legions;
Wherefore his horse and cohorts were withdrawn,
By favour of the gods, down in the plain,
To hindward of the dune, this afternoon!)
Three hundred Andred bows, the warlord ward:
And as they from salt strand, up, fearful fare;
Much Embla, in heart, prays, to her Briton gods,
They might win safe, to far-off fords, of Ouse!

Queen Cartismandua, sith, (to whom queen Embla
Had message sent;) from Camulus' river-walls,
Now dusking the air, in like sort, lo, outfares:
The Northern queen outfares, with Vellocatus!
That prince upholding, in Brigantine chariot,
Drawn of white steeds. And leans his manly face,
That languishing seemeth dead, on the queen's breast!
Whence, falling long adown, his golden locks,
Are hers, in lovely wise, confused with his.
Brigantine guard, (tall champions of her house,)
March, with the queen's wain forth, as sixty spears.

But, sith, she her steals from Embla, in dim night;
When passing forest-places; and is cause
The cold chaste looks, to Cartismandua, are loath,
Of that sad queen, still seeming her reprove.

In this long glooming, come, like dim pinegrove,
Those Roman masts and yards: that anchors shoot,
Where Colne's fleet spreads, below the dune; and deep
Thence, slides the stream. Then mariners, in their ships,
Then soldiers, thrice, loud shout, in Latin tongue!
Their cry passed the hill-dune: it heard the legions,
Whose double voice makes answer, from two vallums!

Quoth doting Claudius; that now, after meat,
Sits in the imperial tent, with purpled captains,
Par-breaking, nodding his cup-shotten face;
Our ships, Meherc'les! drink-mates, fellow-soldiers,
From Tenedos be come in; whose wooden wombs,

Shall bring, to-night, forth harnessed Roman soldiers;
And Britain's high-walled Ilium, shall burn!

To Colne-side, hath sent Aulus, Roman knights,
With Gaulish horse; in Cæsar's name, commanding
The præfect, Cælius, he disbark his soldiers:
And early, at morrow, when should they hear trumpet,
Beyond dune walls, of there assailing cohorts;
They mount up likewise from their river vallum.

Shipmen, which climbed now their main-tops, surview
That town, in part, of the blue barbare Britons!
Behold, how, in a twilight market-place,
Go thronging people armed; mongst whom, white druids.

A. Sax. fleót, estuary.

Those sit, in council, in the temple-court;
Where warriors come in, from round-leaguered walls;
Other are hurt, are some old impotent wights.
Guitelnus, reverend, white-browed magistrate,
Speaks, mongst that dying people of Camulus,
Whilst all give ear; hark speaks, with submiss voice;
Over the river quagmires, lies yet path,
Where the sea-lavender and salt samphires grow:
Haste them, whoso would saved their lives, there pass!

A weeping company, lo, for their homes lost,
Bearing, their stuff, in sacks, with fearful foot,
Outwend! They Colne, in the cold glooming, wade.
Camulus, the most, of those, then saved: but met,
With other, men in barks, (armed waterers,
Of the fleet-soldiers;) that few having slain,
Of those poor Britons; bind, for thralls, the rest.

Guitelnus caused, be delved, this night, deep pit
And also wide, under their market-place:
Where thing, which cannot be, by fire, consumed,
Might buried lie. This done, he, magistrate,
Cast public wealth in; druids cast temple-gifts;
Cast private men their good! Trampled of feet,
Last rammed they, even with the ground, the place:
That when were taken the dune, might stranger Romans
Not find to spoil this substance of poor Britons!

That remnant, lo, in their wide sieged-round walls,
(Which may, no more, a golden sun, behold,
In heaven,) sit armed, round house of Camulus. Much
Those commune, sad, in sheen moonlight; and watch,
Their devout eyes, that starry pomp, on high;
Wherein be mansions of their fathers' gods!
Beseeching those, remember Foster Britain,

After their deaths! Guitelnus spake of wars,
Of Tasciovant, and divine Eppilos,
In ancient days. Vain thing, quoth he, it were,
Old unweld wight, that may not handle, more,
His weapon, seek save, by unseemly flight,
Few days, (days void of honour,) of vile life.

His wise lips ceased to speak; for, even now, springs
Ambrosial sacred dawn, of the light-god.
And hearken, a far-off bray, ah, heavy note,
If any feared to die, of Roman clarion!

Hark! Britons' watchmen cry, that come the legions!
All death-vowed, with Guitelnus, then uprose.
Their druids them lead, in Camulus' sacred court,
With solemn tread, his temple-house, thrice round.
Then, seeing, of all their deaths, the looked-for moment
Arrived is; puts hand, lo, Guitelnus, erst,
To eaves of the god's porch; and pluckt-down thatch!
The like do all: then, passed forth, in the street,
Men rent down spar and rafter. They sith heap
These round about them, in their temple-place.

Utters already, in heaven's Eastern steep,
Born of vast night, new day, his teeming head!
Guitelnus stretched, towards that eternal god,
Amongst his citizens his two palms; loud prays,
Abate, lord, the flames' torment, and abridge
This fleshes anguish; ease our dying smart!
Be as a glaive, of hero's hand, pluckt forth,
From scabbard, the swift passing of our spirits;
And be exalted to the deathless gods!

Kindred and friends, holding each-other's hands,
Embrace, for the last time, and kiss. Loud druids,
Intone, in this extremity, antique hymns;
Of virtue, against the eager edgéd pangs,
Of raging element, that shall on them seize!
Priests, from the altar, bear forth flaming brands!
All stedfast take: they fire then halm and wood!

With furious high intent, those Britons' throats,
Shout, (from amidst their burning,) saviour gods!
Who fall down scorched, soon smother, in thick smoke:
Thus all those perish, with a constant heart!

Dread, hungry-tongued, wild nimble-footed flame,
Roars of their torment. Soon the wattle-streets,

It raught. Of hill-set, leaguered, Camulodunum,
Surges vast balefire! on the morning wind,
With flakes of flame upblown, stench, falling ash.

Legions, in march, behold, amazed! Cries Claudius,
Long, gazing-on; Ha, Ilium doth burn!
Sound out the legate's clarions, that halt legions:
Then cease fleet-soldiers from their river part!

Noon was, when Cæsar sent forth certain knights,
With Gaulish horse. Passed undefenced dune gates,
Those circumspectly enter; and burned streets,
Behold; all cindered, full of smouldering heaps!
Wherein those spoils, long promised, lie consumed;
Which should have eased, and even enriched Rome's legions.

Father of Cunobelin.

(Or Eppillos;) a son of Commius.

The next hour, lo, in sight of all, draw in
Gigantic yoke of Afric elephants,
The imperator Drusus Nero Claudius;
In chariot standing, of Caratacus,
For the more glory. And was that winged white war-cart
Taken in the battle. Kowain and Venutios,
Leapt, when o'er-yerked Goldhoof the beam, to grass,

Down, hastily; and they with sharp skeans shared his trace.
Constrained to leave, midst mortal press, king's chariot;
Those saved the royal team, and that uneath!
Themselves scaped hardly away, on the steeds' backs.

Cæsar commands, when Camulus' gate he passed,
To raise, in forum burned, of Britain's Ilium;
(Which vapours yet, like a vast dying pyre,
Full of white bones of Britons,) the imperial
Pavilion. Of the bitter reek, recks Claudius
But small; nor stench even of his enemies' corses!

Lo, in the prætorian tabernaculum, erst,
He sitting, of his legate; bravely endites
And seals now imperial letters, to Vitellius,
His colleague, (namely in that year's consulship:)
Sith, to Rome's Senate, writes magnific tidings;
Under his auspices, how Britannia prostrate,
Lies; their metropolis burned: blue Britons tamed;
He added hath, another world, to Rome.

Now Asiaticus, who, from Gaul, outsailed;
To wait, in Britain, on the imperial state;
Being Epicure's own son, and friend to Claudius:

(By certain his procurers, in Gauls' camps,
Men which can speech of Britons,) daily enquires;
What dainty pleasures Britain doth afford?
Yet lately showed this senator, in the field,
Was sprung, of worthy loins, his noble blood;
That could he, (as could Luculle,) both fight and eat.
In thickest strife, named tribune of a legion,
(For Dolabella hurt!) he led his soldiers,
All day; and with what countenance wont are Romans,
To lean, with flower-crowned brows, at solemn feasts.

This lord, to banquet bids now the emperor Claudius;
Of such poor wilding thing, to taste, to-night,
As, (this side seas,) have found his Gaulish servants;
Of any singular savour, delicate;
Sturgeon and lamprey and eel, with poignant sauce;
Roebuck, and swan's fat roast, and snipes in paste.
And Chian, and Falernian wine he hath;
And mulse, of a ripe grape, from Roman Alban;
And oysters, which his shipmen fished, where Colne
To salt sea-flood, outgoes; more sapidous
Than what fat shells, are culled longs Tyrrhene strand.

Is only for them twain, this supper dight.

Shall maiden-captives serve them, which unlaced,
Unto the navel, loost-down their long locks;
Of perfect feature, each esteemed a talent;
And tickle the cold veins of Cæsar Claudius.

Bright daughters of who noblest, mongst blue Britons,
(Were wont, companions of the Verulam's kings,
With them, on swift war-wheels, in field, to ride;)
In what day taken was great Cunobelin's dune,
By sudden assault, wherein your brethren slain;
Were ye also sold under Roman spear:
But not, for that, are bond your high-born hearts,
To your Land's insolent stranger enemies!
In your dear stedfast eyes, none wantonness
Hath dwelling-place: but their proud maidengaze,
Swart, little-statured Romans hath despised;
Naught matchable, to your people's comely youth!

Lo, the triclinium, in wide Seres tent,
(Without the walls, prepared, in a fresh mead,)
Of Asiaticus! There, on purple, couched,
At board, now Cæsar Claudius, leaning, quoth,
Good is this loaf, of sheaf reaped by our soldiers!
We also some will fraught, in ship, to Rome.

Which grind shall Briton captives; and, thereof,
Be loaves set, on all tables, in Rome's streets;
What day, to Roma's citizens, we shall make,
(As erewhile divus Julius,) triumph-feast.

Thy maidens, Friend, be like to marble nymphs,
Of Praxiteles, fetcht to Rome; those which
Stand in impluvium of our golden house;
Swift Cynthia's train, with silver bows; that seem,
And rattling quivers, on their budded breasts,
Leaping their high round flanks, on crystal feet,
Follow, with loud holloa! the chace in heaven.

This, which beside me, my Valerius, hath
So bright long hair-locks, like ringed wiry gold,
And gracious breast, whereon sit wooing doves,
Meseems that famous Cnidian Aphrodite,

Great goddess mother of our Julian house;
Whereby now Thermæ Agrippæ are adorned.
What, damsel! mix me cup of Lesbian wine;
And give, with kiss of Venus' lips, of love.
Ha, these, that skill not of our Latin tongue,
Hold scorn of Cæsar, Asiaticus!

And he; Have patience, lord; for they are barbarous!
Is the ignorant condition of all women,
They smally account of learning, wisdom, place;
But only of the first flower of a man's youth.
Would such not mock, and we their feet did kiss!

This Briton loaf, accords, imperial Claudius,
Well with old Padan cheese of Mediolane,
And succory; and some mixt bitter herbs, therewith,
That make digestion sweet. A baxter, once,
That hurled the rumbling mill-stone, with his hand,
Robust, (hath left Terentius writ,) was Jove.
But more, and better, Epicurus saith;

Is earth Jove's mill-stone, whereon ever rolls,
(Frothing out infinite mortal miseries,)
His over-stone, grinding us men, to powder!
How cheers, to-night, my divine Claudius?

And, ruckling, he; Methought, beyond the seas,
This isle another world. Valerius quoth,
And thou, our god, join'dst that new world, to Rome!
Old Bacchus, women vanquished, in the East;
And men him called a god, for there found wine:
But Claudius conquered world of giants and corn!
Though many were the gods of the blue Britons,
Prevailed our divus Claudius o'er them all.

That men made gods, may sooner be believed,
Than gods men made. If gods this mortal mould
Shaped, what may deem men of their handiwork!

But that were children then the blesséd gods!
Not their craft's-masters. Were none list of meats,
And gracious Venus' mirth, and Bacchus' cups;
Who, longer than his nonage, would, therein,
Continue, willingly! Taste victorious Claudius,
These shells, and shalt thou find them saporate,
Full of cold salty humour of the sea!

And babbles Claudius, yexing in his talk;
Wherein lie pearls, which sought for Julius.
And he, to Britain, would invite Rome's Senate.
With vinegar, and tart wine of Tusculum,
They should esteem these oysters of the Colne!

Thus Claudius spake, returning from his vomit;
With awry garland on his reeling pate,
Hemmed with white locks. Sith, for his stomach's health,
Of Britons' mead, (as Nestor's cup,) with leeks,
And certain powdered cheese, prepared, he drinks.

Better than crabbéd wisdom of rough brows,

Fond sophist's scorn, and sour wise-seeming looks;
(Being idle labour, of as vile account,
As daylong wafting of the forest's boughs,
Or quapping voice of the insensate waves,)
Is mirth, with present solace, and heart's feast.

Thus Asiaticus: and cries, Her'kles! Claudius,
Thy saws sound better than Lucretius Carus;
Whose versets made I Attic in my youth;
When I the like, ha, my Valerius!
Or of more praise, could deftly turn, as this;
Celestial Sapience! Thou the phœnix bird,
That sings from heavenly spray, midst glittering stars;
Few are the days of men, in mortals' ears.
Are men the puppets of high heavenly gods.
Good reason then, were present joys embrace;
And not some cold conceit of things that be not:
Fools they, that lead their lives, in wilful death.

This from the drivelling lips of Cæsar Claudius;
Who hardly, passed, three other years, in Rome,
Shall give, but only choice of unjust deaths,
To his companion Asiaticus!

As them, this so rich consular ere commanded,
Kindled have mariners of his ship, to-night,
(Without, in the poor Britons' cindered street,)
Watchfires of rosin, sandal, pleasant woods:
As in his gardens, on the Pincian hill,
(Magnific alleys, fountains, porches, arcs,
Adorned with many famous statues,
Of vanquished Hellas,) is his sumptuous wont;
When any supped with him, of Cæsar's house.

And being now all made ready, newly invites
That noble Senator, imperial Claudius:
Who, yexing, walks forth, leaning on his hand;
To gaze on Ilium, that yet flames, by night!

When Cæsar passed hath the pavilion's porch;
Those damsels, suddenly, ah, greedy of their deaths!
Together, at a run, brast furious forth.
They, with their fisted hands, did smite aside
The watch: they beat back harnessed legionaries;
Such pith, in women's arms, of the bold Britons!
The Almains' guard, then easily they forerun;

And, in yet smouldering pit, full of deep fires,
Where, of god Camulus, erst, an oracle was;
Wherein now, fallen down, burning mighty beams!
Those noble virgins, frantic, start, alas!

Where fell they, in fiery powderous hearth, alas!
Brief was their torment; surged a folding flame,
Crowns and consumes the glory of their gilt locks.
Their eyes, that wont, like molten stars, on Romans,
Shed scorn, be sightless cinders made, anon.
And veiled, in modest wise, round, that crude flame,
Their gracious limbs, that sink, down soon, in death.
Seemed, noble Briton maids, your saviour gods
Allay, of your pure flesh, the dying smart!
And yet they, a moment, wreathe, and did uprise;
As when cast gobbets, on some temple-hearth!
Horrible, anon, arose, as smell of roast,
Of them, the parfume of whose life was such
As spring-time's virgin-bosom of the earth.

Then come few soldiers; those gaze-in aghast!
And some was heard reproach old doting Claudius:
Yet answered other, Better thus their deaths,
Than, with long bondage, when deflowered their years;
And slaves their maiden's honour had possessed!

So came, half-drunken, leaning on the hand
Of Asiaticus, fond imperial Claudius;
Somewhat, by this new-rushing, in the night,
Amazed; though follow guard of Ubba's spears.
Cæsar, at the pit's brink, stayed; and admired,
To look on Priam's daughters' fiery grave!
Fell, from the blear eyes of his totty head,
Therein, few rheumy drops. Might Scævola's deed,
In stories old, not be compared to this,
Quoth he, that burn themselves the Britons' dead!

When shines new sun, in heaven, with cheerful face;
And lavrock mounts, from battle-bruiséd grass,
Of Colne; and comes already crow, of cock,
To Claudius' ears, and clarions sound the watch:
He, from his surfeit, trembling wakes and pale.

Sith, entered his chief captains; their relation,
To the imperator made. To Cæsar, Aulus
Records; how had tumultuous sailed his army,
From Gaul. Then he, grand pontifex of Rome,
Decrees lustrate, with old Etruscan rites,
His legions. Cæsar, lo, and purpled dukes,
With vervain crowned, descend to Colne's green brinks.

Erst priests, now noon, at altars, sacrifice,
Lo, hundred ewes and hundred farrow swine,
To Rome's trine greatest gods, and purge the navy.
Thereafter mounted Claudius, in his litter;
Is, in large plain, borne forth. With glittering ensigns,
At clarion's sound, now halt his warwont legions!

Lo, Cæsar seated, in imperial state,
On bank, made with degrees, of the green sods.
Conformable to old Rome's Etruscan rites,
(And whereof even a learned history hath
Claudius himself compiled,) should be led round
A swine, a ram, an ox; with solemn pomp
Of priests and shrilling pipes; and chief centurions,
His legate and who tribunes of the legions.
But certain Hellenes, flatterers, (libertines
Of his,) much labour to persuade fond Claudius;
For his more dignity, by how much exceed
His deeds all memory of the former ages;
That, in their stead, were led forth elephants.

Assented he; and from his ivory throne,
Beckoning, sends for the huge slow-footed beasts:
(Howbeit he, for them, beves will sacrifice.)
Waver, the while, Rome's legions, glittering ranks,
As the sea's summer face: for soldiers' hearts,

Conscious of guilt, wax lean, in their proud breasts:
Misgives them, Claudius Cæsar cruel is,
More than Caligula. Ís not also Claudius,
In Roman theatres, noted to be pleased,
To look on much blood-spilling, and men's deaths?
What, and if Cæsar, that now is, commanded,
(Cast lots,) each tenth stand forth; and punishment,
For their revolt, be, by their fellows' glaives,
Slain! Yet they well have quit them, in the war;
And Britain's fields have a large tithe consumed!
Standing on this, now on that other foot,
By turns, each, unto both opinions, leans.

But their derne whisper, come to Cæsar's ears,
Through Sabine and chief tribunes of the legions,
Claudius that affects clemency of great Julius,
And magnanimity of divine Octavius,
Framing conformable countenance, to their, crowned
With laurel, sacred temple-images;
He lightly passeth over their default,
According to the laws. Consoles them, sith;
Saying, they full wéll have borne them, in the war!

Sith, Victrix names he, Conqueress of Britain,
His fourteenth legion; which, in that sedition,
Had foremost been; yet, since they passed Gaul's seas,

In every field, most valorous those were seen.
He ordáins then, that be named the Saviour-legion,
Henceforth, those pia cohorts of Vespasian.
But Cæsar, on the ninth, Hispaniensis,
Displeased, laid, (legion, which their eagle lost,)
This punishment; that they hold still hindmost place,
Till ended were this war, in every march.
Soldiers then, knowing their lives saved; in Britain,
Salute, (this second time,) Imperator! Claudius.

He, Cæsar, for have given him the gods,
So high felicity; and his heart is glad,
(In token he would, there none were called to-day,
In question; neither mourning be put on,
For any Roman, whom the laws have slain;
In antique tablets writ, of frozen bronze;)
Commanded, be his eagles crowned with bays,
And wreathed the bundles of his lictors' rods,
(Wands cut from Colne-Scamander's osier brinks,)
With flowers. Moreo'er, donation to the army,
Sheep, without number, spoil of the poor Britons,
And thousand beves, he gives with wine of Gaul,
And double rate of corn, that might, to-night,
Make merry, in all their tents, victorious soldiers.

Sith, rising in his see, commemorates Claudius;
Reading from scroll, what noblest deeds were done,

Of Romans and allies, in Britain's war.
Hark Cæsar names them, fifteen legionaries,
Nor fewer of the warlike Gauls and Almains;
And loud, approach, commands them, one by one!

They, before Claudius, on degrees of sods,
Lo, stand; that should, for valour, in the field,
Be crowned in all the army's open viewing.
Hath Cæsar certain baskets to his hand,
Prepared; wherein, be laid their glorious meeds,
Brooches and bracelets, golden collars, chains,
Phaleræ, and horsemen's silver ornaments.

An oak-leaf-plight crown, by itself, is seen;
Guerdon, for life of citizen preserved!

Loud spake then Cæsar; Fulve, of the ninth legion!
Receive, centurion, of thine imperator;
In testimony of thy military worth,
And good desert, this bracelet. Ever bear
It, on thy right arm, mongst thy fellow-soldiers!
And thou, Favoni Aper, knight of Rome,
Thine emperor, thee indues, with torque of gold.
Take this the glorious guerdon of thy merit,
And ever bear it, mongst thy fellow-soldiers!

Unto thee, Novicius, of the second legion,
Decurion soldier, gives thine imperator,
This hasta pura, the exceeding meed,
Bear witness, all the army! of eagle saved!
It ever bear, amidst thy fellow-soldiers.

So Claudius, to each one, praising their deeds;
The imperial words, rehearse then, to the legions,
Their captains with great voice; and sith their tribunes,
To men of the allies, both Gauls and Almains!

Then, to his curule chair, of ivory, calls
Forth purpled Cæsar, lo, young Flavius Titus,
Beloved of all the army! and he, desirous,
And ruddy, ascends the imperial degrees,
Of the field-sods. Reached forth the imperial hand:
Cæsar, him, for Corinium's conquered wall,
(Whereon stood erst Vespasian's manful son,
Stripling almost in years; by whose proud deed,
That stronghold first, in hostile soil was won,)
Gives mural crown, behold, of the fine gold!

Claudius himself, then, in his state, uprisen,
Before that valorous young man, knight of Rome!
(Soldiers' most coveted meed,) on him, the chapelet,
Whereon inscribed, Ob Civem servatum!
Imposed, for Roman citizen's life preserved.

For when the pia legion's duke, Vespasian,
Was fallen, from off his steed, mongst thronging enemies;
He, many Britons having slain around,
Brought forth his father saved, on his own horse!

From two-score thousand throats of legionaries,
Went up, so main voice, then, that, for the noise!
Birds fell to ground. And Cæsar sate, amazed;
For common saw now is, in camps of soldiers,
That the three Fabii more have wrought than Aulus!

Last, the emperor calls forth, some great-statured Almain;
Whose name of barbare sound uneath might tongue
Of Claudius frame. This man saved Cnæus Geta;
And when was broken the framea, in his stiff hand,
He bet back Britons, with his only targe.
And he, with laud of the imperial mouth,
From Claudius, lo, receives broad golden brooch!
Joy, with much shouting, all the allies of Rome!

Claudius absolves, sith, from their sacrament,
A thousand veteran soldiers; and ordains,
(Thing which he dreamed of, three times, in the night,)

Here founded were, a colony of veteran soldiers,
To be a rampart of Rome's laws and arms!
And officers he appoints thereto, and augurs;
Of his colônia, like a camp of legions,
To mete out cross streets, forum-place and walls
Foursquare; and measure thousand plots of glebe-
With stakes; and beacons set up, through Colne fields.
And that be here coined money, he commands;
Tribute, (as ere in Gallia,) of conquered nation.

At morrow's day, the emperor puts his hand,
To compass in, with furrow, his new walls.
Lo, garlanded Claudius' sacred plough, with flowers!
Whose glittering share draw, yoked, instead of beves,
With slow foot forth, huge Afric elephants.

The short lance of antique German warriors.

The same day, have arrived Icenian legates,
Which of the traitorous part of Bericos. Those,
Lo, crouched, at Cæsar's knees, do promise tribute!
But when is come in Bericos, from Longport;
Binds Cæsar Claudius, sitting in his state,
His felonous brows, with royal diadem.

Came the most Belges' kings, to Cæsar, there;
(Disloyal ever to Cunobelin's house!)
And to imperial Rome, which rules the world,

They do submit them, to live under tribute.
Confirms then Claudius, Regnian Cogidubnos,
O'er towns and tribes of Belges, to be king:
And purple giving and the diadem;
Him names, in Britain, his imperial legate!
He attributes, also, to him, certain cohorts.
And Cæsar promised, to all Briton princes,
Which should submit them, pardon. He remits
The public confiscation of their goods.

Rose, clothed with purple weed, his temples crowned,
With gold-bright band, Cæsarian Cogidubnos!
And speaking, from the grees of Claudius' throne,
In Latin tongue, (he fugitive, learned in Roma;)
He lifts to stars, the imperial benefits;
And magnifies the high clemency of Claudius.
And, when here founded Cæsar's Roman town;
He craves, that site were, midst the market-place,
Reserved; whereas, To Clemency; (namely of Claudius,)
Might temple, nations, grateful, of the Isle,
Build; and be charactered on the gilded frieze,
Britons to the divinity of Claudius.

These things determined, from Britannia, Cæsar,
Hastes to his triumph, in imperial Rome.

Rides, neath Colonia of Claudius, Roman navy;
Now ready to heave anchor and hoise sail.

The day before, to gratify the army,
And Claudius, emperor, Asiaticus;
(Who now should journey forth, towards Rome, with Cæsar,)
In Camulus' meads, all at his proper cost,
Some little thing, a stage-play, would set forth.
Sence devised it, the philosophaster:
Yet somewhat, joining Asiaticus,
Thereto, of his own hand, had made his own;
As who would vaunt him also gentle poet.

Sit down, enranged, then, as in theatre;
In bosom of that hill of Camulus,
Lo, purpled Cæsar, laurel-crowned, and legions.
The scena, a scaffold large, where, pictured round,
Much wilderness is, of Britain's field and wood.
Masque shall, of Britain's Orpheus, there, be played.

Seemed then the choiréd Muses sit above,
In clouds, framed of the Isle's fine lawn; and aye,
Those sisters nine seem Orpheus to inspire;
Who, on a golden lyre, plays with his hands.
Seem, when, with clear note, like the heavenly lark,
He chants, the very forest rocks remove;

Incline the stedfast oaks, to him, their heads;
As pierced, by music, were their rinded ears.

To him, outran, then, salvage naked brood,
Of men; with whom leap beasts of several kinds;
Forgot their wildness, from a painted grove.
Bears Orpheus also, in a mask of wood,
Such countenance, as seemed Claudius, in his youth.
Sith, all that brutish rout, that Satyrs seemed,
And pictured nations of cerulean Britons;
Louting, in clownish sort, approached to Claudius;
Loud hail him, Second Founder of great Rome.

Still Orpheus chants: and seemed blue warlike crew,
Dance forth their mazy rounds, of vanquished Britons;
Treading strange wreathéd measures with swift feet:
He stayed his hand; and run all back to wood!
Again he plays: those turn then, in new kind,
Now like a people of Gaul, togata gens,
Bearing, with Latin cries! in, beams and stones;
Wherewith they temple found, to godded Claudius!
Whereof large fundaments gin those cast around.
In midst whereof, is Claudius' statua seen;
Which priests proclaim, is fallen, from stars, tonight;

And smokes, before him, incense, from the ground:
And all the army admire, and loud applaud!

Then other four pass forth, like heroes clad,
Companions, on the earth, of heavenly god;
Are friends to Orpheus, with high tragic tread.
Of the four tribunes, those bear visages.
And Aulus, all, and Geta and great Vespasian,
By name, acclaim; by whom these things were done

And, straight, is raised up, of some hidden engine,
(Minerva seems!) Colonia Nova, Claudia;
Like shielded goddess, with high turrets crowned.
A sea-god's three-forked mace, her other hand
Upholds: and lead those heroes her to Orpheus.
And Orpheus' front, with leaves of bays, she binds.
Gan loud, then, Orpheus chant, with deeper note!
And the four dukes, with him, of manly throats;
New Romulus, our divus Claudius,
Hath conquered, for great Rome, another world!
Then mightily all the army and long applaud!
So rise; for trumps, to meat, call legionaries.

In Colne's green leas, is portsale later made,
Without the dune, of weeping multitude;
(Were they so many, that, is told, their chains
Had fraught a carrack:) who of tender age;

(Were crowned, with the field flowers, their innocent heads!)
And feebler sex, erst. Seemed their piteous voice,
Cries of penned suckling lambs, and mother ewes;
Which turn, heavy with milk, to fold, at eve:
When gin them herdsmen, with loud curs, divide.
To divers masters, parted from their babes,
Under the Roman spear, were mothers sold.
Sith captive men, of all blue Britons' tribes,

Droves are, like pounded beasts, seen of bound warriors!
The most be those, (since, of this island nation,
Men wont not yield them to their adversaries;)
Who smitten in battle-fields, and left for dead,
Were gathered, or else purchased, for base price,
Of Gaul's slave-merchants; and sith, in the camps
Of legions, were those cured of their war-wounds.
Now slaves, at their vile list, them taunt and smite,
As their spears' captives! Yond, in hurdlepens,
Those stand; they wait, (which, for their foster-soil,
Have bled, and Briton gods; young drooping warriors;)
Now, at a Roman outcry, in their own land,
Ah, to be sold! Have merchants, from the Main,

Rich in this traffic; young men of good stature,
Esteemed of price, apt to ward great men's doors;
And should the more be sent, to marble Rome.
For now the merchant fleet shall sail, with Cæsar;
To Gaul's mainland. The imperial procurator,
Five thousand, the most tall war-hable youth,
Purchased for Claudius. These should be reserved,
For that magnific triumph spectacle;
Which shall make Claudius soon, in sovereign Rome!

Embarks now Cæsar, in high-pooped swift ship,
Of triple banks; which urged of chosen rowers.
Cæsar takes Sabine; who, of the blue Britons,
Can best great battle-shows devise, in Rome.

But come victorious Claudius, to mainland;
By long paved street, he rides, in speedy chariot,
Now, towards Lugdunum; city, in Togate Gaul,
Of his nativity; (where him bare Antonia,
After her flight and fear, to Claudius Drusus.)

He, journeying, draws, the sixth eve, nigh that town;
Whose noblest citizens, with the magistrates,
Be come forth, to third milestone, from their gates,
Of street called Sacra; (which, on either hand,
Proud sepulchres border, of chief Gaulish houses,
Both of this city and the Romans' Province;)

With concourse great, to welcome Cæsar Claudius,
Whom all salute, Our great Britannicus!

To Claudius, sith, much people, with the Senate;
Being come together, in their theatre,
Decree, with public games, triumphal arc;
And statua, with a golden Victory, winged,
In the imperator Claudius' high right hand.

Upon the morrow, Cæsar wends, with pomp;
To altar of Augustus, twixt the streams.
And, lo, one purpled, by that sacred path,
Him waits, whose forehead girt with golden bend;
But, as murk twilight, be this stranger's looks.
And knew him Claudius, Herod Antipas!
(Was sometime tetrarch of a Roman province:)
Caligula him exiled. Is he that fox,
Which John beheaded: he whose ward of soldiers,
Spit on God's lowly Jesus; Whom they bruised,
Ah! and buffeted! and Him mocked, with sceptrereed,
(Him, before worlds, All-ruler!) in his hand;
And diadem of sharp spines, and purple robe!

Now this, which built Tiberias, by the Lake,
Dwells, in a Roman villa, by Rhone's stream;
Where, of an evil spirit, is vext his mind:
And his adulterous wife, and she him, hath

In deadly hate. Abhors this royal wretch,
In Gaul, each day's returning cheerful light.

To Cæsar, bending, wisheth Herod gladness,
Of glorious Victory! But ill omen Claudius
Deems salutation of this Jew; nor spake
He word again; nor will receive his boon:
But gathering up his purple, on his face,
Cæsar, impatient, hastes, by him, to pass.

Were, three days, plays made, in their theatre;
Where men, condemned to death, did fight with beasts.
The sixth eve, at Vienne, embarked hath Claudius;
In barge, which falls, by day and night, down Rhone.

To rich Massilia, Cæsar now arrives;
Where mighty vessel, to receive him in,
With gilded poop, of many stories, lies.
That ship, by pulse is urged, of thousand oars.
The overmost, so are they great, be wrought
By wheels and pulley's force. With martial pomp,
Claudius, the great Poseidon, goes aboard;
For so is named this hull, that seems a town.

Fair blows the wind; and loosed from Gaul's great haven,
So they have towards Italia, prosperous voyage,
That the fifth eve, at Ostia, they arrive.
At dawn, behold, be come that city's Senate,

To salute Cæsar: and him, laurel-crowned,
Convey. Then, with them, Claudius rides to Rome;
Where garlanded now all temples of the gods!
And thronging citizens, in her Sacred street;
And banquets be set-out at every porch.

Erst, in the Curia, a naval crown, Rome's Senate
Decreed to Claudius; who Gaul's Ocean Stream
Had sent under the yoke! and yearly games,
To memory of Isle Britannia's great conquest.
And be that haven, in Gaul, whence Cæsar sailed,
Adorned, it pleased, with high triumphal arc:
And be, of Roma, advanced, towards the North,
The city wall; and Claudia the new port,
Therein, be named; for Roma, upon that part,
Enlarged Britannicus! Ending, then, new month,
Those captive thousands are, of wayworn Britons,
Come to the City Sovereign: through wide Gaul,
Scourged, like fierce beasts, their weary soles have marched.
Last were they, at Julii Forum, stived in ships.

Then Claudius, makes, for Romans, warlike games;
In that large field, without their city walls,
This side the stream, by yellow Tiber's brinks;

Which named of Marspiter, Rome's father-god.
Semblant prepared hath Sabine, of a dune,
In Britain, with her walls of wattled trees,
And stones and hoarded earth; and wicker streets.

There Claudius, (now surnamed Britannicus,)
On set day, his war-spectacle shows to Romans!
Britons, with Britons, in two opposed bands,
Shall fight to death. Two thousand, armed as Romans,
(Cæsar his freedom promiseth, to each one,
Which, in that battle, should have slain a man!)
Assail then, at third clarion: who within
Defending, glast-stained Britons; till last won
The wall, all perish, in their burning town!

Now Frejus.

These things in Rome: but, in far Island Britain,
Unwist, to the proprætor, Aulus Plautius,
Is, whether yet live king Caratacus.
His Belges' spies affirm, 'scaped the war-king:
Other opinion hold, fell Britons' king,
In battle. Some mean, the king hurt to death,
Perished, mongst Camulus' burning citizens.

Being Aulus left, to end the war, in Britain;
He, marched from Camulodunum, gathers tribute.
And, in the way; (where Cadern, magistrate,

Of late deceased; whose valorous son, Marunus,
Sore wounded, hardly saved was to far Ouse;)
Submitted, to him, merchant Troynovant.
Aulus sends Flavius, then, to Cogidubnos;
Confirm the Belges; and all towns receive,
Which yield them, giving corn and hostages.
Being come down, by swift marches, to Longport;
Warlike Vespasian, by night-time, embarked
His legion, passed that sea-sound to isle Vectis;
Which full, he hears, of the war's fugitives.

And though, in Britain, verging be the year;
Now entering, in the Scorpion, the late sun;
Yet Flavius, in brief space, that isle subdued:
So turns, with infinite captives, to mainland.

Then led, by guides, through wilds of Durotriges;
He assailed, out of the field, as they arrived,
From march; and took the town, fair Moridunion;
Whose king was fallen, mongst his proud warriors,
(Young valorous Golam,) under Camulus' walls.

In Britons' fields, where harvest-month now ended,
(Burned is earth's fruit; or stands unreaped and lost!)
Falls rain incessantly; wherefore might the Romans
Abide, no longer, under tented skins.
Then dukes, to winter-camps, withdraw their legions.

Vespasian marched, to site commodious,
For corn and pasture; where, amongst fair hills,
With temperate air, are certain scalding springs,
Of Sul, (Minerva of Britons,) healing goddess.

There, lo, of sick folk, is an open dune,
Where wont, in bowers, those sit, all day, beside
Blue vaporous conduits, dipping oft their limbs;
And drinking, oft, they snuff-up luwarm reek,
Casting-in gifts. Vespasian, now arriving;
That none have fear, proclaims: who, from the war,
There wounded lie, shall yield their only arms.

Entering, with reverence, then, the legions' duke,
Sul's temple-cave; whence issues tepid reek,
Of boiling well; great Flavius, to that goddess,
Sacellum vowed, and that of polished stones;
If, by her virtuous spring, were healed his son,
Titus, hurt, in the assault of Moridunion.

Concerning the well-bourn, and baths of Sul;
Is told, in antique story, of certain king,
How, peradventure, he those waters found;
Where opened had the soil, an heaven's lightning.

Bladud, surnamed the Wolf, of those few lords
Was, which, from wars in Spain, returned with Belin.

Come now from the Mainland, he homeward fares:
And Bladud journeying forth, in Britain, prayed,
To Belisama, his safeguarding goddess.
The king, one dawn, impatient forth to wend;
Wight, of strange aspect, took him, by the hand,
The other, on his bridle royal laid!

That Stranger's fashion was of shepherd hind;
Yet more his stature, than the human, seemed.
Even so, it pleased transfigure her the bright goddess.
Nor he resisting, Belisama leads,
Where trooping sheep-flocks, scald with evil fare.
Through reeking well-bourn them the goddess drives;
And they go healed up, on that further shore!

Though looked he wide, then, in large field, and sought;
King Bladud saw that herding-groom no more.
So lighted he, the virtuous brook, more near,
To view, down from his jaded steed; which forth
Feeds, wavering from him, in the sappy grass.
But the steed, yonder, sliding, in much mire,
Fell, in that sheep-bourn: wallowing then uprose
He, all stained his bards; but, shook him, with proud crest,
Loud neighing, unto battle and brood-mares.

The king, admiring! in that bourn then cast
Iberian captive, all with long foot-march,
Fordone; wretch, without hope; which, this morn, was
By wayside, left; where wolves, his abject corse,
Had rent, to-night: but, from that healing ooze,
Lifting, to heaven, his palms, thanking his gods;
Revived, as in his youth, that captive rose!

Bladud then, in the channel, washed his flesh,
Weary of long travail; wherein, gins to creep
Now lustless eld; and eftsoons the sire feels
His former pith renew, and warlike force;
And, from his heart, is wiped all rust, even as
From a new-furbished glaive. He caused his servants,
Then delve the bosom of that healing mould;
And open conduits. Bladud timbered, sith,
Baths, for sick folk; and himself there abode:
But Sul, name of the goddess of that ground,
Was to the slumbering king, revealed, in vision.

Is this that Bladud, whom derne whispering voice,
Stirred, of familiar demon, in his ears:
Who tempting fly, from Troynovant, to the gods;
In view of there great marvelling people's press,
Fell dasht, on Belin's temple-roof, to death!

The prætor Aulus winters now in Kent.
His quæstor everywhere the Britons' corn,
Exacts, whose harvest lost; nor mercy hath.
At his approach, him roused, then Dumnoveros,
Warden of Kent's shore, for Caratacus.
With all the remnant, of Kent's matchless scythecarts;
Crowned, with oak leaves, his brows, that sire rides forth.

Leading swift chariots, he repulsed proud Romans;
Falling, from thickets, on them, and hill-woods;
And last, where streaming Medway would they pass.
And ever, mongst who foremost fighters, seen;
Though bowed for eld and rheums, was Dumnoveros:
Till him swift dart attained, which his breast pierced.
His frighted steeds swerved, when the reins fell forth,
From his old dying hands; and, in brier-bush,
Was caught the cart: they it shook, and broke the beam.
Tumbled that long-aged sire, and yielded breath!
Nor since was noised, deceased king Caradoc,
Desired he longer life: and fell his champions,
Him round, that sought save forth the royal corse.
Ere night, took Romans Durovernium walls.

To Cæsar's arms, then yield them Lemanis,
And Dubris, Cantion havens; sith Anderida,
To Plautius, last submitted Rutupîa;
Wherein the widow of slain Heroidel weeps;
Far from his own, who lies, a buried corse!

But Aulus sends a power, to Andred forest;
To punish those hurst-dwellers, whom, in aid,
Caratacus hád called forth, to Camulodunum.
And are there mines of iron; whence Britons armed,
He hears, were to the war: wold very great
And murk; wherein, for latticed boughs, uneath,
Men pass: and archers climbed, from shroud of leaves,
Durst shoot, unseen, down shafts, on marching soldiers.
Fall many; nor might Romans wreak their deaths.

But when had Thorolf heard, in Verulamion,
That great discomfiture, before Camulodunum;
Nor hope rests, to renew the war, this year;
And now the days, at hand, of winter tempest;
Leaving five hundred helms, to Catuvelaunians,
And glaives, with all his spoils of arms and harness,
(Till come New-year,) to hold Cunobelin's walls;
He leads, to Hiradoc, maugré horse of Romans,

His hostings, through East March, to Branodunum:
Under whose cliffs, yet ride his dragon-keels.

There they, with a loud Woden-chant, embarked,
Life anchors; and blue broad sail-wings up-hoise,
For Albis' mouth: where, Wittig, Thorolf hears,
Sits daily gazing from Forseti's cliff,
To see his son's shield-scaled snake-ships sail home.

Lymne.

Pevensey.

A divine son of Balder and Nanna.

But what seest thou, these days, O foster Muse,
Which all this land surview'st, in sacred Alban?

In Avalon, Joseph and the brethren saints,
Are fathers to all orphans of the war;
And make resort to them, poor heathen souls,
As bees, to honey sweetness of Spring flowers.
Hath this year's harvest yielded, in the holms,
An hundred-fold. Such is God's blessing there,
On Shalum, Christ's disciple's hands; who hath
Enough, to nourish all who needy; nor
The bitter cry is heard there, any more,
Of outlaws, who, for misery, ready were
To perish. Joseph, Father-of-the-poor,
The Stranger, daily also, on the sick,
Lays healing hands; and they recover health.

BOOK XVIII

ARGUMENT

Queen Embla, journeying with Caratacus, is now come down to Ouse: whither also the wasted army of North Britons arrived; and now return home. Maglos convoys sick king Caratacus, to his father, Moelmabon. Come to Caerwent, the lord sits in king's hall; where is, daily, much communing of the Roman war.

Idhig, Kynan and Maglos, march, in the next month, with king Caratacus. They fence an hill Eastward, against the nigh coming of the Romans. A daughter is borne to Caratacus. New pestilence, in the land. Come spring-time, Titus rides, with Roman sick, from Aquæ. They pitch, in Mendip. Titus daily rides an-hunting: he slays a monstrous wild swine. The avanc beast. He visits Alban, and finds the shipwrecked Syrians there.

Aulus builds strongholds, beside chief ways and at riverfords. Caer Isca is taken by the legions. Stratagems of Antethrigus; who lurks, in woods, to surprise the Romans' march. The warlord, in the Maiden's hill, laments his low and sickly estate. He leads his warriors, to another hill-strength; where, beleaguered by Aulus, he is delivered by the coming of Antethrigus. Antethrigus, hunted by Flavius, from hill to hill; and, at last, compassed-in, by his enemies, is slain. Soldiers fall upon an unarmed people of Britons. Who of them escaped, sail, with the Dumnonian king, to Erinn.

New parliament of kings. To them, unlooked for, comes the ethling Thorolf. Venutios, in vehement anger, hurls a

dart against Vellocatus, within the sacred close. Thorolf is recalled by his father's messengers, to Elbe-land, in Almaigne. To him, sailing on the deep, Woden appears, by night.

Amathon cometh, with all his cattle, now to Alban. Caratacus fortifies Glevum. Aulus marches to assail the new dune. In a tempestuous winter night, Britons unperceived, issue forth; and partly embarked in Kowain's ships they come again, to Caerwent, unto Moelmabon. Leaving his winter-camps, Aulus journeys to Rome. His ovation there.

A new revolt in Britain. Beichiad, who had lain sick, since the field of Camulodunum, marches in aid of his brother, king Caratacus. In the way, he sickens of the pestilence. Borne to his foster kindred, in the forest, he dies there.

Now, in what day was hurt Caratacus,
Fighting, warlord, before hill-dune of Camulus;
Whence were blue Britons scattered to far woods;
Who scaped, in chariots, drave still that night forth.
Who, gainst next eve, to willows of the Ouse,
Arrive; to pasture, loose their fainting teams.

North Britons, whom, (since fallen Velaunos,) leads
The king Venutios, marching, now fifth sun,
(War-wasted remnant of ere-thick caterfs,)
There pass; and lodge, few days, to heal their wounds.
Last cometh queen Embla, from Caer Camulodunum!
She, that still silent weeps, upstays, in cart,
King Caradoc: and cast dówn be all men's looks.
So drooping seems, so nigh the sire to death.

To Embla, druid leech of dead Velaunos,
Gives bitter herb, and certain infused root:

Whereof, when Caradoc drinks; behold new warmth,
To him returns. The king sate up, and shines
A lively hew, in all his god-like looks!

But, sith blue Britons might no more, this year,
Renew the war; and all their dukes have wounds:
Kings, (council held,) confirm were borne the sire,
For his more surety, now to Deheubarth.

Passed forth Venutios, and those Northern powers,
New dread in Embla's breast, falls, of Gauls' horse;
Which, the slow journeying of sick Caradoc,
Might lightly o'ertake: and she much Bericos fears!

Known unto few, unfar, in a wide heath,
From hence, is, in some covert hollow place,
Mouth of deep winding and great cragged pit;
Under this mould, whereon we mortals tread.
To that hid earth, now Embla turns aside;
Whereof, by messengers, come from Antethrigus,
She knowledge hath. With victuals' store and brands,
And archers' guard; (those forest-wights which ward
Caratacus;) she goes dówn, in that deep place.

And, dwelling there, few days, both sense and breath,
Be come again, and favour of his face!
The queen then swift-foot runners sends, to Maglos;
Who, towards West March, his stern Silures leads;
Aye looking back, like boar that wounded is.

Him, in that midst, they found, where Cherwell's stream,
To Thames, runs down. And, heard their words, returns
The prince, with thousand hasting spears, to Ouse.
Come the sixth eve, king Caradoc and the queen,
(Whom there they find,) those bring forth. And their face
Now turned towards Hafren, warding the king round;
They journey, softly, without any tarrying.

Ending that moon, they, to Caerwent, arrive.
Who lights, infirm, from wain, in rusty weed,
Worn, next his harness, but Caratacus!
Men joy, which see, returned their lord, alive,
From Roman field. Wan is his royal face.
Lo Caradoc, drooping, leans, on his spear-staff,
And Maglos' hand. They twain pass slowly forth,
With company and torches' light, in the lord's court;
For fallen, already, is Britain's Winter-night.

The people, in kíng's hall, rise up, reverent.
Uprose Moelmabon, heard the purblind king,
Is Caradoc, of Cunobelin, coming in!
And, heavily, from his high seat he descended.

To Caradoc, groped forth, on his aged feet;
The sire him, goodly greeting, both his cheeks,
Kissed; so asks of his health, and leads to sit,
In the high settle, with him: and commands,
Mix mead, bear ale anon, and set on meat.

But Nessa, white-armed queen of warlike men;
Who lately, in Roman war, of valorous sons,
Bereavéd was, (put hastily off mourning stole;)
Is, from king's hall, went forth, with maiden train;
To welcome in, that now arrived, queen Embla.
So leads, with loving words, her, by the hand;
Fordone, to women's bower, to sup, and rest.
Rest Embla! and god-like, rest, Caratacus!

Sith, every day, the warlord's strength reneweth;
And, in great mead-hall of king Moelmabon,
He sitting, of the Roman war communes.
And calls Silures' sire, in the long hours,
(That they, with some new thing, might light men's hearts;)
His bards; and tellers calls of evening tales.

Men number, on the fingers of their palms,
Lords fallen; who with the foot, who with the scythecarts;
And that trimarch, which came out of North parts.
How, first, of Briton kings, fell valorous Golam;

Mongst mingled mighty tread, of foot and horse:
Then that great lord, of all the Northern powers.
Riders of war-carts tumbled, rife, to grass,
In press o'erthrown of flying men and chariots.
Fallen, on his knees, was seen Segontorix:
Bellowing, like dying bull, he yet contended;
And Atrebats, protending long swart shields;
Made breastwork of their bodies still, gainst Romans.

Duke Iddon's steeds, being early pierced to death,
Their traces, sunder-smitten, of bright glaives;
Covering, with wicker shields, their woad-stained breasts,
Ten Catuvelaunian champions drew his chariot.
And, when one fell, another seized his room:
Whilst, beckoning, Iddon with his warlike hand,
(Midst immense din,) whereunto all obeyed,
Yet repulsed Romans! till, (irruption made,)
A legion's cohort, that duke's cart cut-off.
Fell hundred round, nor took they him alive;
For, in that moment, brast his mighty heart!

Some tell of Romans' towers, and the elephants;
And some of Erinn hounds, and bard Carvilios;
Who voice, in Britain, was of battle-gods.
And how fell Fythiol, from swift battle-cart.
And how huge Ergund, rushing, with long lance;

(That a young poplar seemed,) resistless, burst
The legions' ranks: and when hurt Beichiad was,
And his companion-fighter hurt to death,
Ravished their madding team the rattling chariot.
Tell other, how, heard generous prince Marunus,
His father's death; and Troynovant, unto Romans,
Submitted hath; no more recovers health.
Is word, he passed hath winter-seas, to Thorolf!

Moreo'er is told, of Ith, and men of Erinn.
Where Erinn's caterans rested, erst, in forest;
They invoked Neit. Brehons, law-speakers, then,
And culdees, gave Ith read; that ended was
Now that behoof, which called them o'er to Britain.
And answered Ith, by Dagda, god that rolls
Night's starry round; they would return to Erinn!

Long then their wayfare: is, in each wood-path,
Now venison their wild meat; and fishes oft,
Where rivers they mote pass. They, journeying thus;
Sun see go down, in swart sea-waves, at length.
And being, untó Caer Segont, thence arrived,
They pass to Mona; and lodge on a salt strand,
Manannan's guests; who gives them sheep and beves.

There Ith, and who kings with him and culdees,
Consult that oracle of old Samoth's god;
How windy sea-flood they, again, might pass?

Then, neath broad-rising gleam, of second morrow,
Was wonder seen! a thousand bascad boats,
Their former fleet, they left, on other strand,
(Power of blue watery gods, great Lîr and Nuth,
To whom, with vows, they prayed,) ride neath these cliffs!
Then softly breathed, in dead Carvilios' harp,
A wind; whence being laid dark spirits of tempest,
That army of caterans safely overpass!

In the next month, came Kynan, Hammeraxe,
With Idhig, king of herdfolk Demetans,
Being neighbours both, to king Moelmabon's court.
Tells Caradoc, how, long-lying, in his trance,
He voice heard of some god, which him commanded,
To build up Glevum, gainst invading Romans.
Moelmabon king, in whom deep skill of arms;
Whose wise breast full of memory of old wars,
It weighed commends, as counsel of a god.
He deems, fence, some hill-head, his March, to ward.

Accorded be those Western kings, in arms,
To fare, with Maglos and king Caradoc.
The fifth night of full moon, to Severn ford,

Shall they together come, with their caterfs:
Those homeward wend then, to their Winter-hearths.
The third night; when erst seen that new-moon's horns,
Young warriors, (come ere to their lords, in arms,)
Towards Severn marched; they find there, (with caterfs,
Whom Maglos leads,) warlord Caratacus,
Already arrived. Britons then, uneath, pass,
For lifted Hafren's streams are on the land,
Full all, ice-cold, of frosty icicles.

Four kings thence march, with six times thousand spears,
Through frozen woods; so come, unwist of Romans,
To an hill-strength. There delving Briton warriors,
With travail and long pain, for iron frost;
That mount around, then, double rampire cast:
And wells, and pits, for harbour of their corn,
They dig. Men fence them hardly from the cold,
With boughs of pine; weaving thereof thick bowers;
And sitting round, at eve, great common fires.

Was tiding here brought, to king Caradoc;
Queen Embla, his spouse, him borne a daughter hath:
Blue Britons name, then, with loud joyful crying!
The Maiden's Castle, that their Winter-hold.

In Caerwent, night-time was of howling blasts,
And shrouded stars; and frost lay on the ground;
When gentle Embla heard her father's death.
She stooped, for grief; fell on her childing pangs.
She prayed to Belisama; and fervent asked
A son, like Brennus, to sustain Isle Britain.
Whispered the women-helpers of the queen;
When, of a maid-child, she delivered was,
That her petition had not heard the gods!

Caer Gloew; now Gloucester.

O'er Britain's earth, hovers that homicide,
(With whom the demon-eagles, of four legions,)
Angel, well-pleased! beholding, soaked with blood,
Of her own sons, and dunged with carcases.
Like evening's star, in misty heaven, I saw
Him, quoth the Muse; or as seems, in men's seeing,
Oft-time, some noisome wayside puddle shine,
Like molten silver, neath sun's garish beams!
Cast a dire cry, that ever-damnéd fiend!
To hell beneath; and called, from house of death,
Murrain, and Pestilence; on all living flesh.

Their harvest-corn, not fully ripe, this year,
Was garnered; grounden sith, in stress of war:
The very herb hath rotten gore infected.
Then erst, there perish multitude of beasts:

Men die so many, in their poor hurdle-cotes,
Whom battles not consumed, inglorious;
That left is none to bury or to bear forth;
Or little earth strew on man's festering corse.
More than erst battle-gods, that sickness slays.
The ill then creeps in camps of Roman legions.
Caradoc and Maglos lead back their caterfs.
With dread, this Winter passeth, of all hearts.

But when the moon is in, of the new grass;
Flavius, from Aquæ, to the hills, sends forth
His sick. Young Titus, who recovers health,
To Mendip, with them, rides. Unto Caer Bran,
Then Romans come: old strength, and fenced with dykes;
Of Britons' former wars, a monument.
Those banks they entered; raise, therein, their tents.

The sickness hath allayed men's hostile hearts.
Titus deals kindly, with poor Briton folk,
Of these waste hills; and they again him praise.
And daily among them, he who hunting loves,
With few companions, bearing Gaulish bows,
Doth rouse the flying hart; or, mongst rough cliffs,
Thrills the grey wolves; or bays, in crooked denes,
The tuskéd boar, that rusheth on their spears.

Of certain monstrous swine, then Titus hears,
That harbour covert brakes, of yond wild crags;
Whence she, in dale, the seeded plots doth waste:
And with sharp tushes, which be sickle-great,
That sow hath many hurt, and rent their hounds;
And fall, like reeds, their weapons, from her crest.

One eve, as did they water their tired steeds,
By fenny brook, amongst brown bramble-brakes,
Outrushed, from thicket, that fell hideous beast,
Ox-great: her hanging dugs, unto the ground,
Did seem a battled wall; and on whose nape,
And brindled chine, thick yellow mane upstares;
Her eyes like coals. Stept lightly, upon his feet,
The Roman knight, and poising swift iron lance,
He shot; and twixt the shoulders, it gored deep,
The monster's flesh: that swine brake from them forth.

Mount hastily then the Roman knights, to horse:
Whose Briton steeds are wont, to these rough steeps;
But twilight thickens on her bloody trace.
Last they all lighted; and, now, tied their steeds,
They kindle fires and sup: sith, hunters, sleep,
Neath stars, on their spread cloaks, till morrow's break.

When drives new faery Dawn forth, in winged chariot;

And, from their golden manes, her rushing steeds
Shake dew, on the low earth; and, to wide airs,
Her veil of crocus and her purple amice;
Fleeing before Sun's face, she, virgin, casts
Upon the fleecy skies; those knights uprose:
And ready, anon, they mount again to horse.
Titus bears Æthiopian bow of steel;
Which only his young strength can ply, mongst Romans.
His messenger now it brought; (whom he, to-night,
Sent back to camp,) with Briton hounds, in leash.

In the fresh morning air, those questing run
Forth, on the blood. Not long was, or their deep
Throats men hear open. Romans, left their steeds,
Bounden, thrust-on, through thicket brakes, with spears;
For now is roused the swine, from her night-lair.

That sow outbrake, and rushed on men and hounds!
But her swift steel-head shaft attains of Titus.
She fell; and wallowing rent the bloody grass,
And smoked the mould; fierce hounds seize on her flanks.
The swine, of them, awhile, tormented was;
Then last, with ferine groan, she gave the ghost.

Sith, bear the brittled carcase Briton hinds,

(Poor wights, from herdmen's cotes;) and crowned with flowers,
Their heads, with merry songs, and blithe reed pipes,
Up to Rome's soldiers' tents. The monster's skull
They, and long red-bristled spoil, set on a pole,
Terrible to look on. Britons there, to drink,
Remain: they eat with Flavius' legions' soldiers.

Another while, strong comely Titus rides,
In the low plain, the avanc beast to hunt,
(Which, sithen, beaver hight, on English tongue;
Fiber in Italy, where great Padus flows,)
Which timbers her, in fenny streams, an house,
Of beams, hewed with her teeth: whose floor she beats,
And pargetteth, with ooze, her chambered walls.
(Her hairy hide is holden good, for rheums.)

Rides noble Titus, with few Gaulish horse,
And company of his friends. Till noon, they naught,
Yet, find to hunt. Would Titus then pass forth;
Those Britons' sanctuary isles, beyond
The fen, to view; whereof he heard, at Aquæ.

Descended now, to Avalon's lyn, they find
A causeway of beams; whereby, they overwade.
At Alban's borders, where white mere-stones set,
Britons meet Titus, with their magistrate;

Unto whom, (interpreting some Gaul with him,
Of the allies,) he peace, giving his hand,
And faith, confirms, of great Imperial Rome.
Titus, unarmed, then, enters with his friends.

Hyn erst leads Romans view, there, sacred pool,
Like crystal cup; where men wont cast-in gifts.
Titus ring, from his finger casts, of gold;
In saying, with voice of mirth; To Britons' gods,
Behoves pay tribute! Who come, with him; some
Cast pin; some a fibula, or trifle of great Rome.

But when those light companions precious gifts
Perceive, lie glittering on that water's floor;
Gold, silver vessail, sunk-up in base ooze,
Which, like scaled fishes, lurking under weeds,
The scattered sunbeams smite, whispering to Titus,
They him persuade, to break the Roman faith;
And blowing trumpet, call in harnessed soldiers,
These things to reave. Reading their guileful looks,
Gather the innocent Britons covert stones,
In their poor weed. But straightway noble Titus
Rebuked, in the Greek tongue, his friends; in whose
Hearts burns the hellish Roman thirst, for gold.

Then came an adder, with uplifted crest;
(Whose scaly boughts, uprolled,) out of the reeds;
And, hissing, fleeted on that water's face:

And Briton folk cry out, It is the god!
Whence, seeing them now much moved, made Titus haste,
To taste the proffered antique horn of mead;
That fetcht is to him, from Sun's temple-house;
Whereof, who drinks, men name him, sacred guest.
Hyn leads then noble Titus, to that hearth;
Where, day and night, sits, venerable priestess,
To bete, with fenny turves, of Brigida pure,
Daughter of the Sun-god, the mystic fire.
Looked Keina, longwhile, on that knight of Rome!
Sith, stretcht her lean palm forth, in Britons' tongue,
Spake with loud voice; and all, on Titus, gaze!

Titus requires, What thing the Sibyl saith?
The Interpreter whispered, in young Titus' ears,
Thou, after days, she saith, shalt rule o'er Rome1
And Titus changed his colour, and shook out
His garments; and made haste, to get him forth.

Thence, Romans, rowed, in little wicker barks,
Be come to water-hamlet, in the mere,
Timbered on stages. Romans, like to this;
In that campaign, which Lucius made in Thrace,
Had seen. Stand Britons forth, with brabbling voice:
They look askance, on strange approaching Romans!

Hyn calls young Cuan, bard of the Cranog.
And seem when this on Erinn's trembling crowth,
Plays, sunbeams fall, as rain, on the dull mere.
Hearing his Briton chant, much like to song
Of birds, in leafy woods, admire the Romans!
Quoth Titus, Less could the immortal gods
Not, unto men that live, than these, have given;
To whom are roots, he hears, of river reeds,
For meat; and fish, with honey of wild bees.
And yet, with golden music of the harp,
And warbeling chant, they live, as wanting naught,
Next to the gods. And Titus silver brooch,
Which fastened had his baldric, gave that bard.

Yet, as they row from thence, is told to Titus,
Of certain strangers, which, in Avalon isles;
Do lead their lives, in innocency, and in prayers.
And, lo, in holm, whereto they now arrive,
The man of God, who meets them, at the shore;
Venerable of aspect, long, white-bearded sire!
On whom then looking, Titus, to his friends,
Whispers, as they again go up on land;
Is not he like that Zeus of Phidias?
Which, in the Capitolium, now is seen.

Albeit, go clad, in Briton weed, those men;
Well, in the strangers' aspect, he perceives
That visage of the Jews, now many in Rome.
Hark! Titus speaking, in Hellenic tongue,
And using the grave countenance of a Roman;
Ordains, that they appear before duke Flavius!
Titus departing, spake; Should Avalon isles
Be sanctuary still, and free from Roman tribute.

When issue Romans, now, from Winter-camps;
Aulus erst measures long paved street, in Kent,
Which, on that conquered soil, he lays, like yoke!
Blue Britons, all, to servile tasks, unwont,
Labour, in bands, by cruel stripes enforced.
Strange insolent Romans, on them, now impose,
Nigh Samoth's cliffs, hew down their sacred groves!

Britons, war-captives, must fell holy trees,
Char coal, fire lime, delve clay; burn Roman bricks.
They lay mule-loads, on Briton warriors' necks.
Makes each centurion levy, where he will,
Of the land's youth; and shall those fight, as soldiers,
Beyond the seas, and die a Roman death!
Yet, Britons must endure, in name of tribute,
Grievous exactions, to be sent to Rome:

Or of the quæstor's servants, infamous stripes,
Who cannot pay; and yet it is not debt.

When told these tidings, in the Maiden's Hill;
Which newly, again, Caratacus hath beset;
And purged, with fire and lime; and wells, with pitch:
Standing, midst thicket, of tall glittering spears,
Great-voiced warsire of Britons, he set forth,
The intolerable wrongs of stranger Romans!
Have humbled them, in warfare, stranger gods;
And weakened are the tribes, by pestilence;
Yet when to bandy again, shall Britons' gods
Please, strange usurping soldiers to Mainland;
Shall Gauls anew, them chace, beyond vast Alps,
And tread down Roma; and Italy shall burn;
And every nation take again her own!

Builds these days strongholds, on both sides the Thames,
The legate. But in forest, unsubdued,
(Where, to him, who most valorous of his part,
Come from East March: and in bowers of green boughs,

Those wonne, and under trees,) lurks Antethrigus;
Whose wont is sally, unwares, on abhorred Romans;
And kill, in night's thick murkness, and cut-off.

Journeying now the proprætor unto Aquæ,
Sends word, before, to Flavius, with his legion;
To meet him in the path: which known to Maglos;
Down from the Maiden's Hill, descend caterfs,
Twelve thousand spears, with king Caratacus:
And, suddenly, when a Summer day nigh ended,
Those, running, fall on Aulus' rearward cohorts;
And on their carriage seize, and shrink the Romans.

Then Aulus, on the morrow, in green plain,
Led forth, sets wide array, against the Britons;
Hoping chastise those mingled loose caterfs:
But issues not, from wood, Caratacus.

Then Aulus, ware and heedful, slowly marches,
Each day, few hours, exploring wide, with horse;
And oft he halts, and must, with Britons, fight;
That have each thicket-hill, beside the path,
Beset. In that, warlord Caratacus,
Much dreading Romans should Duneda's town,
(For now their cohorts, by mid-Duffreynt, pass,)
Attempt; before him urgent messengers sent,
To Isca. Hardly were repulsed caterfs,
One noon, when Romans lodge; and semblant make,

Casting high bank, dig large their castrum fosse,
And deep: but silent, in that night's midwatch,
Left thousand fires, from decumanian gate,
The legate led, his legions' cohorts forth:
And, won ground of blue Britons, Aulus passed,
Beyond some perilous passage. Yet, next night,
With guides, by moonlight, the proprætor marched;
And outwent Britons. Thence, young valorous Titus,
To that Dumnonian dune, he sends, with horse;
To view the situation and the walls.
Rides, and turns, on the spur, by moonlight, Titus!

Heard his relation, Aulus to the tribunes,
Commands, that, this day, rest within the vallum,
Their legions; they, at changing of the watch,
To-night, shall march. To captains of Gauls' horse,
Aulus prescribes; at point of day, they were
The Britons' wall, so nigh; that when, their cattle
And hinds and market-folk first, issue forth;
They, in full career, might occupy the gate.

Day dawns; and now approaching Roman army,
Is seen from height of king Duneda's court;
How, in low combe, thick-glittering cohorts march!
Journeyed, to-night, twixt Isca and the legions;

Also Caratacus hath. He blows grave war-horns,
On woody hill. Duneda, heard that note,
With warriors, sallies from his river-part.
(Men hastily gathered, to the king, in arms,
Both of his own and warlike neighbour marches,
Which were not, in the field, with Caradoc.)
He stands, mongst their tall spears, in royal scythe-cart.

Run forth, whom Kowain leads, stout Iscan youth,
From East-gate; and hold shouting on, gainst Romans.
Come to hand-strokes, their left do wrest aside
The enemies' shields; their fierce right hands stab soldiers;
Or furious, on their bronze helms, sledge with stones:
And labouring reel the cohorts' ordinance.

But cry, in that, went up, from the town part!
They looking back, behold their city's smoke,
As from a pot, above her bulwarks rise:
And breaks forth, lo, dread tumult, at her gates;
Wherein they left their wives and little ones.

Naught more hear words their ears, (nor heed their hearts;)
Of who them leads: they turn their unfenced backs;
And all, again, towards flaming Isca, rush.
They throng to gate, where terrible is now press;

And Romans, at their necks, impetuous ride.
Few, that might enter, meet, in their own streets,
With Gauls' horse; men that having fired the dune,
Themselves now flying, bear them through, with spears!

Duneda riding, in one battle-wain,
With Hælion, stood in act to hurl his javelin!
When suddenly, split, under their feet, the chariot.
At the cross-wents, had swerved his teaméd steeds;
Where, (grown now green,) is Mormael's mounded grave!
Howled hounds, steeds boggled; the lord's axe-tree pight,
On some mere-stone: his lynch-pin brake, and strakes
And fellies were dissolved. Sore bruised, on ground,
Lies, hurled, Dumnonians' sire. Him, uneath, Hælion,
In mortal press, with flower of the king's champions,
Then saved! The lord they lift, upon an horse.
His very hounds, to save the fallen sire,
Fight; when fell, one on other, the king's warriors,
Under Gauls' spears, and glaives of expedite cohorts.

Yonder, Caratacus battle joins; leads Maglos,
With immense shout, Silures' rushing spears.

Those fall, like butting rams, on legions' cohorts.
But when Duneda's royal mount, behold
Britons, burn like vast beacon-hill, above;
Their hearts stood still, within their straitened breasts!
And faint their knees; looked even proud warriors,
Where might they save their weary lives, from death.

Though god-like, yet, like brazen trumpet, shout
Sounds, bove the strife, of Caradoc! fly blue Britons:
Ravished was, in their routs, even the king's chariot.
In vain the warlord, feeble of his hurt,
Leans forth; and heartens still, with voice, blue warriors!
Fast, áfter them, pursuing then bloody Romans;
Is Isca field left empty, with her dead!

How smokes that goodly great dune royal; rich
With shipfare, and tin-traffic to the Main:
High seat, of druids' veiled antique discipline!
Great was that victory of the Roman legate.

Wander, as roes, and tremble, in the fern,
Of summer woods, her drooping fugitives.
Journeying hurt king Duneda, in war-wain;
Ere dawn, raught to dune-hill of Amathon.

Aulus, moved by commodity of the site,

For corn and herb and water, for his horse;
And by the amenity of this fair Duffreynt,
Will stablish, at Caer Isca, stative camp.

But erst, (and having his commandment left,
Isca's high walls, lay even with the ground!)
With horse and knights, lo, Cæsar's legate rides,
And Flavius, and who præfects of his legions;
Till, to that Bloody Foreland, they arrive;
Which End of Land. There seemed-them see the sun
Sink, hissing, in dim bosom of vast Main!

And, where he passed their marches, he received
Moon-shield Belerions, to be under tribute.
Decet, long-languishing, of a javelin-cast,
Which opened all his chest; (and, fallen from cart,
Their king, his shoulder broke, when Antethrigus
Was smitten, by Thames;) is newly there deceased.

Sith sacrificed a sow, to Hercules, Aulus;
And set up trophy, of his enemies' arms;
On that last head-of-land, which looks toward Erinn:
With superscription, to Rome's gods and Claudius!
And glorious letters, thence, indites, to Cæsar,
Prostrate South Britain, ended is the war.
Pitcht, at dim Western sea-rim, stands his tent!

He sends, returned to Isca, expedite cohorts,
With certain Gaulish horse, to Amathon's march:
His hope is gather there, both corn and victual,
Of cattle. But now those Britons their hill-dune
Have burned, and wide field wasted; and were driven
Their sheep and great horn-beasts, to Pedred Fen;
Beyond pursuit, for quavemires and blind moss;
And where ben known, to few, the marish paths.

Now when the Icenian hero, Antethrigus,
(Who lurks, still, in green forest, unsubdued,
And meditates, aye, new warlike stratagems,)
Had word, of cohorts' camp, that gather tribute;
He wicker maunds, on chines of hundred beves,
Lays; wherein he twice hundred champions hides;
And with them he sends other, that seem hinds;
Drivers, with skeans bound, neath their blanket-bratts.
Again young Madron is their hardy captain.

Some wend before, in guise of Dobuni:
And these allege, come to the camps of legions;
For carriage of the tribute-corn, and drift
Of thousand beves; except by covert night,
They durst not journey, for Caratacus.

Those droves, come, in dim night, to castrum port;
Suffer centurions of the watch, to pass,

Beves' train, tumultuous. Light them some ones forth,
Whereas the tribute-grain, borne on their beasts'
Chines, they might, in the open place, discharge.
Lapped, in their saies, come shivering Roman soldiers,
From leathern tents, (now chill is the night season;)
For joy, see all this victual. Covert word,
Spake Madron! Suddenly those stout drivers, glaives
Drawn, in fierce heat; then smite unready soldiers!
Men, from those double maunds, now leap to ground!
An hundred and an hundred, tall armed champions;
Chace then the oxen, bellowing, furious;
Which, on their wide-embowéd horns, bear forth,
And trample, as cockt hay, the tents of soldiers!
Britons, with dreadful yells, all, rushing, slay,
That come within their hands, to the camp-walls;
Where, (like as ploughman, at his furlong's end;)
Drive, their fierce beasts about, those Briton warriors.

The cohorts' watch, which fight against them, there,
They overrun. Being come to vallum-port;
They slay, themselves, their beves and choke the gate,
With carcasés; that might not soon Gauls' horse,
Thence, after them, pursue. A score, no more,
Be fallen of East-men; but run down, with sweat,
Their warlike limbs, and ache their strong hand-wrists,

Of their much vehement smiting; whilst, of Romans,
They, in their camps have slain, the souls descend,
To their pale sires, that tremble yet, for Brennus.

But fight on, in their castra, legionaries,
Supposing were their foes all, in night murk,
Which of strange speech. Smite Romans their allies,
(Gauls and Batavians.) Last, when morrow breaks,
Gathered their slain; they bury, as twelve-score soldiers!

Yet Antethrigus, where should cohorts pass,
Lays ambush in a wood. Half-backward, hews
He trees, beside the path; and knits long ropes,
Unto their leafy cops: in other trees,
He archers shrouds. Sith, enter train of soldiers;
That having, all day, under heavy arms,
Gone, in this Summer-heat, much thirst and sweat.
And some, (none enemies seen,) their helms have doffed;
And cast in wains, (that bring their heavy stuff,)
And shields and harness. They, with ribald songs,
Of their rude throats, disordinately march.

A woodwale shrieked! at that sign, from the gods;
Was dreadful sudden noise, in Roman ears!
Of rushing forest; whose stiff crooked arms,
Whole companies strew, at once, beat-down, oppress!

Tumble green groves, about men's fearful ears;
That felled are, on the mould, whelmed, dasht to death.
Who rest, cry out; This wood's gods fight with Romans!
Titans, which hurl, down on them, leafy towers.
Is death, midst rushing beams, by Britons' shafts.

Faber proclaims, who this relief of soldiers
Leads; that, for every Roman slain, he will
Kill now two Briton captives, in their seeing,
That shoot! But those, lo, their gyved hands upholding,
Do loud protest, they spare not, for the gods!
For them to die, (which have lost all,) were light.
Come lateward Romans forth, with grievous loss.

Heard Antethrigus, that new cohorts marched,
From Aquæ; he cast those bathed and perfumed Romans
Enwrap! He sends some, of his vowéd champions,
(Men, that, with oaken leaves, and whistered words
Of druids, have bound their brows, to Camulus;
To further Britons' war, with their souls' deaths!)
Like fugitive thralls. With well-dissembled tale,

Whilst those hold speech, mongst who, in Ikenild, Street,
With spades and axes, open, pioneers,
Wood-path, before the marching legionaries;
One cometh, their tribune, clad in purple weed.
But falling, in this Roman's mind, suspect;
He his soldiers charged, Attach them! which perceiving,
Britons, pluckt their skeans forth, would there have slain
That Roman duke; and one smote-through his horse.
He fell; but shield him soldiers, with thick spears.
Britons die, having each one slain a Roman!

Weary, in rain, cast Romans, round them, bank;
Wherein they lie down, fearful, in their harness:
And cry, from man to man, the time of night;
Till morrow break. Thenceforth, those Romans march,
More circumspectly; and when now woodland, large,
Before them, lies; they bind their Belges' guides.

There, tramelled, find they, passage of all paths,
Soldiers, by shafts of unseen foes, fall pierced.
The tribune sounded clarion then, Knit shields!
So come they, foot by foot, rank behind rank;
None having turned their backs, from forest forth.

Returned king Caradoc, to the Maiden's Hill.
Now night, by watchfires of sweet smelling pine;
Hewed as the poplar leaf, he, king of warriors,
Sits, mongst his long-haired captains; that deposed
Their helms, and arms laid by their valiant hands;
At chequers play, on bulls'-hide long, war-bruised,
Hard shields. But nothing list, in stress of war,
To play heart-weary Britons' sire. On stars,
The hero's eyes be fixt, which men call gods:
And bitter seems that mead-cup Gorran bears.
He cry aloft, of dreary night-fowl, hears;
That flit from carcases unto carcases!

To gods, on height, that in yond heavenly towers,
Dwell, as men ween, in an eternal feast,
Of youth and ease, and light and divine force;
Lifting his eyes, laments king Caradoc,
His sickly estate. He cannot now, as erst,
Fight, from his scythe-wheel, swift-teamed, battlechariot.

He left alone is, in Cunobelin's house.
His Catuvelaunian royal state is lost;
Is taken Caer Verulam, Camulodunum burned:
And, after war, hath entered pestilence.
He marvels; why, (now harvest-night!) yet, comes not
Thorolf? Will Summer-season soon be past!

He hears his lords commune, how Antethrigus
Useth war-stratagems: but the martial son,
It likes not well, of great Cunobelin.
Received have Catuvelaunians, of their sires,
By open valour, smite their enemies.

Late, the self night, from fever dream, awaked;
Because him token had given his fathers' gods,
By ravens; that must Romans win this strength,
Caratacus roused his warriors to remove.
And, lo, from thence, at dawning ray, descended;
They champaign wide, to new hill-fort, o'erpass;
Whose foot in Yvel stream: and, triple banks
Digged round, that ward will hold Caratacus.

When hardly is this full-ended, Roman cohorts
Approach, with Aulus. Leaguering, round the mount,
Soldiers, by day and night, labour to turn
Fair Yvel's stream, from the now shut-up Britons:
And when, night-time, those and their beasts, must drink,
Romans shoot, on them, stones, from wain-borne engines;
And thirst, in their own land! war-weary Britons.

But when hath Antethrigus word thereof,
Through spies; he, with his East-men, hastily marched,

From Coit Mawr forest. They, to succour Caradoc,
Contend. And now, as mountain wolves, by night;
Those come, to hindward of the legions' vallum,
Blowing loud hundred war-horns! clamour raise;
As many bands did, in vast field, arrive.
Whilst soldiers then much doubting, in dark watch,
Standing in ordinance, keep the castrum walls,
Caradoc; whom Antethrigus had forewarned,
Closely, unmarked of Romans, ere that star,
Which, messenger of new day, again, is risen;
Led his blue warriors, from the hinder part.

Romans, sent scouts, at dawn, find Britons' camp,
Empty: but sith, when hears the Roman legate;
How now, to Pedred fen, Caratacus
Was went; leaving the war to end, to Flavius,
On this side Thames; he, duke, with his most horse,
Returns himself, to Roman Troynovant.

Vespasian, taking certain expedite cohorts;
Then they, from hill to hill, like salvage beast,
Valley to valley, Antethrigus hunt.
But that great Briton, some, to spy out Romans,
Sends, like base herdfolk, clad, in pilches rough;
And bearing slings and hurl-bats their tough hands.

These leasings sow, mongst hungry Roman Gauls;

How, from the Summer-pastures, had they driven
Much cattle down, to green plain. Browse their hornbeasts,
Yond, the late herb, within a valley's mouth.
Persuaded of them, many Gauls then ride.
Passed league's way, those hear lowing now of kine,
Whither they come, within a cragged cliff.

They throng in; but beyond, in cumbered place,
Of thorns, which haunt sweet birds, and trickling rocks;
The skies did seem rain on them, shafts and darts.
Then would those Gauls, betrayed, fast backward ride;
But kindled foes, against them, have all thicks!
Now, leaping dire, wild flames run on the ground;
Dance dread, uplifted, roaring, on the wind:
Them chace, which way they turn, with open throat.

Who, half-scorched, flying from this fiery death;
Fall on great felled trees, that bar now the path,
With their stiff crooked arms. Pursue fierce Britons,
With fearful yells! and iron and thrilling bronze.

Five only of Romans win, again, to camp:
Then damned be those few Britons, to the death;
Which, for a pledge of faith, were there left bound:
But they, empaled, did glory, in their bold deed!

The Great Wood, in Somerset.

On pallet lies Duneda, in Pedred, bruised.

The old king, oft, in dreams, beholds a god;
Him beckoning unto soil of Sacred Erinn;
Land of the dying Sun, that Second Britain.
Wherefore, interpreters called of visions, druids;
Sith fair Duffreynt lies waste, and Isca burned;
The king, (dune, where dwelt his old royal sires,)
Is minded, sorrowing, o'er West seas, to pass.

Moreo'er hath sent now Ith, to kings in Britain,
His message; should, in Erinn, fields be given,
To Britons, which would flee Rome's servitude;
Esteeming riches, not to live oppressed.

Then banned, is, in all borders of Duffreynt,
That king Duneda fares to Soil of Erinn,
To sojourn there, till gods, expulse strange Romans.
Come; whoso would, with king Duneda, embark,
To him, at Aber Kambilan, with their stuff!

Now, when heard Flavius, of there gathering Britons;
The duke, with speed, returns, from Antethrigus:
But, with oft onset, of swift hovering scythe-carts,
Troubles the hero each Roman march; till, last,
He was bewrayed, of Belges, where he is:
For had a price set Flavius on his head.

100

Vespasian compassed, sleeping then in grove,
Him, and his champions; where no water was.
Being come day's heat, is fought, with hurled-out javelins.
But Flavius, that none enemies scape thereout,
His soldiers hath, commanded, dig; and bank,
Around them, cast. Romans and Britons strive,
Till eve; when now blue warriors thirst and faint:
Falls sith a dew, which somedeal them refreshed.

Now slumber soldiers; which, in haste, have supped;
Without the cast of slings and shot of darts.
Only the watch, with glaives strained in their hands,
Listen each bruit of the forest leaves!

Stand Britons, waiting sign of Antethrigus,
Now, in wood-side, all ready to leap forth:
Waits the hero, on an omen from his gods.
Flits a wood-howlet! and the dusk night thwarts,
Before the fierce eyes of strong Antethrigus.
Then that great Briton, certain now of death,
Rent oaken leafy bough; and bound his span-
Wide front therewith: hark, imprecation makes
The hero, to his gods; for Britons' health,
Vowing his body and blood, to Camulus!

Smiting then palms together, he gave sign;

101

And first, with long bright glaive, breaks forth on Romans!
He fell out on them, as stoops hawk from cliff:
And seemed, in that he o'erleapt his enemies' dyke;
Some battle-god, with lightning in his hand!
East-men hurl javelins, which, in their murk grove,
Were fallen. From the two parts, Vespasian's soldiers,
Whom clarion wakens! uprisen; run, in harness.
They hem, they Britons close-in, at their backs.
This glory give to Flavius, Roman gods,
Take so great barbare captain; on whom, next
To Caradoc, leaned the estate of all South Britons.

Is told, when drunken was his desperate blade,
With slaughter blood, and he himself hurt oft,
Of darts; as he pursued a helm-bright Roman,
In that the moon, from dim skies, shone a moment,
With low and little light; the hero's foot,
In corded beechen root, latcht. Rusht, woeworth!
To ground, he, ón broad targe, and on his face,
And lay full still. He, parted from his own,
For loss of blood, faints mongst his enemies!

On Antethrigus' neck, leapt harnessed soldiers;
And on his mighty limbs, and his large chest!
And they him, back and side, anon, have pierced.

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Is none, of all that brave him round, with dart
Or glaive, is in his hand, which doth not hurt,
To death, great enemy, dying Antethrigus!
Who gave, with groan, the ghost. Lifted, some one,
Last those long yellow locks, his head offsmote.

Though, from his shoulders, the grim poll be lopped;
They stare, with fear, still, on his threatful face;
Whose barbare blue eyes, dazing now in death,
Seem adders, that gaze from some baleful bush:
And ring-gold seemed the hero's ravelled locks;
And like to harvest shocks, his side-long beard,
Unkempt; for Antethrigus kept his oath.
And was, in days of great Cunobelin,
And of his warlike sons, the Britons' wont;
That freeborn men, and all of warlike age;
(Save the lip-beard, in token of Camulus,)
Go shaven-faced. Lo, on a pole, borne forth,
That mighty head of East-land's magistrate,
Seemed tawny jowl of boar, with hideous mane.
They crucify the hero's corse, whose stature,
Exceeds that, by two spans, of any Roman.

Not many, of East-men's champions, scaped that night,

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The Romans' glaive. They few, was overmatched,
Their valour and great force, of numbers' weight.
Yet some, next night, returned; from Roman cross,
Stole body; and bury, of gréat slain Antethrigus!

Sith, on much journeying foot-folk, to Duneda,
Come nigh to Camel-mouth, fall Flavius' soldiers.
In that inglorious victory, of Roman cohorts,
Over an unarmed barbare multitude, was
Gathered much prey, of weed and ornaments.

Who scaped, lamenting, from the Gaulish horse,
Embarked, with king Duneda, in many ships.
The weeping Britons, as they drew up sail,
Prayed their sea-gods, that might they safely pass!

A second day, they welter, in West deep:
Then touch their prows, to soil of Sacred Erinn.
Descends the sire Duneda. Is Westing now
Sun to world's brink; and seems wide firmament
Pavilion, lo, of purple and fine gold,
Of Erinn's gods. Then first, with covered head,
And stretcht forth his washed palms, he, reverent, them
Salutes, which have here name of chiefest gods.
Sith demons of the ground, air, floods and woods,
And well-springs. All then, leap out of their prows,
His people, unto shore of this new Britain!

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Now; and for not possible were renew, this year,
The Roman war; with Maglos and caterfs,
Ships, from an isle, erst tongue of land, warlord
Caratacus: for whilst, behind their steps,
They digged, to fence them from their enemies;
It so, inrushing tide, deep channel made,
(And seemed then fight, for Britons, Eagor, god!)
And wide; there might none Romans overwade.
Sith lords and warriors, in Duneda's ships,
To Caerwent sailed; return, to Moelmabon.

Thence Caradoc sends to North and Midland kings;
Bidding them come, to him, to certain place;
Which great stones compass-in, by Upper Hafren.

Now kings and lords, together, there arrived;
Sit down, in circuit, with Caratacus.
Comes lateward to them, here, divine Manannan;
Ridden on his mule, from Mona, by hill-paths.
Unlooked for, last, came, from beyond seas, Thorolf!
Marched with stem-fighters, only, of two ships.

By word of Veleda's mouth, the prophetess; wars,
Which lately had king Wittig, were composed.
From Elbe-mouth, boldly then, in Winter-season,
The ethling sailed; and steered towards Island Britain:

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Where would he see, (great kinsman of his house,)
How Caradoc fares. Touched land, in Meltraith Fleet,
Those Almain prows; whence he, with guides, ascended,
Through fens, through woods, of East and Midland Britons;
Where, new built, not few strongholds, he, of Romans,
Beheld; by fords' heads, and land-passages.

Thorolf, his homicide spear, (for none might armed
Enter that doom-ring,) hath, and Brennus' blade,
Without; and Weyland's moon-sheen targe, deposed.
All loud salute that royal glorious Almain,
Who now arrives! And he again them greets.
And Thorolf sate down, by Caratacus.

Propounds sith Thorolf, his heroic thought;
Come to him, sailing on sea-billows hoary;
Trine daughters of East wind: Fence all South Mark,
Twixt Hafren flood and dune of Camulus;
Calling armed multitude in of Brennid Almains!

Who then, to this, persuades but Vellocatus;
Uprising, mongst them, radiant as a god!

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Whole now his hurt: and being his father, Cotus,
Lord of the parts of Derwent, newly dead;
Is he a king of fair Brigantine March.

Gainst whom, incensed, with fierce heat, king Venutios,
(Aye, and with prophetic spirit of things far-off,
Instincted, of the ever-living gods!)
Outcries; him naming public enemy!
That would new stranger arms call in to Britain.
Have not Iceni expulsed an Almain fleet,
From harbour, at East cliffs? for were they pirates!

Then seeing, how proudly him bears his adversary,
Not longer the old wárrior might refrain him;
But risen, enflamed with felon heat, passed forth:
Where snatcht, from hand of one of his, a dart;
He it hurled back, sudden, in that hallowed close!
Midst lords and Britons' kings, and sacred, druids:
And murmur rose, among them, for that deed.

Venutios would have slain false Vellocatus;
But erred his pulse. The violent iron flew forth,
Eager drink blood: on pillar-stone it pight;
Where, ware-eyed, Vellocatus' hand it caught;
Who nimbly upleapt, in time, had bowed to side.

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Full of resentment, this, before them all,
The young king shows! Bear witness lords, he cries;
He, guiltless man, doth now, in fine, renounce
All legiance, to law-breaking lord Venutios.
Seeing the moon eclipse, all fear that night.

Lo, kings, with pomp, the third day after this,
Of their armed folk and shrill war-carts part forth;
Being all accorded, with king Caradoc,
Renew the Roman war. They, in Lent month,
Should gather, to him, armed, with new caterfs.

But, in one chariot, with Caratacus,
Returning thence, was stayed the ethling Thorolf,
By messengers at the watering of the Theme;
Almains, come in longships, with speedy oars:
And voice pronounced, of him who leads them, (Hiradoc;)
Invade, Lord, Elbe-land other enemies!

Thorolf then, thrice, embraced king Caradoc;
Whilst each calls other Brother! and kissed, thrice,
On both his cheeks. The ethling parts, in haste:
The Almain hero's heart presaging ill,
By neighing of his steed. Misgives him, he
May no more tread Bret-land, in arms of Brennus!
So, sorrowful, he returns towards that sea-haven.

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There he inships. His sea-carles row: now hoise
Blue wadmel sail, (wherein king's broidered token,
Gold-bristled boar!) on hoary Winter-deep;
In whose wild tumbling surges, aery spirits
Seem dance forth, of West-wind: but Thorolf's keel,
Proudly, the heaving billows overrides;
And tosseth to each part, her wingéd breast.

Who, to this shipfare, sends him merry breath;
(Wherein giant Fasolt, of the watery storm,
From land, before him flies, to the fast land,)
The mighty Lord-of-spells, King-of-the-slain,
High-father of his house, alwitty Woden;
In his sea-sleep, shows Wittig's glorious son,
The late days of Earth-world; to go before
All-doom, and last death of long-living gods;
How all must be subdued, to fatal Rome!

Vain thing, to turn back the decree of heaven,
Were the effort of a man; though he most valorous,
In counsel and in force. The god, to Thorolf,
Makes known, Him rest few now, but glorious days:
So the three virgin Norns shaped, at his birth;

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So twined their hands; so spent, from East to West,
The golden thread, in heaven, of his life's age!
His seed, nathless, should herit land of Brennus.

The Wash.

Gigantic wind-god.

Came Amathon, in those days, to fenny Alban.
His cattle were driven before him, and much corn
Borne in his wains; for was he not to Erinn
Fared, with Duneda: but the sire in land,
(Died Bara in the late pestilence;) would end,
Which nourished hád him, his fathers, and their flocks.

Hyn gathered then young men: which withy rods,
Lopped in mere-side, have pilled; and now those pight
Long studs, in compass, (nigh to Brigida's house,
The place;) do wreathe there hall, of hurdle-work,
For this good lord, with wicker bowers; and thatch.

Behold, that venerable sire, in holm,
Host of the saints, now dwells, of sacred Avalon!
And communes oftwhiles Amathon, with Christ's brethren.
Sith when long nights be come, of Winter-season;
And all without lies cold and comfortless,
To Cuan hear, him pleaseth passing well.

Are Cuan's dreaming strings, in this lord's ears;

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Like to that golden murmuring, which of bees,
Sounds mongst sweet linden boughs, in the Haymonth.
And Dylan, hind, which erst, with his two sons,
Received Christ's messengers, saved to Britons' land;
In osier cabans, wonne their lord around.

King Caradoc dwells, in Caerwent, with Moelmabon,
Two months; (where bands, come, of his Verulam warriors,
Now, in nigh forest, build them Winter-bowers.)
Like space, he dwells then, with the sire Manannan,
In Mona, in his new hóuse; which overrides
The path; that needs must enter all which pass,
Under his roof; where tables, ready-dight,
Stand; set with meat and drink, for all who list.
And bards, remembrancers, in the sire's hall,
Sing, each eve, lays, which made Carvilios;
Like to war's blowing trumps and rushing chariots.

And come in weaponed youth, to the lord's hearths;
To hear war-speach of king Caratacus.
For tales of mirth and solace, cure their hearts,
No more, nor heed, of jesters, the light parts;
Whose words were shafts of laughter, in men's ears;

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Nor they love-longing's dulcet idle note,
List, or bard's chant, that breathes not bloody war;
Nor any, in treacherous metheglin, drencheth more
His sense: but sounds, with din of smitten arms,
All day, their craftsmen's street; where Caradoc walks,
With Ergund prince, wounded at Camulodunum.

Fell Winter, which the land hath lately wasted,
And spoiled of weed; now holds her, shrouded corse:
And wall of darkness seem the skies above.
Dead seems the world; save where the wild waves break,
And rushing tempests, in the aery paths.

In those days, rose up warlord Caradoc,
In caerwent, with the sons of Moelmabon;
And leading youth of Dyved, tall caterfs,
To Caer Glew, (dune of Dobuni,) now they march.

To river-isle, they Severn overpass:
Where come; they, for Corinium, burned and waste,
Will wall-up a new dune; wherein, well-fenced,
West Britons might safeguard their souls, from Romans!
Labour Silures warriors, delve deep fosse

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And wide; and it with stakes beset. The dyke
Those crown, with pales. They lead then, in their work,
Clear Hafren's stream. Last timbered they towergate.

Thereon Caratacus set up image bright,
Of Britons' battle-god, swart Camulus:
Which Embla saved; when she king Caradoc, sick,
Saved, from that sieged dune, in a covered cart:
Unto whom, might warriors, entering into fight,
Pray and look dying, on his glittering face!
Whilst thus they wrought, the Winter now is past.

Returns the lengthening month, of the new leaf:
When Roman captains, from their Winter-camps,
Lead forth the cohorts. This year, their hope is,
To conquer all West March; though, in the Province,
Be tumults; where yet yield not to be tamed,
Tribes that pay tribute. Britons, which revolt,
Look daily, that should come king Caradoc:
And say, drawn of white steeds, by time of night,
In forest, was the warsire seen to ride.

Pass moons; and erst, when Summer well-nigh ended,

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Is told to Aulus; how Caratacus hath
Dune, in an isle, midst streaming Severn, fenced;
And stored with arms and victual. Marched from Aquæ,
To Glevum, then, with cohorts of two legions,
The legate. There, hewed alders in the plain,
He bridge builds; and towers timbers, for his engines,
Of siege: and Romans leaguer, round the walls.

Beyond all former wont, that siege endures;
What for the valour of defending Britons,
Their rampire's strength; and they have learned, as Romans,
Neath tile-work, now, to fight of knitted shields:
And fenced, with wattle breastwork, be their walls.

There warlike women oft, men's weary watch,
Relieve; nor when lack bowstrings, any spares
Her own bright locks, to shear, as wiry gold;
To Deva, the white goddess, of clear Hafren,
Commending her; whom she, with often gifts,
Serves. Some, with lily fingers, long and small,
Twining their hairs, plight nets. Salmon those, then,
Take, in large seine, which sends, in the cold stream,
In scarcity of the siege, the river's god.

The warsire never ceaseth from the walls:
And sallying Maglos oft, like vehement flood,

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With his armed youth, surprises and slays Romans.
Those, day and night-time travail, till month; when
Must drive them, from their tents, the cold and rain.

Romans, which privily have burrowed, neath their fosse
And dyke; sith pierce within blue Britons' work.
They then, in night, tempestuous, feign assault,
On further part. As moldwarps were, from earth,
Uprose few harnessed soldiers; and those wind
Loud clarions, now, in Glevum's market place!
Which entered, in king Caradoc's dreaming ears;
Who late lay down to slumber, at the walls:
The warlord leapt, upon his feet, in arms.

Then longed his soul, as bridegroom for the night,
In twilight of these stars, to smite proud Romans.
He courses with dread shout, he slays Rome's soldiers!
Through Caer Glew streets: who 'scaped his bloody glaive,
Leap in the fosse, from Britons' walls; and perish!

Might, lodged in leathern booths, Italic soldiers
Abide no longer, in an open field,
For the much rain. Then, under frozen ground,
Banked with green sods, they grave them Winter-bowers;
Which trenched, they thatch, with river-reeds, above.

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Britons, within the town, one night-time, hear;
Betwixt the flaws of wind, from further shore,
An Iscan voice, calling king Caradoc!
And saying; that, to embark who sieged in Glevum,
Ride ready Kowain's ships, in Lower Hafren,
Returned from Erinn. In those leaguered walls,
Silures now are nigh consumed by famine:
Nor left strike is of corn, in all the dune.
They every green thing, from the walls, have eaten,
Grass of their street, even dreary herb, which springs,
On new graves of the slain; nor they might more
Endure. One night, of weathers black and rough;
Caradoc and Maglos gather; and lead forth
The weary people armed, to river part;
Whence issuing now, and without fear of Romans,
(Whose watch, cold-trembling, shroud them, in night-storm,)
Blue Britons, Hafren's floor, of stony frost,
Tread, which upbears them. There, stout Maglos marched,
With a caterf, apart. And those, to-night,
(Which have pitched tow wound, on their shafts and darts!)
Shall tempt, with shot, fire Romans' halm-thatcht camps.

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The remnant, following, with Caratacus,
Go crooked, in this cold. Were those not passed
A mile; when, looking back, they flames see rise,
To red skies, o'er their Roman enemies!
And joy the lean hearts, in their frozen breasts.
Yet, fainting, famisht, many, (in long night's murk,
Miswent,) fell in wide field, and naked wood;
Wherethrough, hunt whining winds, and howl like wolves;
Winds, which waft wings forth of some giant birds,
At the world's brinks! The people and Caradoc,
(That bowed down, as with eld, in his fierce grief,
Like hird, before them goeth, upon his feet,)
Reach, when nigh is, at length, the day to break;
Where they find Maglos, who arrived before,
At open strand, and Kowain's ready ships.
They kindle fires; and sith, with Kowain's victual,
Being well refreshed, and there embarked the sick;
Those march, these sail, to Caerwent; to Moelmabon.

Demetria, or South-west Wales.

The next month, the proprætor overpassed,
To Gaul's mainland; and journeys many days,
Towards Rome. Being come now to the City Sovereign;
And his relation, to the emperor Claudius,

117

Made; he sent laureate letters, to the Senate;
(Which sits, to hear them read, without the walls,
In temple of Bellona.) The Ovation,
Then, common sentence of those conscript sires,
Decrees, to Cæsar's thrice victorious legate,
In the Britannic warfare, Aulus Plautius.

He, myrtle-crowned, sith, with magnific pomp;
And merry sound of flutes, and high-day shouts,
And solemn chant; (lo, imperial Claudius walks,
Britannicus, at the left hand of Aulus!)
Upmounts, to temple-arx, of Rome's trine gods!

But, absent Aulus, nations, late subdued,
Revolt. Then all whom take crude Roman soldiers,
They kill. And Geta caused, to be proclaimed,
Amongst the tribes, in Britain's Roman pale,
Briton, with whom found weapon, might be sold.
And may of any, in flight, (without recourse,)
Be slain. Who hideth an enemy, in his house,
By forfeiture, should be punished, of his goods:
And, in what field is found a Roman slain;

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Three Britons shall be crucified, for the dead:
But, and the homicide were not known, three Britons
Being taken, by lot, of who next dwell, shall there
Those, for him, die. Given this third year of Claudius.

Woe to a nation, when her dukes are fallen!
And word, concerning Beichiad, now, went forth,
Among the gods. He rector of war-chariots,
That seemed, in field, a bolt of thundering Taran,
May not long live. Broods pestilence, in the land,
As unquenched smouldering embers in an hearth.

When, before Camulus' walls, were squadroned warcarts,
Put to the worse, and many overthrown;
Left fallen, in bloody field, at afternoon,
Was Beichiad, bleeding rife, from many wounds;
(Being, through the shoulder, stricken of a dart,)
Mongst broken carts; and buffeting their pierced steeds.
For none had marked, though he their duke, was hurt
Cunobelin's son, and his companion slain;

119

When scattered, in that plain, they scaped from death.

Poor Briton wives, which night-time their dead sought,
In field, him found. Of those, four, in their arms,
Took Beichiad up; and in some thicket hid;
Where he them showed, beside the lower Colne.
And sith, in wicker bark, past Hiradoc's cliffs,
Which look o'er East-main, towards free forest Almaigne,
Hurt Beichiad, closely, was conveyed: and rowed
The prince, some wounded East-men fugitives.

Then Beichiad, one year's space, in Heligan's house,
Lay sick of his heart's sorrow, and strange disease:
(Heligan, unvanquished Coritavian prince,
His kinsman.) Drew then unseen mortal shaft,
Of envious demon, Belisama forth,
From his pined corse; and Camulus his wood rage,
In him, inspired. And wains, which Beichiad sought,
Old Heligan gave, and victual, arms and chariot;
And warriors' band, to march with him, in aid,
Of warlord Caradoc, who in far West March:
Now mid of Winter is, when these part forth.

Their ways the frozen streams, for fear of Romans,
By night: they lurk, by day, in Winter woods.
But, on the hero, falls new languishment,

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When their shrill wheels, at length, passed over Avon.
Beichiad rends, lo, with furious hands, his harness;
He gapes, with wildered front, for living breath!
With lean uplifted looks, now stares distract;
Nor knows himself the prince, in this excess.

His warriors halted, they consult; To Caradoc,
The most then hold, march on. Journeying the rest,
As he is able, who now sick to death;
These bring him safely forth, towards forest place,
(In Dobuni March;) where his milk-brethren wonne.

Gainst dawn, arrive their creaking wheels, in glade,
Where cabans white with snow; as in that wood,
Seems moonlight, all by day. Stand weaponed men,
Come forth at door, for perilous is the time;
To look on strange wain, driven to their poor lodge!

But, whenas Beichiad those, their brother prince,
Know; and hear tiding of his strange disease:
They gaze, on him, amazed; and mourn their hearts!
In their strong arms, with manly derne lament;
They bear him in, as one lies nigh to death.
No ignoble fear them turns, from him, away.

He wakes! They kiss death, on his clay-cold lips;
And his clam front, his hands, his knees, they kiss.
Is this the pestilence; they would, (say their hearts,)

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Decease in the self manner of his death!
On hazel sprays, deckt with ox-hide, for bed;
They him, the best in that poor place, have laid.

The old milk-father kneeling, by his prince,
Kindles much fire; and aye he weeps, and weep
All those poor wights, that live by daily sweat;
With burning drops, as manly hearts can weep.
They still, on Beichiad, gaze; who lies past speech.
And look, upon them all, aye his dull eyes;
As who would say, Farewell! His woodman's hands,
Gently, in murmuring some, his, magic, spell;
That foster, on his nourseling's dying breast,
Lays: dreads, his prince's flickering pulse doth cease!
Ah, now is, ceased! (and fades, with kindly warmth,)
The vital breath, for ever, from his lips.
Rose loud, then, lamentable voice of sobs;
Of fosters of the dead, and his wain-servants:
But cannot wake the corse, when it is cold!

The man's sons, sith, with axes, wend for wood;
To strew the pyre, beside their mother's grave.
When midday past, and this full-ended was;
Ah! all suddenly, who the elder, smote himself,
Riving his gorge; and fell down gurgling blood,
Upon the funeral wood. Nor would he Beichiad;
That both had suckt one mother's breast, survive.

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Then brother, brother's body; in night of grief,
Much weeping, drew apart, and sprent with snow;
Lest their sire, finding, should himself fordo.
So, with a frozen heart, this turned his steps:
(Ah, heavy day, ah, heavy house, of death!)
To get him home. The sire, behold, comes forth,
From threshold of their lodge. That father asks,
With trembling voice, why he returns alone?
What purple stain, this on his woodman's weed?
(His brother's blood, as he the dying kissed!)
Father, is whortleberries' juice, he saith.
Nay, in Winter, ben none whortleberries; where,
Quoth he, where is, thy brother; where, my son?
He waits us, father, at the mother's tomb!

Entered the cattle-byre, they find one dead,
Of East-men drivers, come with Beichiad's wain.
Another sick lies, in their bower, to death,
Of the self ill. The father sickens soon;
Grows cold. He, laid by Beichiad, his dead son,
Him down; departed, at mid-afternoon.

Two drivers rest, beside the foster's son:
And these all have ado, bear the dead forth;
Wain-lay, the beasts yoke, and to pyreward drive;
Feeling now inward ill, on themselves, seize.

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They by their brother prince, that brother laid;
And, in the midst, their sire, built broad the wood:
And Beichiad's servants at his head and feet.
Each lifting faithful hands then, to their gods,
To other, swears, to lay him on the pyre;
Who shall survive, when goeth this sun beneath;
And kindle funeral flame, under the dead.

Now eve; and turns, in twilight, from Caerwent;
Whither the foster sent him, (when his sons
Were come again, from the woadstained caterfs,
With Maglos and warlord Caratacus,)
Their thrall. But he, arrived, finds empty house;
Nor burning hearth, nor beasts, nor any wight.

Sith following, in the moonshine, their wheels' trace,
He his household finds, with strangers dead, pyre-laid!
And who last died, was fallen forth on the wood.
Is Beichiad he perceives, who midst them lies;
Well-known, unto the thrall, his noble face,
So like king Caradoc. Loud, he mourns; nor wots
How all his, thus, not battle-slain, lie dead!
None, save their old house-hound, that howling wards
The sacred corses, yet, is left alive;
And oxen of the plough, with drooping heads.

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That thrall, long marvelling, in the bleak moonlight,
Stood sighing: last he spark of flint-flake, strake;
Blew, cherished, twixt his palms, the kindling flame;
Which, crackling, with much smoke, to frosty stars,
Ascends. So hardly he, in frozen ground,
Digged, and this night-time, opened hasty grave;
Wherein, at day, with sighs, their cindered bones
He laid. He stayed not enter in the house;
But took his way, all weary as he was.
By forest, wild, he went back, and he ran;
And repassed Hafren, came to Deheubarth,
And showed king Caradoc his brother's death!

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BOOK XIX

126

ARGUMENT

Aulus builds strongholds in the East Marches. Kowain, sailing with Duneda's ships, harries the lands of traitorous Bericos and Cogidubnos. Death of king Bericos. Caradoc, Summer ended, returns to Moelmabon. Almain strangers arrive, in mourning weed. After meat, they declare; that Thorolf is fallen, in battle! Dark grief of Briton kings and warriors. Wittig's messengers have brought gifts of ornaments and arms. They tell of that great battle, wherein Thorolf fell; and of his high funerals.

Caratacus encumbered with grief, goes forth to the starry Night; but miswent, in his path, he is come now to the grave-field. There, in his frenzy, he would have slain himself: but a vision withholds him of his germain, Togodumnos. With sword of Thorolf, (which was of Brennus,) Caratacus slays the rinded trees! Belisama, shining goddess, descends from heaven. She watches over the hero's sleep. Wakens the king, at dawn; and now come unto himself, Caradoc returns home.

Another Spring-time is in; and Kowain, sailed forth, destroys Roman ships. He is wind-driven thence to Aban, fair Brigantine haven. Kowain returning through the sea of Severn, is cast over, by storm, unto Erinn; where he comes to his king Duneda.

Tumult of Iceni grows in Roman East Province. Ostorius' horse are gulfed in Meltraith Fleets. Caratacus, carried, by

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the fury of his steed to a castrum gate, is saved by his god Camulus.

Then war is renewed in Britain. Ostorius, Cæsar's new legate, succeeds to Aulus. Night-battle in a forest. Britons assail the marching Romans, which have that day the worse. Upon the morrow, when battle is renewed, Titus and king Caratacus fight.

The warlord journeying, mongst Britons' Northern tribes, is in danger to be felonously cut-off in his sleep. Duneda's navy is burned in Severn. East-men choose now Cathigern their duke. Ostorius, marching through Mid-Britain; receives, from Cartismandua, a secret embassage.

Out of the West, ascends Caratacus. Ostorius marches to meet him. The legate's oration to his soldiers. Warsacrifice of druids. King Caradoc's last speech to blue Britons.

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Being nigh the time, when should, in Britain, Aulus
Lay down his charge; the legate cast, how best
He might leave peaceable, this warlike Province;
And have, in Rome, therefore, a thank of Cæsar.
To which end now, twixt Avon and the Ouse,
He fortify will all river-passages.

He sends one Sylvius, captain of fleet-soldiers,
From Camulodunum, through Icenic marches,
To build strongholds; and chiefly a great square burgh,
Measured of lime and stone, like legions' castra,
In field; wherein, fast by the flood of Yare,
Might garrison lodge, gainst inroads from the North,
Of Britons yet untamed; and delve beneath,
(Station for longships, gainst the Saxon pirates,)
An hythe; and fence with banks and battled towers.

But when is Sylvius, thither, now arrived;
He, to those servile tasks, conscribes free Britons!
Men namely Iceni, which of Bericos' part;

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Had promised only, to yield Cæsar tribute,
Not vanquished were. Perceive those then; would Romans
Lay a perpetual yoke of servitude,
Under that name of lordship, on their march.

Now called Burgh Castle.

Sails, in first moon of the returning year,
From sea of Severn, with Duneda's navy,
(Wherein sit thousand chosen warriors;)
Young valorous Kowain. Come then morning red,
Of the eighth day; now entering in Colne mouth,
Their long war-keels, Dumnonians row to land:
Whence hastily gone up, bands of glittering spears;
Fair Mersea isle those waste, and homesteads burn;
And, therein, every stranger woman-born,
Whomso they meet, slay; be he Gaul or Roman.
Some taken alive, (already dead for fear;)
They hanged, as public robbers, in green trees.
Smoke of that sea-road was, from their new walls,
Seen of the Claudian Colony, in Camulodunum!

But lifting anchors, ere pursuit arrived,
Of Gaulish horse; those hoised to merry wind,
Broad sails, plough forth, Dumnonian twelve war-keels,
Heavy with spoils of Romans. Fallen that night,
They made again the land, furl in Stour Frith.

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At dawn, to make his name the more abhorred,
They steads burn of the people of Bericos;
And seeded fields o'errun, from shore, and waste.
But veering soon the wind, embarked Dumnonians,
Invoked their blue sea-gods, steer South, longs strand.
Next even, they sailing, under island Vectis,
Unlooked-for, in white moonshine, row to land;
And Belges' field burn, subject now to Romans.
There, having reaved much corn, they lade their ships.

Was, in these Summer days, cursed of all Britons,
Forsaken of all góds, fell Bericos
Deceased; prince which had Britain's Isle betrayed:
For Bericos, Claudius Cæsar, purpled sot,
First moved, in Rome, Britannia to invade.

That flatterer and Cæsarian royal Briton;
Riding with train of clients of his house,
(Men which were, mostwhat, bounden in his debt,)
Full of old wine and surfeit of strange Romans;
An over-fat lord, in the Summer's heat,
From hallowing Claudius' fane at Camulodunum;
Belin, the Sun-god, smote his treacherous pate;
His Briton steed him cast then, in waste heath;
And bandied back again, that foster earth,
(Which seemed, bewrayed, recuse,) his recreant corse.

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Icenians fall then, from oppressing Romans;
Whose tumult, that Colonia nova of Claudius,
Threatens: whereto arrived, the legate Aulus
Summons before him, lords of all East March;
Unto whom, reciting merits of the Romans;
He wills they, in room of deceased Bericos,
Receive, for king, his uncle Prasutagos.

This saying, the legate bound, in Cæsar's name,
That prince's brows, with royal diadem.
And being a great rich lord this Prasutagos,
In cattle and land and goods and gold and thralls;
And one that ever gave his voice for Romans;
He trusts thus void occasion of new stirs.

These things determined, Thames again passed Aulus;
And, three days, Westward rides, to Cogidubnos:
Whose Rome-built city, Regnum, gins, lo, rise,
Under white windy hills; whence, to sea-waves,
Through wide champaign, ship-bearing stream down-flows.

Lo, on the morrow, amidst their market-place,
On judgment seat, sits the proprætor Aulus;
And purpled Cogidubnos, (who Tiberius,
Claudius, now named, in Roman wise; and styled

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For Cæsar's business, mongst the Belges Britons,
Imperial Legate,) sits at his right hand;
Being girt, his brows, with royal diadem!

Then certain, noted in the late revolt,
Britons, led, gyved, before the Roman duke;
Conscious of guilt, embrace his knees! whom Aulus
Pardons: but who convinced of crimes, he judged,
Some, to be sold; a few damned of their heads:
Other, reputed turbulent, hath commanded
The legate, to be beaten with green rods.

Departing thence, now all his horse sends Aulus;
To seek, eachwhere, and they Caratacus
Might take. But found, no Briton, in these wars,
Is, that betray, for torment, or for meed,
Would Caradoc's lurking place. What glory had Aulus;
And he might lead that hero, in chains, to Rome!

Standing on scaffolds and all temple-roofs,
Should Romans, longs the Sacred Way, applaud;
To see, pass Britons' king by, to his death:
Aye, and him acclaim; and they should likely name
Him, colleague-consul, with the emperor Claudius;
When, next year, he should have returned from Britain.

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Another Summer season is now ended;
And dukes, to Winter castra, fenced with banks,
And towers, withdraw, from field, again, their legions.
Caradoc, with Maglos, leading blue caterfs,
Returns through Deheubarth, to Moelmabon.
Where come, in one high-settle, silent sits,
(Devising aye destruction of strange Romans,)
King Caradoc, daylong, with Silures' sire.
Over against them, Maglos sits, with Kynan;
In equal see, mongst captains, lords, and druids.

Winter is in, when twilight all by day:
Nor cure men drink of curmi, or sweet mead;
Nor any list, so darkened is their cheer,
Such heaviness in all hearts, hear evening tales.
And idle hangs the crowth, whose chords no more,
His hands may wake, who perished in the war.

Sit silent on, amazed, those Caerwent lords,
Oft casting down their eyeballs, to the fire;
Whilst dumb is every wonted cheerful sound:
Only his purblind soaring looks, uplifts
Moelmabon, oftwhiles, to his battle-gods!
Uneasy, in settle, sits Caratacus;
Whose high heart aches, within his straitened chest!

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Come strangers in, lo, from the gable-porch!
Towards the high seat they pass before the hearths!
Four men, whose raiment both and bearded looks,
And arms, do show them plainly to be Almains.
Wayfarers, those arrive, in mourning sort:
For blackened be their hose and wadmel coats,
And ash-strewn, their polled heads and visages.

These ridden have, day and night, from their longyawls,
At East sea-cliff; to king Caratacus.
Nay, and some those messengers had, erewhile, at Verulam
Seen, helm-clad, harnessed, leading Thorolf's spears;
For are they lords, which come from Wittig's march.
The strangers sit down, mongst king's Winterguests;
But none spake word, in hall of Moelmabon!

Britons do whisper, lords still on them gaze;
Expecting those should speak; yet none asks tiding,
Till the king's guests have eaten. In deep-lipped horns,
Bears Darfran, steward, them sweet-breathed metheglin:
And Almains, silent, drinking out, salute
The Briton kings. Anon, are tables set,

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Before the strangers; whereon wheaten loaves,
And brawn of tuskéd swine: but when those Almains
Now ended have to sup; What tiding, asks
Moelmabon, they, from over-seas, him-brought?

With slow and husking voice, of them that mourn;
Those answer to Moelmabon, make again,
Such as they couth, in halting Briton tongue;
Thorolf is fallen, in battle, and ship-laid!

When heard this grievous word, as endless night
Of death, on soul sinks of Caratacus!
Who mantle drew, much labouring his vast chest,
O'er his stern altered face. Loved the war-sire
That Elbe-land ethling; and had Thorolf's power,
In Britain, countervailed a Roman legion!

Groans Moelmabon, king of warlike men.
He old, in that remembering his sons' deaths,
Commiserates Wittig; left, midst foes, alone,
Without sustain, in warlike land of Almaigne.

Sounds, in king's hall, confused constraint of men:
For stricken of enemy's dart him-seems each one.
Then brast, in loud lament, the strangers forth.
Seem Winter eaves, of melting icicles!
Those Almains' cragged brows. Rose voice mongst Britons,
Of manly plaint; as each, of fallen kin,

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Records, in war with Rome: nor Thorolf few,
In Britain, had, in battle, saved from death!

The people, when even is come, gin now depart
Forth, one by one, to sup. When only rest
Kings, lords and druids, with their Almaigne guests,
The sire's mead-hall is shut. Then Fredigern,
Cousin to Wittig, noblest of these strangers,
Lo, opens gifts. This ale-horn, silver-lipped,
(Of ureox, which had, when he came to Almaigne,
For love of Fridia, hand slain of great Brennus,)
They bring, for a remembrance, to Moelmabon.

This Thorolf's collar, cunning handiwork,
Of Weyland, of the fine burned gold embossed,
An hunt shows of grey wolves; and this, (which was
The homicide brand of great Rome-conquering Brennus;)
Wherewith slew thousand, his resistless hand;
And fed the wolves, in Britain and Mainland,
To his great kinsman, king Caratacus,
King Wittig sends. This raven-helm, of bronze,
And Thunor's golden hammer ornament;
Which hanged, from Thorolf's nape, on his vast chest:
And this the hero's brooch, of a palm's breadth;

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Bright jewel, which like golden sun is wrought;
To his son's battle-fellows, generous sons
Of Moelmabon, Wittig, father, sends.

Chichester.

When lords have mourned, and noble women wept,
In hall, their fill; desiring him that dead
Is, whiles, with sighs, men name the hero oft;
One Radwald, mongst the Almains, gan rehearse;
(Left sick, in Thorolf's ships, had Radwald seen
That field;) how fighting gainst great armed inroad,
Fell Thorolf. Gathered to him hastily were,
From Elbe-land's borders, (home of warriors,)
Stout men, not many, which returned from Britain.
With riders, and with bowmen, Getas were
Great army. Thorolf then, all day, their charge
Sustained. Rattled loud dints, on shields, of spears
And swords; and oft seemed dimmed heaven and the world;
With the infinite many of shafts, which Getas shot.

Round the ethling, foremost champions fell, till eve:
In tempest bursten was of Getas' spears,
His white-horse shield; his iron war-kirtle hanged,
Bloody, on his panting chest, to-hewed, to-rent.

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Gold-bristles, then, the hero cast, to ground,
(His helm); so dasht, so hackt to shards, it was.

His enemies fled, when rang it on the stones,
Aback, aghast! Then seeing impossible thing,
Were scape this field; sith might not he, alone,
Contend, with thousand flocking enemies, champions:
Disdaining come, in Getas' hands, alive;
Calling aloud on Woden, his sires' Sire,
He leapt, midst thicket of strong Getas' spears;
And hewed him round, all-weary, as he was;
A bay of death. Then Thorolf's furious hand,
Point turned of spear, (which now he broken hath;)
Turned in against himself! and his great force,
Through-smote, neath his rent hauberk, his ribbed chest!

Like to some root-fast pine, which gods, of storm,
At length o'erthrow, that ruins, in vast space,
Fell Thorolf forth! Sith, o'er his bleeding corse,
Fell, till the last one, Thorolf's lords and champions.

But the same night his foes, which held that field,
Rendered great Thorolf, with his arms and harness!
Drawn forth, from bloody bank of mingled slain;
They sent his body, on bier of ashen green;
With heralds, granting pause of hostile arms,
In worship of the illustrious hero dead.

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And was, when gathered spoil, at morrow's eve;
And buried now all weapon-slain, in field,
Bearing pine-boughs, with blackened visages,
In shining harness, Getas' princely men
Marched, men of stature, and many have war-wounds;
To Saxen Thorolf's solemn funerals.

Nigh was that field of fight, to creeky haven;
On whose shole strand, lay Thorolf's snake-necked ships;
And the king's dragon-keel, with gilded ensigns;
Hight the Goldorm. There, after day's lament,
Of Thorolf's sea-folk; and few left of his,
'Scaped from that field, to ship; four enemy dukes,
And Catlif, (who the king of Getas' son,)
Convey great Brennid Thorolf, washed from blood,
Fair as in life, on his white battle-steed,
(Freyfax, borne in his ship,) upstayed to ride.

Men of his keels, lift reverent down the dead;
And bear, slow-paced, on Catlif's door-like targe,
With mourning hearts, over salt strand, aboard
Goldorm; where, on high stool of polished elm,
Rune-graven, and dight with plates of shining brass,
They stay him up, on pillows. His dead brows,

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Men crown with helm of antique Arthemail;
(Gift, which once Tuscan Arunt sent to Brennus.)

They laid his bruised targe, of the linden, light,
Dight with hard hairy hide of the ureox;
(Gift of Hild, Elsing, who his foster, was;)
That glorious gleamed, with whorles of tin and brass,
Covering the hero cold, on his large breast.

His peers, (dead ethlings and companion warriors;)
Whose corses, in slow ox-wains, follow his,
Men lay him round, all on the rowers' banks.
Last Briton hounds, and his slain battle-steed;
To burn with him, in the two stems, they laid.

His own then, and all truth-plight Geta men,
Great plenty of darts and shafts, which gathered were,
In slaughter field, heap round those Woden-dead:
So that was seen, like hoy, high-fraught, with wood,
Of Goldorm, soon, the royal warlike board.

Then sea-folk smeared, the funeral ship, with pitch;
And cast in tallow and fat. Sit friends, sit foes,
Kindled great fires, with torches in their hands;
Waiting the cresset moon, when he should rise!

Lightens, before his coming, now wide East.
Gin shipswains, knees, from under Goldorm's bilge,
Withdraw and shoring-staves: climbed some, aboard,
Large mainsail hoise; and loose out to night wind.

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Cast noble Getas gifts; saies storied bright,
With needlework; proud arms, into the ship,
Vessail and ornaments; to great Thorolf's spirit!

In that, heard trampling hooves, and shimmering seen:
(Is dread, by night-time, sudden gleam of bronze!)
Getas, round shields embraced, grip long war-spears:
They, truce-plight foes, that funeral keel close round;
Ready, and need wére, to fight, till their own deaths,
Tall men of war, to ward great Thorolf's corse.

Heard lamentable women's shrieks, anon!
From steed, all of a foam, Elfrida, eftsoon,
Alights; true wife of that great hero dead:
And, ere-year, were their joyous spousals made!
With her rides an armed company; and, lo, old Gizla,
Mourning milk-mother of the ethling Thorolf.

Warned them prophetic virgin, Veleda, crying,
Yester, from tower-head, in the wind; she saw
Great Thorolf's ghost, received amongst the gods!
Haste men to sea-strand; where they, yet, should find
His body slain, mongst oath-plight enemies.

With few, they hied then, hither; on swift steeds;
Nor stinted, day-time, nor night-long, to ride;

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Abstaining from all kindly nourishment.
Last heard they, of some wayfaring man, this eve;
Where lay that death-field, fast by the salt waves;
And Thorolf dead, mongst soothfast enemies!

Those noble ladies; in whom life and breath
Remains, uneath, Getas lift on the ship.
Shrieks Elfrida, beholding, under stars,
How her dead Thorolf sits, a solemn corse,
Among the dead. She, passing to him, swoons.
But Gizla, kissed the lord, son of her paps,
From head to foot, fell down, at Thorolf's knees;
And there lay still, in cloud of death; for brast,
The weary heart, within her feeble breast.

The queen reviving, in the evening wind;
When Gizla she beheld already passed!
Disdaining any her, to her dead love,
Prevent, in cragged path, of Hel, swart goddess,
Uprose; and embraced Thorolf's shielded corse;
Her white hand, ere there any might withhold;
Snatcht spear-head, of those heaped from slaughter-place,
Wherein he fell, she launcht her widow's breast!
And sinks Elfrida, bleeding, on them both.

Great sigh went up, from all that mourning folk!

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And she, nigh-spent, makes sign, with dying hand!
On whose white wrist, shines long-wreathed golden bracelet;
And, from her bright brow, as she beckoned, sliding
Her rochet, that is hemmed with precious ermine;
The fainting lily-fair young queen is seen,
Gold-dight. Upon her front, moon-sheen broad fret,
Of far-fetcht pearls; and hangs, like Brisings-men,
Of sea-stones, dew-drop clear, a shining lace,
Down from her gracious neck: (will Chaucan's queen,
Elfrida, her spousal ornaments bring again,
To Thorolf, even in hell!) Sign, makes she then;
Put fire, launch out! Priests hallow Thorolf's corse
With the hammer of high Thunor god: sith all
Those corses dead; and they her dying bless!
Many together heaving, then, thrust forth,
From shore, the funeral ship, down to salt deep!

A. Sax. Brosinga-mene (monile); the necklace of Freyja.

Like swan, which proudly breasts the tide, her yards
Belayed and rudder-bands, Goldorm now sails
Forth, on night frith, where lightly blows the wind.
All cry, Farewell! which watch on the sea-strand.

With wake of burning light, long drives the ship:

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And still men watch upon the sand; and chant,
To Balder's hall, who fairest mongst the sons
Of Woden, named, is Thorolf's fiery voyage!
Till morning star, when now, like fisher's brand,
That funeral keel, which sithen seen no more.
Thorolf returned, (all cry then,) to the gods!

A sennight long, cast friends, cast Getas, foes,
Then funeral mound, on foreland of that shore;
Which shall, from age, (well-seen of all that sail,)
To age, to keep great Saxmund's name, endure.

The bereaved fatherhood of Moelmabon,
Of Wittig asked; and quaked the old king's voice;
For like now both those sires, in endless loss!

They tell how Wittig, to a sea-isle passed;
And thence his royal words bare Higelac forth;
Higelac, who, of all men of Almain speech,
For his well-shaping tongue, accepted is,
Next after Heorrenda, the old, lay-smith;
A wight divine: of whom, whilst dwelled, is told,
He yet mongst men, son of a king; (yet some
Him, son of Bragi name, the maker-god;

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Ere took him, in their glittering hall, to sing,
In Asgarth, children of blithe blessed gods,)
What time he sate, to make, alone, in glade;
Gathered to him all beasts, of field and wood,
All creeping things in grass; worms under clod;
Fowls, lighting to him, folded their swift wings;
Sate on his shoulders, and his sacred knees:
Fishes left swimming, in the hasting stream;
Which stayed, the while, and fell her roaring waves!

Higelac then speeding, to Cheruscan kings,
From hall to hall; invoked the Saxen gods!
Quoth lay, which he, of Thorolf's death, had made:
Him likens he, to Balder; for whose death,
Wept all thing in mid-earth. Him, sighing, trees
Bewailed; winds howled, and sweated rocks and stones;
Stood speechless-beasts, in long astonishment!
Wights mourned and sprites; and cast-down were the gods!

Higelac sate, suppliant, at their Winter-hearths.
Then rose five Brennid kings, in furious mood;
Which Woden breathéd, in their warlike breasts.
They sware, with enemies, men, and hostile gods,
Do battle, till world's doom, and their own deaths!

Each levied a strong power, in his own mark;

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And come together, to moot-place, they choose
Great Awehelm, Friedemund's father, their proud duke:
Then marched those unto war. And followed flocks
Of hoodie crows, ravens and howling wolves,
Their folkings forth. Then Saxen kings thrice smote
The giant Getas: all his foes they strewed,
(Shouting dead Thorolf's name!) in Wittig's march.
Fell Catlif, slain, amongst the birds of death!
Honoured him Saxen heroes, with high mound.

Teutonic hero of song and glee-craft. A. Sax. Heorrenda; Icel. Hiarrandi.

In sacred silence of night-stars, pale druids;
From Moelmabon's hall, have made, gone forth,
Response: Lives, kinsman of Isle Britain's kings,
Thorolf, henceforth, in the divine abodes!

Moelmabon, long-aged, purblind sire, then rose;
And bowed him reverent, towards South part; (from whence,
Men deemed, descend, into the world, the gods:)
And the remembrance-bowl, his trembling hand,
From Nessa, the hoar-headed queen, receiving,
(Ah, war-bereaved, with him, of generous sons!)
Wherein, and secretly, now some drowsy herbs
She steepéd hath; (whereof, is faith, who tastes,
Should presently even forget a mother's death!)

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First, on the floor, he pours, before the gods,
Out golden mead, to their dread powers, beneath;
So tastes: then tastes the warsire Caradoc;
Kynan sith, the sire's sons, and warlike peers.
Thorolf! all standing, call with moaning voice!

Descended, from high settle, Caradoc,
Nor salutes any; and to high night, went forth.
The king's doorward, his lean infested looks,
Marked; fixt his austere gaze, on the cold loft;
Where, after daily funerals of the sun,
Shine stars' caterfs, that silent rise and pass;
(Wherein, of men, that Belt-of-strength is seen,
Of heavenly gods!) as he there sought dead Thorolf.

In Caradoc's hand, gleams Marvor, that lean blade;
Which, in old days of Brennus, vanquished Rome.
The warlord treads forth, on white Winter-mould,
Of snow: and Caradoc still afflicts himself;
Nor ceases, with his deadly heart, commune.
Him-seems, in every bush, meet Thorolf's ghost!

Had entered Caradoc path, to Embla's house;
But travailing much, in busy troubled thought;
At parting of two ways, oblivious;
So clouds of sorrow cumber and oppress
His sense, the sire miswent; or demons, else,

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Misled, of ground or wood. Was mid of night;
When looked he, see now his own lighted porch,
Under hill side; behold is the corpse-field!
Where, men of Caerwent, fallen, in war with Rome,
Lie in grave-mould: this place is known to him.

He oft himself, with warriors, lords and druids,
Came hither, following wailful funerals;
(And orphans' outcries heard, and widows' shrieks!)
He saw men borne forth, dead of Roman wounds,
Upon their pictured shields. Moelmabon's sons,
Ferriog and Merion, hither were conveyed,
In welted hides of bulls, from far in Britain;
Bounden their corses were on blackened steeds:
And lie those graved now, under frozen snow;
Yonder, in shadow of the royal mound,
In this bleak moonshine. And who slain, and burned,
In their war-weed, on many an high-strewed pyre
Silures' chief ones, their white cindered bones,
Uplaid in honey and fat, sent hither were.
And pight, at each mound's head, is some wild stone,
Wherein scored token seen; that men, which knew
His shield in warlike field, his name might read,
Who lies, (cast carcase, clay, neath clay!) beneath.

The sire records then, one by one, their names;
Their fellowship in high hall, their hardy deeds.

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On these dead silent warriors, Winter lies;
Whose lodging was the iron wall of their harness:
Whose memory, and their high praise, from living breasts:
Doth fade like passing sound, of trampling steeds!

The warsire sate him down, at a grave's head;
And glory, embraced that mounded foster-earth,
(Whose sacred Womb her children doth receive,
Again,) to his dead battle-fellows, gave
Caratacus. He calls young Ketternac,
To mind, who sleeps here, fathom-deep beneath,
A buried corse. Life of that noble youth,
He himself, in Camulodunum field, had saved:
At Caer Glew, sith, young Ketternac was pierced;
Tempting, with Maglos, burn the Roman work.

Hurt unto death, of his kinsfolk, borne forth
On wattled boughs, to ship; he lived yet pass
The threshold of great hall of Moelmabon:
And heard the loved youth bard touch harp, and chant
His hardy deeds. The mead-bowl at his lips,
He pledged Caratacus, and yielded breath!

The warsire dasht a woman's tear, (that wells,
Unwares, for man is woman-born,) aside!
And gazing on these burials of dead warriors'
Flesh; (now new guests, all they, in Hall of Death!)

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Of whom not few fell him beside; gan muse
The warlord's heavy heart; where have their being,
Beneath, or in what circuit of yond stars,
Disbodied souls! and what is that which saith
An antique funeral chant of Verulam druids?
Spent spirits, rekindled, at the Light, above,
Revert, from stars, to be new bodies' guests:
And other hymn, Are men the living dead!

But who lie, gaping upright, in the grave,
Whose rottenness we rue; ben not their deaths,
(Night-sleep, this iron griesly grip, which hath
None wakening, clod laid under clodded earth,)
Surcease of burdens, and of every pain,
Less grievous than our life, which yet, the sun
See'th; that, like sháft's flight, tossed in every blast;
Whereon, again, the woundless air doth close:
Or like as tainted footstep, in this snow,
Soon fading; which, therewith, doth utterly perish!
But, and when cometh aught thing, of good, to us,
Is that a seldom grace! King Caradoc felt
His heart, like burning coal, in his cold breast,
For Thorolf's death, his brother, in Mainland.

Where were ye then, O gods? Were warlike arms
To his conjoined, of unsubduéd Almaigne;
Should not, together, they have vanquished Rome!

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When he bethinks him, son of dead Cunobelin,
Then, of his germain, martial Togodumnos,
Morag and Golam, Ferriog and Bodvocos,
Brentyn and Fythiol, and Heroidel slain,
With many more; and now lord Beichiad dead,
New fiery torment kindles all his being.
He snow, with his two hands, whelms on his head!

Him-seemeth now left, alone, in a dead world,
Mongst these unbound. Such, on his weary spirit,
Then darkness falls, him-thought, ceased heavenly stars,
To shine above: and sighed Caratacus;
We perish, praying to insensate gods!
Are men ungodly? ben not yé, O proud gods,
Inhuman! or have ye no power to save?
(When gods, their faces, turn away from us;
Must not mishappen thing we undertake;
That, groping, few life-days, still wrestling pass!)

Ye careless stars, which shine, in chambered night,
Shield-hall of heaven, like cierges clear; whereon
Hang fates of men; and ye indeed be gods,
Rid us of Roman strange invading enemies!

Him-seemed, then, his own soul, in waking vision,

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In likeness see of caged small writhing vivern,
(The cognizance of great Cunobelin's house,)
And peeping gods, gigantic visages,
Which balefires, mocking, kindle him around.

He rose then up, as one that wakes in dream
Of sorrow, and so stood still. On his brainpan,
Him-seems sink deadly whelming weight; as some
Giant hélm were, which, so sore, him doth oppress.
He sweats, part Caradoc trembles, in the cold!
Him burns dire thought, in breast, sharp tooth, short stroke,
Even of this antique blade, should lay to rest,
His life, which now forsaken of his gods:
One pang end all! like unto his, who leaps
In chilling wave: so loost all cares, to-night;
Should sleep, lifted, for ever, from his breast,
This raging smart; and passed his soul from earth,
Descend unto the fathers' forepast spirits.

He is alone, with Death, in this dark wood;
And, with a frozen heart, that homicide hand
Of Caradoc feels, among the mounded dead,
The mouth adown, of lean devouring blade;
Whereon, fame is, had perished Second Brennus!
Less dread, him-thinks, that griesly face of death,
Than this disease of life, which is; whereas,

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He, as from sea's cliff, sees none further path.

In that last desolation of his spirit,
Him-seems, stoop, semblant, from white moon-rid cloud,
Of his great germain, buried Togodumnos;
Draws back his hand! Thou great upholding spirit,
Dost, in his fatal hour, thy germain save!

Abasht, wox Caradoc; and there fell new thought,
As from the gods, in his heroic breast;
What joy should, to his enemies! be his death,
Grief to all Britons! left, without sustain,
Ah, Embla and their sweet babe: were vanquished, then,
Blue tribes' resistance, in this Roman war;
Should not they be, ah, captives, sent to Rome,
To deck a triumph: through Rome's city led;
Of some foul gaoler, ah! outraged in their chains,
Sith strangled! last hurled from that bloody stair;
Whence, of the common hangman, drawn with hooks,
Their royal flesh be cast, as enemies' corses,
In flood of Tiber! Caradoc, again, thrust
That baleful brand down in his sheath! and took
Cunobelin's warlike son, anew, his breath.

Soughs the night-wind; and smite with dreary sound,
The forest boughs together: but that spirit

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His godlike front allays. Rose the warsire,
And he mounts forth. His soul longs thither, where,
He might, with wolves, howl, bell with the grave-owl;
And bellow forth the woodness of his soul!
Nor come unto men's living ears, his voice.

And, is it the wild hunt, in skies, he hears?
Furious night-host; wherein fell Morrigu rides,
And her swart hags, with hounds of fiery breath.
The Guledig's cry, him-seems, that fares in clouds,
And Antethrigus' shout, which rings above!
That headless hunter drives, in heaven's wide heath.

It is, in the night woods, wolves' murderous voice;
Which glutted, ere, in slaughter-fields, their gulfs;
Wherein fell flower, of Britons' comely youth:
But deems them Caradoc, in his wildered mood,
Romans, werewolves, and their wolf-suckled kings!
Through glade, with gait of giant, the hero fares.
Would, mongst these wind-cast beams, his strong fierce hands
Their crude abhorred hearts, rent up, by the roots!

Issued, like lamp, from wild wood of the skies,
Now moon outshines; and cast great forest stems,
Whose crooked boughs rock on this frozen wind,
Swart shadows; and weep oft their snowy crests,

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Down on sheen hulver thicket boughs, beneath.
Caradoc them deems, who now, night-dreamer walks,
With darkened mood, shafts, harnessed Roman soldiers:
And wind-gusts, piping loud, blow like an horn!

Like ureox, then, he rushed; and rang dark forest,
With battle-shout of great Caratacus!
With that Rome-quelling brand, which ere of Brennus,
He slays, (alas, for ruth!) the rinded trees.
Romans him-thought those stedfast timber-ranks;
Him-seemed his hands smote tribunes and centurions.

Last stumbling Caradoc forth, on some gnarled root;
(So that strong vertue, of drowsy herbs, now wrought;
Which Nessa steeped, in hall, in the king's mead;)
Wallowed in snow, the warsire slumbers fast.
Rest hero, sleep, under these starry gods!

Like to some swart vast fowl, how silent Night,
(As Day she covered, with her dusky wings,)
Broods o'er dim sullen round, of earth and woods!
It night of the moon-measurer of the year,
Is, wherein Belisama, eyebright goddess,
Girded in kirtle blue, with woodwives sheen,
Wont to fare forth; and her shield-maidens' train,
And loud hounds, in the forest-skies above.

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She, Caradoc seeing, stays her aery wain:
And, marvelling! in cloud-cliff, her divine team
She bound: so lights this faery queen, benign,
(Like her sire Belin,) to the kin of men.
She goddess, leaning on her spear-staff, wakes
In this his loneness, in cold midnight grove,
Over the hero's sleep: and, in herself,
Quoth; what is blind, brief, discourse of man's life,
But as a spark, out of eternal Night;
That shines as gledeworm, in the world, a moment:
Or glairy path of snail, which in the sun,
Glisters an hour; the next, of dew or rain,
Is molten. Like to hart, of a great horn,
Fallen in some hunter's pit, lies here king Caradoc,
Man best beloved, mongst Britons, of all gods!
Yet is, of mortal wights, an old said saw;
Is worth no weal, who may no woe endure.

Sith, with her shield-brim, she traced round him, sleeping,
A circuit; wherein enter, him to hurt,
Might sprite, nor wight, nor beast, nor element!

In his dead slumber, dreams the glory of Britain,
He sees Hell's brazen kingdom open wide,
Land of the sunless dead, derne plain beneath,
Full all of dread inextricable paths;

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Whereo'er, for light of day, hangs fiery mist.
There journey trains of spirits, whose cold graved joints
Lapped some in clay; some lie in foundered ships,
Other cast under thorny brakes and moss;
With creeping things, which suffer cold and wet:
He sees then glorious Thorolf go to land!

But day-star risen, passed Belisama forth.
Then cometh soon up the tardy sun, above
These Winter woods, like targe of glistering brass;
And grows glad morning light, from part to part.
Like to a pair of scales, thus chant pale druids,
In giant palm of world-sustaining god,
Is Day and Night. What hour Day riseth forth,
Descends the baleful Night behind his back.

Last stirs the sire, lo, stretcheth, in his sleep;
For thrills the royal ear, ripe merry note,
Of throstle-cock, that pipes from thicket bush!
Like jolly plough-swain, fluting in his fist;
Or who a-Maying goes by the green forest.

He wakes, upon his elbow then upleans;
And looketh him, lo, about, like one distraught!
Then heavy rose the king Caratacus;
And in that seemed some staggering miller, pale;
On whose courbe shoulder, weight is wont be laid,

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Of his lord's grist, and who is old; so hath
The warlord dredged night's hoary powdered frost.

And yet is darkness, in the royal breast;
When, lifted up his eyes, he new light sees!
Shrink now clear stars; and come, the sacred Dawn
Is crownéd queen, in wide watch-hill of heaven.
Behold new day, unfolding, like a bud!
Sweet voice of early birds, sounds in the wood.
This snowy bosom of the mould, like mead,
In Spring-time, is, of gowans, blushing red;
Kindled, yond hills shine, as some Summer heath!
Whence sun, like eagle, soars, on wings of gold;
Shedding new gladsome ray, on dead night-world.

Sprang, in that moment, mighty gentle hound,
With a deep throat, and licked the royal feet!
He bays, that rings again the Winter-forest.
And Caradoc knows the wolf-hound of the queen;
Which wont to nourish her white hand; and gift
Was of her father, Cantion Dumnoveros.

And sees, in this, the sire, his mantle warm,
Girded on the hound's chine. None other hand,
Than her own loving hand, him sends this token!
He it loost; and on his shoulder casts anon:
Cold is his flesh. Though climbs now Winter-sun,
This stern East wind blows piercing as a dart.

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Embla, when came not home loved Caradoc,
From king's mead-hall, sate in long confused thought;
Whilst ached her panting chest: to every sound,
Attent, her fearful ears! When night's midwatch,
Past; she sent servants, to Moelmabon's court.

But those returned, with word, the sire went forth;
Whence her, the more, misgives her wifely heart.
Yet sent the queen out other, in this night,
With brands; commanding, seek by field and forest.
Those come to her, again, ere morning-break:
And found have they, how far they sought, right naught.
That raiment she then bound, on her hound's back.
So cried, Hie, Berroc! seek thy lord, seek forth.

Returned, unto himself; Caratacus
Beheld, like shining adder, on the ground,
That fatal glaive! Him-seems, even now he Romans
Smote, or else dream were! Smote he, slew he, Romans
Not, in great battle, this long night? and put
Cohorts to flight? But, when he all him round,
The forest stems behewed beheld; and knew
The place; and all behackt that antique glaive
Of Brennus, which might well have holpen Britain!

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For sorrow and shame of this disparagement,
(He, lord of armies, of twelve sceptered kings,)
Done to his royal state, he waxed nigh mad!
Caratacus, impelled then, of some god,
Embraced young forest pine, it, by the root,
Rent; and he hid, in hollow, of swart mould,
Which opened had, like pit, his divine force,
The glaive, which should have vanquished again Rome.

Went up then Britons' lord, in his right mind;
For he neath ash had slumbered, whose deep root,
In healing well, is wet. Plumbs now the snow,
Before the sun, from cedars' lofty crest;
Where gins to pipe the great cock-of-the-woods.

Rusht, sudden, an o'ergreat grey, gaunt, wolf, forth!
From craig, on Embla's faithful hound; that towsed
King Caradoc's weed, to draw now his lord home.
They wallow and wind with hideous noise, anon;
And grinning teeth, and long upstaring hairs;
And, with fell claws, each other rend to blood,
Staining the forest snow. Caradoc's high hand
A wild stone caught from ground; he smote that brute's
Hard hairy chine, and all his pith was loost.

To warm his lukewarm blood, the sire forth goeth,

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A sturdy pace, down from thick latticed wood.
He treads known path now, to his forest lodge;
Neath brow, sequestered from the common foot.
It Moelmabon gave, to Embla and Caradoc;
For loves Silures' sire, as his own sons,
Cunobelin's son. He went by folded flocks;
But bark the very curs on Caradoc!
So seemed he stranger wight. His foot he hath
Stayed, yet unseen of men, within a grove:
For, lo, from other part, comes servants' train;
Are men of his own household, which, (o'er all,
Having, in vain, him sought to-night!) turn home.

To Verulam warriors, message then, the queen
Would send, whose camps lie in the further forest;
Calling them forth, to seek the royal footprint,
O'er hill-snow, of their king Caratacus.
Like unto new-born day, lo, weeping, Embla,
(Who die would, in his stead!) is now come forth,
At open gate, towards her returning servants;
Tidings enquire, to read their doubtful looks!

Caradoc, yet nigh the sheep-pen, his lord, Gorran
Erst knew, lo, from yond thicket, coming on;
And cast a joyful cry! Then all, to meet him,
Outrun: before them all, runs Embla queen.

Them rime-god Caradoc seems, of Eryr's mount;

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(So dight he is, with leaves and hoary frost;)
That, winter-long, in cave of steepling rocks,
Sleeps! and (like chamfered fallow field,) is warped,
To ghastful looks, his wonted comeliness;
For yet unconquered sorrow holds oppressed
His heart. She kisseth him, with silent lips;
And leads in, by the hand, (that icicle seems,
Closed, in her woman's feeble and warm flesh,)
To house: and hastes to bring, from sacred hearth,
Him posset drink, she had prepared to this.

Embla new fever fears of his old wound;
For yet, nor sense he seemed to have, of aught;
(If he might smile, should seem to wake the dead!)
Nor mind of any. Ran a little maid,
Dear fruit of both their loves; that joys and plays.

She climbed, unto her father's knees, anon;
To Caradoc stretches her two gleeful hands,
The babe. He her uptook, as one who dreams!
Looks in her eyes, plays with her sunbright locks;
Eyes, like blue cockle, in the Summer corn:
And Tad! the dear child cries. She laughs, he loves.
Then, hundred sithes, he kissed her infant lips!
And were to shield this loved one little head,
Life, in world's mortal tumult, yet, (which is

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Vast wailing place of vilain wights, wherein
Our efforts still frustrate the gods,) desires.

That warhound couched, crept to his lady's feet,
Now bleeds; (nor she was ware, for busy thought,)
From vein, fang opened of that felon wolf.
He his húrt licks; gazing still on his lord, Caradoc,
Gapes; and in that yields the true ferine breath.

Father.

But, in the inner chamber, heavy sleeps,
All day, and the next night, Caratacus;
And wakes in his mind's health. Yet council druids;
Till were the malign influence overpast,
Of certain stars, he no more issue forth.

There visits him the royal fatherhood
Of Moelmabon, with his warlike sons:
And sent Silures' king, for famous bard,
Talaith; who brother is to Mogunt, priest
Of the Sun's fane, of hanging stones: where learned
Talaith, (in dream,) to make and harp, of Belin!
Whom, when he hears, is Caradoc's heart refreshed.

Loosed, in first moon of the returning year;
Again, hath valorous Kowain; whose swift keels
Passed, wind-borne forth by Durotriges' coast.
Night-time sith sailing on, by sound of Vectis,

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In feeble moonshine, he espied new navy,
Of Rome, lie riding, under Belges' shore:
And being the most prows void of outshipped soldiers;
Kowain some fires; (cast, in their hollow boards,
Pots, full of flaming pitch:) other, wherein,
Were few fleet-rowers, in the blind night, 'scaped forth.

Thence, steering, under Cantion's brant white cliffs;
They, in each haven and road, burn Roman ships.
But sith the wind increased; and were they cast,
In weathers black and rough, out of their course;
And, driven from land, still borne forth towards the North.

The third day, they make fair Brigantine haven,
Of Aban. And, behold! how at waves' brinks,
Parisii already assemble: who their dukes,
In war-carts; the stout people, in a caterf.
For their sea-watch, which station on cliff-head,
Had, now an hour past, shouted o'er their fields;
Sails seen! Then, Are approaching pirate keels!

But when men mark, high-builded those war-prows,
Whose tackling and broad sails of Briton fashion;
And, hang longs their high boards, Dumnonian shields;
And valorous Kowain is, who them thence hails;

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And Labraid, pilot of Duneda's navy:
They gladly shouting, bid that prince, descend,
With his: and all cry Welcome to their strand!

Then every charioteer, some high-born guest,
Uptakes: who simple footman, leads forth rowers
Or warriors, to nigh mead-hall of Volisios,
In Petuaria; of this Brigantine march,
Lord and high magistrate; where then, eftsoons, all
Arrive. And, after meat and mead, that lord
Hath promised aid; when war renews king Caradoc,
Of hundred scythe-wheel battle-chariots:
And curmi, and bread he sends, to Kowain's ships.

Parted from thence, returns victorious Kowain.
But come tenth eve; when now, to Gulf of Severn,
They gin stand in, rose vehement wind: and borne,
Whither sun set, through long tempestuous night,
Are still, with weight of storm, their dark hulls forth,
Over swart billows. Last, morn rising sheen,
They a fáir Land see before them, which is Erinn.

And, lo, like vision of the blessed gods,
Is king Duneda standing, on that strand!
And people, of Summer-land, Dumnonians,
Known by their looks and weed, with the hoar sire.

Who sailed with Kowain, see New Isca rise,

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On yond green hill: but might they not outship,
Though now the night wind laid, yet, for great billows.
Gainst ebb, men leap, from anchored prows, to land.
Then all go up, the royal hand to kiss,
Of sire Duneda! and he embracing Kowain,
Praising his valiant deeds, him calls his son.
Much asks also Duneda, of Amathon;
But chiefly of Caradoc, and of sire Moelmabon,
And Almain Thorolf, and divine Manannan:
And where, he enquires, is his son, royal Hælion?

Duneda, to New Isca, from sea-waves,
Leads Kowain, in steep path, then, by the hand;
And seeded plots him shows, and his eared fields.
Follow, who came with Kowain, in the keels;
But rue, in looking forth, their faithful hearts;
To see, so strait their lord's house and New Isca!
Nothing like Isca burned, in Summer-land,
Of Foster Britain. Sith, neath boughs of ash;
Yet timbered no mead-hall, on the fresh grass,
Midst poplar grove, men sit at meat: they sit,
In long discourse; till the new moon is seen,
With sickle-face, this third day old, in heaven.

Then risen Duneda, father of his folk,
Lifted his hands cried loud, to the Night's god;

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That, like as he increased, might have this nation
Good chance! When sith his shining wheel, in heaven,
Should wane, so might their griefs: lord, at the least,
Leave us in no worse case! Yet, through short night,
All sit. Few list the curmi and new sweet mead,
(Which Kamlan pours, in yewen cups, from keeve, )
To taste of Erinn. Lords, in speech demiss,
Of Roman arms commune, and Camulodunum;
Caer Isca lost, and Catuvelaunian Verulam.

Quoth Kowain; how should one, in Aesgar's room,
Deceased, be chosen chief druid, in Deheubarth.
And power therein was seen of Joseph's God:
For, in what place had Aesgar cast to kill
Those innocent strangers, on them, loost wild beasts;
Was he himself beset, when he would pass,
Of angry swarms, from hundred hives, at once;
That him, with infinite venimous stings, have pierced.
Aesgar, in fiery passion, grovelling fell:
And swelled so, that he might be known, uneath:
He gave the ghost, before the morrow's sun.

But day-star risen, Duneda pours to Noden,
His cup: and sith, to strand, dismounts, with Kowain;

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And lords and warriors sailed in his strong ships.
Those climb aboard: whence, standing on their poops;
They loudly all do Dumnonians' sire salute!

Those anchors cast, in Severn gulf, that night.
But, sith, drawn up their keels, leads Kowain forth,
To go, by land, to Caradoc, his ship-folk.
They journeying, the third morrow, in long path;
Meet with them some main-troop, of Roman horse;
Which ridden that way, explorers, chanced to pass.

At clarions' sound then, those, with levelled spears,
Ruin on Britons. Shipmen, drawn glaives forth,
Do partly resist thus: part leapt, to rocks,
To trees, like birds; fall, as from wait, on Romans.
They steeds, that pass, pierce; riders pluck from horse.

Gauls' brunt thus stayed, they compass them: on whom,
In disarray, Britons again give charge!
Rages their strife; Amathon's victorious son;
(Not less is he, to battle, on firm land,)
His foes discomfits. When then few remain,
Those flying 'scape, by swiftness of their steeds.
Under his glaive, fell Virius, knight of Rome,
Their renowned captain, valiant of his hand.
And Kowain brought forth Virius' steed and arms,
A New Year's gift, for king Caratacus.

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These days, yet more, in East part of Rome's Province,
Grows tumult. East-men, on whom lately imposed
Aulus, for king, Cæsarian Prasutagos,
Risen, in revolt, rushed hardily from their fens,
The Roman castra o'erthrew, at Sitomagus.

Trembles then Claudian colony, at Camulodunum,
Seen, round them, how blue subject nations rise;
Though such be, only, weapons in their hands,
As hinds and ploughmen use; slings, cattle-goads,
Bats, grasshooks, woodbills, bounden, on long staves:
For Geta took away their iron and bronze;
But could not take away the Britons' hearts!

Aulus, from strongholds and from towers, his soldiers
Withdraws, to march against Caratacus,
Who certain woods, he hears, holds in East Province.
The duke, before him, sends out troops of horse,
And expedite cohorts. Whilst, by Meltraith fleets,
O'er wide salt plain, of ebb shore, those then pass;
(New moon now is,) Noden them saw far-off;
Unto whom, with father Lîr, mongst antique gods,
Was, of this Isle, the sea-waves' ward, assigned.

Fared Noden pompous by, to yearly feast;
Of blue sea-gods, in crystal halls, beneath

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Isle, which then Sarnia hight. In, towards the land,
He turns, with fury, his triple-teaméd chariot;
And tumult great, of rushing wild-waves' spirits;
That ride, as foaming steeds, sea-billows' croups.
And follow (an infinite spume-sprinkling train;)
The, on gólden axe-tree, rolling, broad divine
Wheels, in wide salt sea-flood, of stormy god;
And play him round, and do on him attend.

Blowing then his sea-children, all, at his
Command, in whelky horns, grave note! he leads,
Vast waters' wall, with plunging foot, on Romans!
Those taken, in angry surges, twixt sharp cliff,
And folding flood, in turmæ and cohorts, perish!
Ooze covered them, on that deceitful strand.

A. Sax. cyfe.

The warsire, towards mid-Britons, lately marched.
He now, where no cart-way; and cannot pass
Wheels of his chariot, rides on Roman horse.
One day, before the main of his caterfs,
Him chanced he went, by site, where enemies halted,
From march, mete camp, and foursquare vallum cast.

Then was, by sudden fury of Virius' steed;
Which breeze hath stung, and burst the rein, O gods!
Is Caradoc, in a moment, to Rome's port,

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Carried. Foes swarm him round: durst none him wound,
All fearing him approach. Running, swift-foot,
Britons soon their sire raught; they fence with shields:
But covering Camulus him, with his vast targe;
Coursed his strange steed beside, anon, him ruled,
By the forelock; and drew the hero forth!

Then war renewed, in Britain, as at erst.
Fires, on all beacon hills smoke; flame, by night!
The legate marching, with assembled cohorts,
Them, each day, leads, in view of blue caterfs;
But aye the more, with ensigns and with chariots,
Grows glast-stained host: come scythe-carts, from the North.

What hour, one eve, wont Romans halt, to lodge,
Rush suddenly forth blue Britons, from green wood,
With dreadful cries. Who first, thick spears, arrive;
Fall on the legions' muniment. Saw blue Britons,
That fight neath wicker shields, then Romans' backs.
Fly cohorts, on whom Panic-fear hath seized.
Britons, with loud cries occupy their castra!

Blue warriors, songs to Andates, chant that night,
Of victory; ánd they draw-off bloody harness,

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In broad moonshine, of their slain enemies.
In that field's midst, they heap then Roman arms.

Come dawn, some Britons, climbed into tall trees,
No more perceive those Roman fugitive soldiers!
Who came, with staves and bills, cast these away;
And choose them, of all Roman spoil, out arms.
Seven captive ensigns, Caradoc sends be borne,
On swift feet, through all marches of free Britons.

But when Ostorius Scapula, Aulus hears,
(Whom Cæsar sends, new legate, into Britain,)
To Dubris is arrived, with fleet, and soldiers:
He in Verulam, (town which newly arms of Flavius
Reconquered,) now, disceding from his Province;
In Galba's hand, lieutenant of Ostorius,
His late high charge deposed. He sith to Gaul,
O'ersailed, returns, then private man, to Rome.

And being Ostorius entered in his office;
Though lateward now the year, when Roman captains,
Were wont, to Winter-camps, withdraw their legions;
This duke, into the field, recalls his soldiers.
He made recension, in the stative camps,
(Where those come to him,) nigh to Troynovant,

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Of Roman arms; then leads, past Thames, West forth;
Horse, new light-armed, with train and fourteen cohorts.

Warned by hill fires, caterfs, which late dispersed,
Tumultuously return. Behold, in field;
As two night-stealing sullen beasts of forest,
Whose prey is murdered blood, that chance to meet,
In some strait place: anon, with hellish heart,
And staring hairs, and roaring open throat,
And eyes aflame, the other each defies,
Eager to rend his adversary's corse;
So in night-watch, now cohorts and caterfs;
Approaching, one to other, in vast wood.

Lo, rising up the moon, in Romans' faces,
Britons' long, fearful, barbare shadows casts!
Seem flickering stars dance, iron light of arms,
Omen of victory, on whose thicket spears.

Archers of Andred shoot, from Britons' part.
Their shafts pierce Romans' plate: who, sudden yells,
Thrown up into the skies, of ambushed enemies;
And blowing bloody noise of Britons' trumps,
(That from steep clouds, rebellow in murk forest!)
Sustain uneath. Lifting the huntress goddess,
Her crystal shield, surviews strange Romans' deaths!

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Icenians, which in Caradoc's forward, march,
Like rushing steers, then hurl forth. Antethrigus!
They furious shout. Who foremost, to hand-strokes,
Be come; when, ah, gins heaven's night-queen, (eclipst!)
Withdraw, her light. Withholds religion then,
On both parts, fierce strong hands, of warlike men.
Romans recoil; but when, nigh dawn, Ostorius,
Kindling green boughs and holm, and raised wide smoke;
(Which blows the night wind forth, towards Britons' faces,)
Issues, as from pursuit, by other paths.

Caterfs new marching, with Caratacus,
Grown to great host, the third day, impetuous make
Assault on Romans, weary with long march;
In cumbered ground. Their yells, mongst thicket rocks,
Which sound; did seem proceed, from neath the earth.
Their onset hardly endured Ostorius' trains,
Till eve; then cast a vallum, in their midst,
In little space, and that behind their backs;
They, night-time, without fire or water, pass.

But come the morrow, Ostorius leads without
Their castrum; and enranged, in haste, his soldiers.

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Blaming their yester's faintness, he gave sign!
And they ashamed, with shout, rush forth; and cast
Thick javelins! and with glaives and their shields' pikes,
To-day, rebut the barbare arms of Britons.

Riding, mongst his caterfs, on Virius' horse,
Behold Caratacus; who, hark! with great voice,
His blue youth comforts, to renew the fight.
Esteem each one of weapons, which he bears,
As the arms those were of his saviour gods!

The sire, sith mounted, in Brigantine chariot;
Stands, like the radiant day's-god! hurling darts.
But soldiers daze; seen girded Roman harness,
Rome's short glaives in their hands, (like dyers' hands,
For woad,) on Britons' breasts. Even Roman helms
Shine, whelmed on long-haired barbare polls of Britons!
Britons, with Romans, wrestle in the forest.

Yet whilst this sun was young, came bands, by hap,
To that wold-side; (where towers and, famous sith,
Shall cities rise!) of glittering Gaulish horse,
Whom Titus leads. To-day had Titus cast,

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In that green place, to graze his war-worn steeds:
Where, and the knights, his friends, would he, with bows,
Seek beasts forth, of the field and wood; by brook,
And dew-steeped launds, and under cooling shade,
Of Summer boughs; by thicks and hollow denes;
And in the fern, whereas dun deer, lie down,
By golden paths, at noon, in secret glades:
And make them lodges, under crooked arms
Of the broad oaks, of leafy boughs, at eve.

But when, within, heard Titus battle-noise;
His Gauls shout! Shout again Ostorius' soldiers!
That made new effort, with great poise of cohorts,
Bear bloody aback blue Britons; on whose necks,
And wide uneven face, squadrons of Titus
Now impetuous ride. Vespasian's hardy son;
By valour of his arms, and warlike might,
Of his proud steed, shaking his armed stout crest;
With few, brake through, bold riders, men of his;
Where, in a twilight glade, in battle-cart,
Behold; that great king fights of all blue Britons!
What glory, and might he slay Caratacus,
Where his! They fight! but the blue long-haired sire,
In skill of arms, and his heroic force,

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And manage of brave steeds, exceeds, as much,
All Romans, as all kings, in his high worth.

Lightly, the Flavian blade, he bet aside;
And with broad glaive, in half-disdainful wise,
Young Roman Titus smote, smote on the pan:
It shared his horse-tail crest; and had not been
His helm of proof, had cloven, to the chin,
That knight of Rome; who stoops, to his steed's neck;
As one dismayed. Gauls, Roman knights, made force,
Then, all, at once, assail Caratacus.

But, in that point, arrive Brigantine war-carts;
Those which Volisios guides; on whose shrill axetrees,
Which fray Gauls' steeds, stand men, that hurl forth hand-stones,
And thonged spears! Leapt down then, with immane cries,
Those hale; and slay, on ground, their enemies!

As drave king Caradoc forth, he calls to Britons,
Disperse them, by thick coverts and rough brakes:
So leaves he a barren victory, to Rome's legions!

Verges the year: yet greater tumult grows,
Mongst subject peoples of the Roman Province.

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And when are floods erst bridged, of stony frost;
Careless of fords and Aulus' towers, men pass,
From roman pale, to go to free West Britons.

But prodigies have made cold the people's hearts;
For heard divine trump was, in Eryr, sound;
And, mongst the nations, bloody dew was seen;
And druids heard living groans, from dead kings' mounds!
Saw portents Romans also on their part.
At Troynovant, (that is now Augusta named,)
Smote lightning flame, the eagle of a legion.

The sixth year running now of Roman war;
When come is Winter, journeys the warsire,
From Caerwent, unto kings of far North March:
And Caradoc lies each night, in some lord's court.

He lights, come to Cornavian Pennocrucion,
From journey; and sups in Ruan's stone-walled hall.
Was there, in Caradoc's sleep, an impious crept,
To slay him. But upsprung, from the sire's feet,
A noble warhound; that the felon, pluckt
Down, on the floor; now strangles, with deep throat.

Upleapt king's champions, in the doubtful night:

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Those grope, in shimmering twilight, to the walls;
Where, at beds' heads, they left, uphanged, their arms.
Hurt, in blind tumult, ere might fire be blown,
Was many an one. His fellow, each misdeems,
That it was he bewrays Caratacus!

Light blown of dying embers, in their hearth;
Men rid that wretch, from under raging hound.
(Half-dead for fear,) it is a cripple-thrall;
Wont curmi bear, in his lord's hall, and mead.
Gorran, whose hand arrest on him erst laid,
Shows, this, lo, upholding! long skean of sharp bronze.

Threatened with extreme torment of the flame,
That wretch beknew his guilt: suborned with gold,
Him servant of Cæsarian Cogidubnos;
Who lately, a feigned bard, came into these parts;
And that with privity óf great duke Ostorius!
So Romans wont, in their ignoble mood:
Witness thou bleeding ghost of Viriathus;
And thou, great Roman, wronged Sertorius;
Jugurtha, and many more; and Gaulish Commius.

Ere had that caitif shed, in the king's drink,
Venim; which fell Lucusta's hand prepared,
By the perfumer's art, damned hag in Rome:
(But feeling, in his wayfare, his old ill

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Revive; the sire would taste, that night, no mead.)

And this, next day, was certainly known, by servant,
One given to ale; which snatcht, from hand, the cup;
Thereto resisting, of that wicked thrall;
Who bare, again, the royal mead; and did
Drink-out, to shining bottom of the bowl:
Whence being overcome, from the king's hall,
Men drave him forth. The wretch went home, to sleep:
But so incontinently wrung him his bowels,
He left not crying-out, in his pangs, till dawn;
When ceased his breath! Came knocking, heard that noise;
And gropes in, from the porch, another thrall,
For is this blind. And fiercely, If any, enquires,
Do wrong to Ruan, or his sacred guests?
But when he understood the cause, had license,
With wounds he slew, on wounds, of his own knife,
That fellow thrall! and drawn his carrion forth,
On the laystall, to crows, it cast, and kites.
Princes and champions, with Caratacus,
Then sware an oath; at king's bed-head, henceforth,
To wake, in arms; and that by nightly course.

Lifted, on immense wings, flew Rumour forth,
From Penkridge craigs; and, at all Winter-hearths,
Uncertain tiding whispers, dread. But Caradoc,

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Being come again to Caerwent, to Moelmabon;
Is word, by messengers, brought, were burned in Severn,
And broken, at the shore, Duneda's ships!
And cause, few ravisht brands of herdman's fire;
That empty keels, (which dasht together, ere,
And hurled to land,) in tempest of night wind,
Kindled. But lords feel strangling in their throats;
Astonishment! that do hear, their breathless hearts.

Now Penkridge.

When field's wide bosom clothed again is seen,
With the new blade; and full of budded green
The woods; and ere more leisure have blue Britons,
To gather, with new frenzy in their hearts,
Ostorius draws forth, from their Winter-camps,
The armies of Rome's Province, twenty cohorts.

Nathless, in secret of thick woods, to place
Called the Three Oaks, assemble East-men Britons:
And they there choose, in room of Hiradoc,
(Who, sick, lies at East cliffs,) and Madron hurt;
Young Cathigern, to be duke of blue caterfs.

Mongst those glast-stained, is Cathigern as a Roman;
Prudent and stedfast, to observe his season.
But when his war-youth, offered sacrifice,
Of sheep and oxen, eat their evening meat;

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(Wherein, of druids, were happy omens seen,
Of victory;) and would they straight hurl forth on Romans;
Them Cathigern promiseth, on the morrow, fight.

Now of wide-springing dawn, dim twilight is.
When erst might know a man his brother's face;
Order them Britons: who then oak-leaf crowned,
First leaping from thick wood, tumultuous spears,
Assail banks, (yester cast,) of legions' castra.

But suddenly issuing, from all ports, at once,
With clamour, Roman soldiers! their light armed
With the stout thousands of Icenian youth,
Contend; sith heavy cohorts. The wide plain
Seems shrink, under their tread; and shine with gleam
Of confused arms: it saw, from heaven, high gods,
As harvest field, which wallowed is of wind.

Then sharded soldiers beat back naked Britons.
And must, for all then his heroic force,
Young Cathigern withdraw foot. Britons betake,
Being many slain, them backward to thick wood,
Headlong; and find new breathing space. But when,
From his mid-course, dismounts sun's flame, East warriors
Fall out, on Romans, journeying to new camps:

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And who them smote before, Britons now slay,
In their long trains. Who erewhile them pursued;
Now, they pursuing, redden their blue hands;
And stain this foster mould, with Roman blood.

Sith brought in Belges' scouts, new word, to Romans;
How Britons are of flocking youth r'inforced:
The sun shines on their hundred barbare ensigns.
With bruit those come up of vast Winter shore;
Which beaten is of long wave-brinks' infinite foot.

Commands Ostorius, dig then his camps' fosse,
With walls downright, deep twenty feet. Are Britons
Hardy and adventurous, to assail night castra.
But blotted was, gainst eve, day's cheerful light;
And from dark mouth of heaven, vast thunder roars:
Sharp hail, with lightnings, falls from grovelling clouds.
And wipe desire of battle, from all hearts,
Britons and Romans, now their angry gods:
These, under skins, those harbour in wet woods.

But Belges' spies, which were, at dawn, went forth,
Being come again, at mid of day, renounce,
How glast-stained Britons were of new disperst:
Whose beasts, by freshet flood, the night-time past,
(Thus confess wounded captives, whom they brought,

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At the spear's point,) were borne away and lost.
That water wide is out, by field and forest!

Romans, sent scouts before them, then marched forth;
And way hold, through Mid-Britain, towards the North;
Whence aid flowed erewhile to Caratacus:
And Romans having need of beasts and corn;
Their foragers waste wide field round, and steads burn,
Of Britons which lurk fugitive in thick woods.

Receives Ostorius secret embassage,
In this, from Cartismandua, imploring aid;
Fearing her foes should fall, on her, at once:
The queen submit her promises, unto Cæsar!

Out of the West, ascends Caratacus.
Men go before him, leaf-crowned to the gods.
The king the wilds of Ordovican nation,
Would fortify; and live there free from Romans!
Shall Kynan follow him, with strong caterfs;
With whom the warlike son of Moelmabon,
Marching with his; and joined to them is Kowain.

Which known, through spies, Ostorius turns aside;
To go unto West parts. Journey then legions
Forth, painfully, by waste hills; and find no paths,

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In coasts, where only salvage wights abode;
Which know not grain, nor any use of bread;
Whose most meat their ewes' milk; and whose wont is,
To wake, all nights, abroad, to ward their folds,
From wolves. Bear sharp stangs, hardened in the fire,
Those in their hands, for spears. Great shock-haired curs,
Run with them: and from wait, like eagles' craigs,
Those salvage wights wont shoot down shafts, on soldiers;
Which them Cyclopes call; that find oft milk,
Great store, in their round-heaped, (like caves,) stone cotes.

Last, when now legions, after travaillous march,
By squalid skrents of stony hills; (where lost
They their most carriage have and steeds; whose hooves,
Sock'd or unshod, so pathless and rough rocks,
Unapt to tread,) come to inhabited
More open ground; the duke Ostorius hears,
Caratacus hath, with ensigns and caterfs,
And bands of oak-leaf crowned, (breathed in whose breasts,
Is fury of battle-god,) before arrived;
And certain hold, now not far-off, besets:

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(Caer Caradoc named, in later age, the place;
Where, in one marriage bed, of the fresh mead,
Bordered with flowering rush and golden flags,
And willow herb and peerless waterlilies,
Flow Colonnuwy and Tifidiog streams.)
This, building stones, repairs Caratacus;
Part with felled trees, and heaped with hasty earth:
For will he here wait onset of the Romans!

Blue warlike Britons, chanting battle-songs,
Sit; and on whin-stones, whet broad glaives and spears.
Other new-tress long wicker shields, or stretch
O'er them new hammered hide; some fret, at fires,
And supple sinewed bows, and twist new strings;
Or fledge their quivers full of long war-shafts.
Then all their warlike breasts stain, with new woad.

Approached, at morrow's eve, Rome's glittering legions;
Now castra mete, from Caradoc, a large league:
And dying, in what hour they halt, the sun,
Seem the wide-kindled heavens as a vast pyre!

Past is long twilight of short Summer night;
When druids, in magic trance, behold their gods;
That sit, on rainbow thrones, the skies above.
Belin, they heard, amongst those blesséd ones,
Far-seeing god, read Clothru and Ethne bind,

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Strife-fiends, abhorring his ambrosial light.
Consenting, gods then send forth, the night wind,
Which Grey is hight, from under cold North stars;
That bitter rime, those hell-hags, sleeping, cast
Round; and wall-up, in glassy tower of frost:
Yet, they ere day, through subtle fraud, 'scaped forth!

Slumber caterfs; but cannot sleep their dukes:
Strong are the enemies' gods! wherefore their hearts,
Like rumbling water-mills, o'er rushing brooks,
Clap, in their breasts. Kindled great beacon fires,
From hill to hill, when rose the Land-cry forth,
Make known already, unto farthest Britons,
Great battle-hazard of Caratacus!
That all make supplication, to their gods.

Gainst this new sun, on flickering wings, upmounts
Blithe lark, from the low bent with heavenly throat;
Whence creaking ghosts, from men's slain limbs, to-night,
Like gnats, shall rise. Mead where the gentle hart
Was wont, from hurst to holt, to have his flight;
And partridge cock, with ripe and merry note,
Now calls: when stills the dew, trode this fresh bent
Down, in long battle-strife, with jelly blood,
Shall, blackened mould, lie house of funerals;

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A solitude, of rotten graves of warriors,
Henceforth! Comes this new sun up, with still heat,
And shoots slant beams, like lances, to dull earth.

Behold, the legate's purple is displayed,
On his prætorian tent, in legions' castra;
Dread sign of battle! Strait, he leads, with trumps,
Without all ports, his legions; and instructs,
In field, vast shining threefold battle-ordinance.

Beckoning their præfects, all dight arms, at once!
And infinite breastplates cast large brazen gleam,
As river were; and glance, like blades of grass,
Their glaives; and seemed, like leaping flames, their spears.

Behold, then, Britons' bulwark, black with shields!
Wherein shine groves of spears, like lamping bronze.
Ostorius, lo, with tribunes of his legions,
Rides now, spy-out yond fastness of blue Britons;
And their defences view. Them steeps enclose;
Part stony walls; trees, banked with sods, the rest.
Quick stream, before them, runs; uncertain fords.

Returned, again, with speed; loud Cæsar's legate,
From legion, unto legion, to his soldiers,
Spake; How those were the oft o'erthrown blue Britons,
Uplandish wights, unapt to handle arms;

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Having no certain bond; and none defence,
Of helm or harness: mong whom to-day seen,
Few men, of war! Consumed, already, O cohorts,
Their foremost ones, have your victorious glaives!

All shout to battle! Might uneath centurions
Hold back tumultuous maniples of their ensigns.
When known, eftsoon, their scouts have founden fords,
Sound clarions! leads Ostorius on the legions.

From druids' altars, whereon burn fat ribs
Of sacrificéd beves, reeks pleasant breath,
Aloft to nostrils of long-living gods!
On craig stone, stands great-voiced Caratacus,
His people's Ward, amidst their blue caterfs;
That the walled border man of this hill-strength.
And cries the sire; Have every man, in mind,
His father's mound; that take not grief their spirits,
When tidings come to them, under the earth.
Better, in field, were warrior to fall slain,
Still turning towards the foe his threatful face;

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Than 'scaped from fight, be on his weapon seen,
None enemy gore; nor wound in his blue flesh.
Better thus fall, than tarry long for death;
Till creeping age have so deflowered a man,
That he become a mockery, unto each wight!

Britons, their warlord's voice receive, with shout!
Bright harnessed, he them seems descended god:
And, in well-tempered helm, like to a flame,
Of ceiled smith's work, is closed his noble front;
And dreadful dragon seems his royal crest.
King Caradoc, girded with that golden belt,
Of Togodumnos; feels revive his force.

Great bearded, and long hair-locked druid wight,
Lo, standing on their wall, hark, curseth Romans:
Then casts, whilst Britons their armed hands uphold,
To heaven, his javelin, towards approaching soldiers:
Devoting them, to gods, beneath, of death!

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BOOK XX

192

ARGUMENT

Britons' camp. Druids signify that the people go not without their wall, to fight. Some, which heard not the druids' ban, leap down to battle. Then Britons issue, on all parts. Caratacus proceeds himself, to the middest strife. Whilst the sun upmounts, their gods favour the Britons; but when high noon is past, prevail the mightier gods of Rome.

A slingstone stuns king Caradoc. His noblest champions bear the warlord forth, from battle-press. Belisama incites Camulus to save, with her, Caratacus. The foot of Publius, the prætor's son, first stands upon the Britons' work. Ergund falls; and now the hill-camp is full of Roman slaughter. Soldiers kill even suppliants unarmed, and women, at smoking altars of the druids. Ostorius commands, to spare the vanquished.

Kynan, Hælion and Maglos with Kowain, leading their armed youth, ascend, to join them unto king Caratacus. Ostorius suddenly assails them, in their march. Kowain, Maglos and Hælion, valorously fighting, are slain. Kynan, escaped by hap, buries the fallen lords and warriors of blue Britons.

Caratacus was saved, with few, from Colonnuwy field, to an hill-cave. Hiradoc, one of the lords with him, sends thence a messenger to Venutios: but he, being deceived by certain riders of Cartismandua, with whom he meets, returns, their guide unto Caratacus. King Caratacus and his lords, part, with false Calduc and his men; to go, as they supposed, unto Venutios.

Those treacherously rise upon him and his peers, in their

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sleep: they take them thus, and king Caratacus. A speaking raven flies, with word from Cartismandua, to Calduc. They come to Isurium, tumult in the town. Some, who take arms, for king Caradoc, are slain. Caratacus and his lords, are thrust, as they were, bounden, into king Dunwallon's hall, where is sitting Cartismandua, the queen. Vellocatus falsely accuses king Caratacus. Cartismandua sends again the captive warsire forth, with guard and Vellocatus; who shall immediately deliver him to the Romans. Tiding come, at morrow, to Venutios, he pursues after Vellocatus.

Caratacus is delivered to Ostorius legate; who conveys back the king of Britons, to Romans' stative camp on Thames; where, not long after, queen Embla, also, is led in, captive. The legate sends Caratacus, to Dover port.

Caratacus and Embla come again; (but captives, now,) to sovereign Rome. Venutios meets with, and slays the horsefolk of Vellocatus. Cartismandua sends Fagl, prince of airrunning spirits, to Ostorius, requiring aid. The Roman duke marches to Isurium. Princes of neighbour tribes submit to the Romans. Cartismandua is soon weary of the Roman garrison. That queen's last miserable estate.

Caratacus and Embla, come unto Rome, are cast into the Gemonium. Claudius Cæsar shows Caratacus to the Romans. Caradoc and Embla are led forth, to their deaths.

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Caratacus beholds, of his caterfs,
The countenance; how not many old in war!
Much part were children; when, to Britain, Claudius
O'erpassed. And cries the hero, with main voice;
For avarice, Romans, fight; we for our gods,
This foster soil, our cattle, our sacred hearths.
If we be vanquished, what shall rest to us,
In our own Land, but the ignominy of stripes;
And, captives, to be sold to servitude!
And ye, O wives, and shamefast maids, be thralls!
Of your chaste bodies, to luxurious Romans.
Help Gods! And, brothers, lifting now our hands,
Vow we all preys! He ceased, and groan blue Britons.

Dire shrieks, of frantic women, smite men's ears!
Are ancient wives, bereaved of warlike sons;

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And spouses whose long hairs loost to the wind,
Yet in young age, made widows, in these wars.
Their shrill cry is, for vengeance, to high gods!
They dance then, with joined hands, in furious choirs.
To magic chant, kindling all hearts! of druids.
Whereafter, caught brands, from the altar-hearths;
They, madding, mongst that glast-stained people ran!

Druids, which yet gaze, on the panting bowels,
Of sacrifices, send then to king Caradoc,
Word, saying; So Britons go not from their walls,
To-day, the gods should this blue people save.

Certain uplandish vaunting warlike warriors,
Demetans, heard not, on Britons' further part,
The druids' ban. Of them, leap down, anon,
The foremost; gainst who, enemies, on left wing,
Ascend, Batavians, from the forded stream;
And thousand, with vast clamour, glittering spears,
Approach! Then Publius, son of duke Ostorius,
(Who emulates, in proud arms, young worthy Titus;
That late repaired, with Aulus, is to Rome,)
Leading four cohorts, strenuous, lo, upmounts;

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And, made strong effort, beats back those blue Britons;
Whose trumps, above, sound hoarse and dreadful note!

Defend, within their works, their glast-stained warriors,
The Britons' gods: snatch, (thick as buzzing flies,)
Their divine hands, the Romans' shot, aloft,
And turn aside; or cause fall shortly spent.
But Britons' javelins, cast from higher ground,
As they come on, pierce many harnessed Romans.

Not long then might Cunobelin's glorious son
Contain his glast-stained warriors. Shielded swarms,
Whom those strife-hags incite, leap from all walls.
This seen, proceeds, unto the middest strife,
Britons' strong arm, the sire Caratacus!
Like as, who walks in forest, falcon sees,
And now not sees, which chaceth an hare forth;
(His glimpsing flight is midst thick boughs and oaks!)
So in battle, fares the warsire amongst his,
And Romans. Champions, that tall Cerix leads
On whom his father had imposed, to ward,
With his own life, and lives of his strong warriors,
King Caradoc's life, him fence, with hasty spears.

New vigour then and pulse, in the strong limbs,
Infused their battle-gods, of the blue Britons.

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Yet once more, they, in view of both the armies,
Would give war-glory to king Caradoc!
With Serpiol, (Togodumnos' burning glaive,)
He, mongst them running, bloody breaches hews.
The people of Romulus hear, bove battle-noise,
Caradoc's great voice, heartening his woad-stained warriors!

This hour, must forge, of Rome, eternal chains,
He cries; or else them loose, from off our necks.
And bound, with fatal holly-oak leaves, mark
Men, is the warsire's helm, to-day, to death!
War-girt, he rusheth, in strong battle-press.

Is fame, erst laid strong hands, Batavian aids;
Calling on Woden god, lord of the slain,
On Britons' bulwark; and gan it disrock:
But bare the immane spears of Briton gods,
Batavians back, with loss of half their men!

More terrible grows then strife, under the wall.
Issue blue Britons, like to angry swarms
Of stinging flies: an infinite warlike din
Wide sounds, like rattling hail, on a king's hall.
Wade forth, in battle-press, the barbare ensigns.

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Fight bands of naked wattle-shielded Britons,
Gainst stedfast bronze-clad ranks of legionaries;
That, having overcome the world before,
Would win even this cold soil of Utmost Britain!

The seventh year now is running of this war,
Gainst might of Rome; nor Britain yet subdued:
Such virtue found is, in her warlike sons.
Whereas, in Summers few, had Julius' arms
Vanquisht Main Gaul. Stalks, mongst them which contend,
Death, from hell-pit, uprisen, beneath the earth!
In each of his ten-thousand violent hands,
A dart. In skies, his face the mounting Sun,
Shrouds, and above this battle, seems to mourn.
Lie fallen, as wind-cast shocks, in harvest field,
Men's carcases; whose new disbodied spirits
Flit, without memory of their former being;
Seeking, in the wild airs, now starry paths:
And gods all valiant souls receive to rest!

So long, o'er earth's low field, then as swift chariot
Of Belin, god, on burning axe-tree, mounts;
Their crystal shields protending, cloud-girt gods,
Favour the Britons: but, past his mid-course,
Prevail, at length, the mightier gods of Rome!

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Like is long brazen wall, the soldiers' front,
Of dinted shields, and harness purple-dyed:
Like then to climbing wave, that falls in blood;
Upon a bank of bleeding warriors!
Breath of their gods, a little yet upholds
The island powers, but no more shields from wounds.

Caradoc, warlord, to what part, most, he sees
The battle-travail sore, sends strength of spears;
Or himself running, (since, in this March, were
Not paths for battle-carts,) the loose caterfs
Restores. But gin incline the wounded ranks,
Now, on blue Britons' part, of warriors' breasts.

In that, he turned, recomfort a caterf;
Came hastily humming sling-stone, which strong arm
Hurled, of Iberian, mongst the allies of Rome:
And, on the neck-bone, smote the shining flint,
Twixt hauberk and bright helm, Caratacus;
Where, numbness of man's sense, makes, nigh to death,
The stroke; and so continues a good space.

As poplar, whose roots freshet hath laid bare,
When seizes tempest on his soaring crest,
Ruins from cliff; amongst his warriors, rushed;
And lay full still, divine Caratacus!

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Then those make, shield to shield, the warsire round,
Impenetrable breastwork of their lives.

Blue Britons, when the warlord's cry no more,
Above the battle-tumult, they might hear,
More feebly fight. A coldness dulls each sense.

Doth Gorran off his lord's bright helm, at once,
That might the freshing air, upon him breathe.
Then softly, who noblest, on his flint-hard targe,
(Which dights thick rind of forest bull; whereon,
Shines, thrice enfolded, dragon of his house,
Whose fell head tin, the body is scaly brass,
Of horrible aspect,) lift Caradoc.
And him, to shoulders heaving, they tread back;
And bear the sire, twixt lane of knitted shields;
And save, maugré thick strife, from battle-press,
Of Romans. And, from skies, Rome's hostile gods,
Beholding, did applaud; and Worthy, spake,
Were those, in barbare arms, to have been Romans!

Lights Belisama, by strong bloody Camulus;
Where this, with lowering looks, leans on his spear;
Wherewith he wont, in field, to strew whole cohorts;
And thus she him girds; Where wast thou, violent god?

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What sun great Trinobantine dune was taken,
Called by thy name? Belike sat'st drunkelew thou,
In mortal's hall, on ale-bench, Camulus?
Where thou the goodman's team, strange guest, hadst eaten,
Three beves; and sith didst drink, as thy wont is,
A tun of mead. Or, with thy wife, hadst thou,
New woe? Smote thy pilled skull the Morrigu?
Or pluckt she; crying, Dotard Camulus!
Thy beard? since lost thy brawns their former force;
Which could not thine own uphanged silver face,
At Glevum, save! but soldiers, from the gate,
It reft. Seest not? or grown too blunt thy sense,
How Caradoc lies, beloved, of mortals, most,
In swoon; and that in danger to be slain?
As valorous wight is murdered in his sleep!

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Cunobelin's son; who burned fat thighs, to us,
Of slaughtered beves. But, and thou help, strong god,
The hero save, a guerdon, Camulus;
Such, at mine hands, thy godhead shall receive,
As shalt thou not be able to recuse.
Hearken, will surely I give thee her, tonight;
Whom long-time, as great riches, thou hast sought;
Nelma, the flower of all my maiden-train.

Nothing; (loud sudden spake the impetuous god;
Whose voice like Winter-waves, on some vast shore!)
There is, on all wide plat of earth; and dost
Thou, fair wise goddess, only promise this;
How great and ne'er so hard, the peril were;
But Camulus will assay it bring to pass.

Swear, Belisama, then, that greatest oath,
Which is, in heavenly seats, amongst high gods;

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By these three: Earth, which Ocean-streams enfold,
And Heaven, above; and gulf of Hell beneath.
Then she, her goddess-palms, gainst sun all-seeing,
Uplifting; and, to far-off Ocean, calling;
With her spear's heel, sith, smiting the green sod;
Sware, Gentle maiden Nelma, of the white hand,
Fair-bosomed, should be laid by Camulus;
And he that enterprise achieve, to-night.

Though strong, quoth Camulus, both, among the gods,
And mortals, am I named; yet wisdom much
The power of strength exceeds. That, thou wise, goddess!
I learned, what time I marched to the world's brinks;
Where poised on pillars are, of heavenly house,
The starry walls, which stoop in compass round;
Or else, immense, should ruin on the world!

Being the wide bent of crystal firmament,

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(Their proud immortal seats,) to aery spirits,
Assigned for their abode, it mine intent
Was shake; aye, and split that fastness of high gods,
To wreak me; sith my godhead had incensed,
In stranger land, Italiot treacherous god,
One red-eyed Bacchus; that, with wine, betrayed
Me; and that hour slain was Brennus in high Alps!

But substance entered in me, of the ground,
Blood of the earth, which in that drossy cup;
A mortal swift disease outsent those gods;
Which, like to lean hag, me pursued, in march;
O'ertook, and suddenly, unwares, she wrung my bowels,
With her fell claws; so that, on my bronze targe,
That loud to heavens resounded, I fell down;
And issued from mine hands, these divine arms;
And rang my war-helm, on that utmost coast;

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And leapt forth, shining, to vast brimming flood,
Which runs about the world: and hardly it Lîr,
Sending, at mine entreaty, some of his,
(Mine ancient friend,) recured, ere the year's end.

Three days, then, I consuming smart endured;
And alway in dread, of some strange hostile god,
Be found disarmed. And thence I hardly was
Enlarged; when taken of me dreadful oath,
Had those sky-dwelling powers, that no more pass,
I should o'er the weaved waves, from Island Britain.

Aye and even this day me threatened Roman gods;
Before whom I am still put to the worse;
Were I, in this field, found, me spoil of arms.
One froward as a girl, Bellona hight,
A bold-faced buskin'd goddess; she that wont,

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On Roman part, withstand me face to face.
Calling me Furcifer, much as, in our speech,
Daffe, Gallows-bird, upon my baldric seized;
And backling haled the scornful virgin crude!
Mongst mocking Roman gods: me, factious god,
Of barbare isle, she named, before them all!
Aye, and lifting spear, me menaced, truculent,
Send, gelt-god, chained; like Briton hound, to Rome!
Where, shrieked she, should serve my huge godhead's force,
(Yoked, like the drudging mule,) to hurl their millstones!
Whereat, they all laughed loud; and me derided!
Thou, prithee, Belisama, rent her locks!

Day cometh, quoth she, when we shall vengeance take,
For their light parts. Thou Camulus, raise loud shout;
Shall turn away, of those strange gods, the looks;

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Whiles I so shape the substance of a cloud;
That it some divine messenger seem from Rome,
Powdered, with hoary mist, in aery paths.
In that they stand then gazing, towards vast Alps,
We twain descend to field: cast thou back Romans,
Whilst I shall shield and save Caratacus.

Nodded, in sign he did assent, the god.
Two steps he made; a pine tree seemed the plume
Of Camulus' helm! lights, from the reeling skies,
Like as leaps charioteer, from cart, to ground,
The battle-god, midst dust and strife of arms!
And horribly Camulus brayed; that seemed the voice
Of new host of blue Britons, which arrive.
At that strange portent, failed the Romans' breath.
His spear bare back a legion, a good space!

Like swallow swift, to field, the goddess stooped;
And closed, with misty cloud congealed, a plot,
Round the hurt king; wherein she forms, as rocks,
And oaks; and semblant shaped of a green mount.
There, goddess bright, she hid Caratacus,
Beloved of men and gods, even hostile gods:

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And like as mother, o'er her babe; whom bee
Did sting, is she his ward, till fall of night!

He, who bare eagle of the fourteenth legion,
(Which Conqueress, Claudius named, of Island Britain,)
Seeing victory tarry, though inclined the fight,
Launcht, from his hand, his ensign, with great force;
And it o'erflew last bulwark of blue Britons!
Then flocking soldiers, lest an infamy have,
Their eagle lost, the legion; with main shout,
Rush under shields. And, erst, foot of stout Publius,
Mongst those assailing, stood on Britons' rock!

Full eftsoon is, of slaughter, that hill-strength;
Wherein, alone, rests Ergund, to defence,
Of wives and altars, with his Mona warriors.
(He obedient, to that oracle of pale druids,
Went not forth from walled hold, in field, to fight.)
Three troops are his; which running now, gainst Romans;
Hew with huge strokes, and deeds of hardihood,
Them bloody path. Till last, midst mortal strife,
And burst his lance; was Ergund's immense force,
O'erborne, in enemies' great in-thronging press!

Fell Mona's valiant champions, round their prince.

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But he, spear-smitten in the mouth; sore hurt
Being his shield-arm, of stout centurion's glaive:
Through-shot his other shoulder, of sharp dart;
His thigh then, of a javelin, gored; and pierced,
Under the left pap, of a Gaulish shaft,
Fell dying, flat-long, forth on his helmed face,
Amidst the battle-slain, in bloody dust!
And issued, from his lips, the mighty ghost.

Lodged on two-headed hill were Caradoc's camps;
And parted them, in twain, a thick pale-work:
But now that rather turned to Britons' scathe;
Whereas they running, and pent, like frayed beasts,
Are slain in heaps. Henceforth, resistance weak,
Find soldiers: Romans presently arrive,
To turven altars, where, to-day, is cried,
Were offered Romans! Whence, in vain, stretch druids
And unarmed forth, and wives, which refuge sought,
Thereat, their suppliant hands, to men and gods.
In their first fury, all slay crude Roman soldiers!

Now enters Britons' bulwark, duke Ostorius,
On his white horse. He, lo, upholdeth glaive!
His clarions sound, then, Cease from fight! The legate

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Commands, to spare the vanquished; all which cast
Their shields and arms, of the cerulean Britons.
Thus were, in field and camp, twelve thousand saved;
Field, full of fugitive routs now of blue Britons.

This hapless battle-sun, at length, is ended;
Leaving Isle Britain thrall and prey, to Rome!
Whose funeral shroud wide skies seem, dipped in blood.
Fly, to much slaughter, ravens from hill-woods;
And groaned, in their high rests, the foster-gods;
That haste fling night down, from the heavenly towers.

Falls night's wide mourning raiment, on the ground;
Nor any went to Camulus' bride-feast.
Or was, the god his arms, from battle-blood,
Washed; or that field glassed crystal firmament;
Or Britain's bloody Dawn, would show the gods!
All night, the heavens, waxed red, did seem to burn;
Which seen of peoples, even to furthest Britain!
And sending gods, o'er-all, derne wailful sound,
Beneath the cresset-moon, like lamping brass,

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Was eachwhere, nightlong, fear of impious death;
Falls new strange dread, on drowsy watching hearts!

What clods, beside Tifidiog's stream, be these,
Cold as the dew, which seems dank stars to weep;
Lie wallowed in their blood? When this day rose,
In mist, were beautiful young valiant warriors,
Britons, whose bed of death this trampled grass.
And who lie, full of wounds, in field, alive;
Have none to succour them; less happy, alas,
Than who already have breathed forth their spirits.

Yet in that night, was saved, Caratacus,
So loved him gods; which, yester, took all seeing,
And sense, from him, of Britons' extreme loss.

Their hearts are troubled that in this, new host,
To the warlord, ascend, from Deheubarth;
Whose dukes great Hammeraxe and noble Maglos,
Kowain and Hælion. Weary those, at eve,
Now sit, about their watchfires, in a wood;
Whose flickering leaves seem infinite tongues of dread,
That whisper round: these night-skies seem run blood!

They marched, at day; make forth all that long sun.
Men mark, then baleful ravens flee on-loft;
Sith filthy flies them meet: token, ah, this,
Of bloody battle-mould, lies not far off!

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Levied, at morrow, his castra had duke Ostorius;
And pitched again, from that place, a large league.
But, whilst he supped, with tribunes of his legions,
There fell a new thought, in his martial breast,
That second Britons' army; of whose approach,
He hears, by spies, amidst their march, oppress.
He sallied then, next eve, with expedite cohorts.

The Britons' host are marching yet this night,
Heavy their limbs, to come to Caradoc.
They pass, as in a dream, by moonlight cliffs,
On either hand. So make they weary speed,
Till morning star; when word is cried, to halt.
Men stay them, on stiff spears: lean weary warriors,
Whiles dukes consult, to trees, lo, and sharp rocks!

From mouth to mouth, then tiding, mongst them ran;
Even now, the va'ward met, with fugitives,
From Caradoc's host; which tell of battle lost!
Deems Maglos, those were fled, for craven hearts,
At the first brunt; and more than sooth report:
Yet reads, till might the truth be known of this;
And they should learn, where now Caratacus is;
They, to some covert, draw them, of hill-woods:
Whereto accorded those four lords, they march;

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Yet hardly, in this new journey, drawing breath;
So troubled be their hearts. Then suddenly, ah, bray
Out, fearful! in cold gleaming of first dawn,
Above, behind, beyond them, Roman clarions!
Fall on them Rome's victorious harnessed soldiers.

Swift-foot, like war-hound, through the host, runs Maglos:
Runs Kowain, who, oft-times had, on waves' face,
O'ercame proud Romans. Shouts great Hammeraxe,
Calling, like iron trump, on who most strenuous,
By name and lignage, Stand fast round their ensigns!
Stout Hælion sternly arrays his weary warriors.

Did, heartless quite, cry out those fugitives;
Whom a new death, by Roman glaives, o'ertakes.
Time fails then Britons' captains, take on harness:
But they on foot fall out, each with his champions;
To hew, with iron, their way, through hemming Romans.

Magnanimous, ah, but too unequal dures,
Not long, that strife of naked way-worn Britons;
Gainst heavy-armed and bronze-clad legionaries.

Erst generous Kowain leapt, mongst press of soldiers;
And seemed his glaive, a flail, which thresheth Romans.
But soldiers hurling, from an higher ground;

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Their sharp darts, wound his men. Hand then was seen,
Of hostile god; which the unfenced body pierced,
Of Kowain, from the backward, with sharp lance.

Thrust through the lungs, the valiant Iscan prince,
Fell on his shield, and on his comely face.
He vomits gore, whilst the fast-gurgling blood
Wells, from the broken conduit of his life.
Yet, on his chin, upstayed his noble face,
His dying looks affray his enemies!
In the dim vision of his fainting thought;
He Amathon, the old, sees, sees his widowed spouse,
And their sweet babe! and them commends his heart,
To that high wonder-working Joseph's God!
And, anon, ruins, on his reeling sense,
Dark purple iron shadow of endless night!

Slew Hælion battle-path forth, mongst strange soldiers,
Which stand before him; wreaking his own death,
Venging his nation. But when Kowain slain,
He understood; calling on dreadful gods,
Of the dead world, neath living mould, receive
His ghost; he leapt, with shout! mongst thicket press,
Of Roman spears: and, without fence of harness,
Was the hero slain, of many glaives, uneath.

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Nor fighting Maglos, on that further part,
Yet heard, fell the two dukes. He, where he sees,
Some Roman captain, ride on a white horse;
First made his vows, to Mars Cocidius;
If he him grant that victory, which he asks;
He, to his godhead, would burn hundred rams;
He on him runs, and hurls, with so great force,
His shivering lance; that passed the flying ash
Ostorius' targe, and bit beneath his harness!
That seeing, rushed forth the son of Moelmabon,
To slay him; and recoil, like sheepy flock,
Before the herdsman's hound, gan Roman soldiers;
From godlike Maglos' glittering homicide glaive;
So amazed they were! Hurls, with him, a small power.

But might Cocidius, come his fatal hour,
Not Maglos save. The hero, o'er a slain soldier,
Fell, stumbling on his targe, mongst dying Romans:
Returned then, soldiers pierce him in the chine.
Which seen, his young men cast away their lives.
They fall, as Autumn leaves, on Roman spears!

King Kynan, early, (who, with new caterfs,
In Britons' rearward marched,) was, in this strife,
Severed, by thronging foes, from the blue host.
He climbed then, in that valley's steepy sides;
Meaning fall forth, from sideward, on the Romans;

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Where namely he hears an abhorred Belges' voice;
Which seemed-him mouth of felon Cogidubnos!
But come up to sharp craigs; so, on them, drives
Thick mist; that, eftsoon, their own feet they see not.

Hanging, with hearts aflame, on the cliffs' brinks,
As birds; those hear the battle-rage, beneath.
Groping, fell Kynan forth; whose furious hands
Impatient are to fight, from an high-place.
He astonished lies, where craig-stone caught his fall!

The gods' will was, that were not Britons' dukes
Together slain all, in one sun; that not
Them violate should ravening beasts; nor fret
Them beaks of filthy fowl, they ordained thus:
But that the kindly mould, which brought them forth,
Again, should, in her sacred womb, receive,
At Kynan's hand; and to late age, his praise
Be sung, that made them pious funerals.

Ceased was, when lifted, from their eyes, that mist,
All battle-tumult: Romans have passed forth.
Britons, not slain or captive, left alive,
Be fled. Strewn, with blue corses, silent, lies,
And void, the slaughter-place: nor Hammeraxe
Tarries, as now, mongst Britons' battle-dead,
To read who fallen; but hastes, with headlong heat.

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Like guileful serpent, full of rancorous hate,
With quivering deadly tongue, and swelling throat;
In shining mails, hies Kynan, by wild paths,
With weary champions: and from craig to cliff,
That king, like hunter, creeps; might he cut-off
Fell Cogidubnos, or abhorred Vigantios!

Great Hammeraxe went on his enemy's trace,
Till Westing sun; when gazing from hill-steep;
His angry eyes none enemy, even yet, far-off,
Descries. Then Kynan, with grieved empty heart,
Returns and sapless knees, from vain pursuit.

Come lateward, to that corse-strewn battle-ground;
His Ordovices somewhile rest, and eat.
All then the moon await: that forest-trees
And cliffs, soars now above, with silver crest.

They seek then forth, ah, midst the slain caterfs;
And find, woeworth, that do, in comely feature,
(And though already were their corses spoiled,)
And godlike stature, even in sleep of death,
Exceed, the Briton kings, all their slain warriors!
Kynan them and his lords, with desolate hearts,
Take up; and bear forth, on long wicker shields.

Totter their steps, afflicted of the gods;
For wot their weary souls, is, of her dukes
The Land bereaved; and must, a prey, to Romans,

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Fall shortly! They to place, neath lofty ash,
Bear. There, delve their bright glaives the mossy sod,
And those together open one wide grave;
Wherein they Maglos, Hælion, Kowain laid.

Sith, drawn, of pious Ordovican Britons,
In the moon's shadows, are all dead blue warriors;
And laid, in fear and haste, on funeral rows:
And boughs, of swart-green pine, on them men strewed.
Whereafter Hammeraxe deems burn this grove,
Over the bodies; for, mongst ling and trees,
They lie; where deep mould, of fir-needles, is.

Kynan smote spark, of flint, and kindles flame:
Then sends anon, with brands, an hundred men,
To fire the thickets round: wherein, wind-god,
(Who Vintios named, to whom men offer birds,)
Doth breathe. Vast bale-fire rose, devouring roars;
Which seems incense the heavens, and scorch the stars:
And all consumes, to stones of the wild sod.
That burning quenched, at day, sith falling showers;
Shall bring up herb, on those untimely bones!

But thence king Kynan led his Ordovices,
(With whom few hurt; which found they yet alive,
Fallen in nigh woods, and hidden fugitives,)
To forest; where, three days, his glast-stained warriors
Did rest, him mourning, round: thence they turn home.

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But is not dead, in Colonnwy's field,
Loved of the gods, warsire Caratacus.
Come night, his mighty men, whom shields the goddess,
Stole him away, from danger of the Romans.
Him bear, by turns, six warriors forth, on targe;
Through hills, through wood. Now was, of second morrow,
Springing the sacred dawn; when, shielding Camulus,
And guiding Belisama, in pathless brakes,
They raught some cragged coast; and there find cave,
In cliff; whereas wont harbour salvage beasts.
Therein the warlord, come now to himself,
His Catuvelaunian champions do depose!

Thence Hiradoc, duke, who, with the sire, scaped forth;
Sends a strong runner, to the lord Venutios,
Far in the North! requiring hasty aid.
In evil hour! for met now, midst his path,
That messenger with queen Cartismandua's horse!

The royal witch, consulting magic arts,
Had Calduc sent, light steward of her court,
(Who carnal knowledge, of her, from his youth
Up, hath.) With him ride three-score young men, champions,
Of the queen's guard; unto whom, she gave, in charge,

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Venutios' kindred seize, for hostages;
Gainst time, when Caradoc should be taken alive!
But he, whom Hiradoc sent, suspecting naught,
Nor Calduc's falsehead; heard his guileful tale,
(How were they come, forerunners, from Venutios;)
Returns, their guide, to king Caratacus!

They then, that put on, day and night; arrive,
Soon, to those cliffs. Sharp stony coast it is,
Whereon the stormy eagles wont to tower:
Under whose eaves, dim sullen hold, lo, cave,
Whereo'er his thorny arms weaves the wild brier;
And garlands ivy-twine, and goat's-beard, hoary.
Therein, (for it is night,) none keeping watch,
So far from human foot, king Caradoc sleeps.

Lo, Calduc's men, thereto, with stealing foot,
Approach. These gazing-in, that hollow place,
(Whereas none lamp,) see full of shimmering light!
It Belisama caused cast the king's harness.

Come dawn, they them, before the wakening king,
Present, as horse-folk ridden from lord Venutios.
Misdeems naught Caradoc, who none conscience hath
Of ill desert. He Gorran bade such messes
Set forth, as might afford that desert place;
Singed corn, wild honey, and trouts of the clear brook;
Bake venison, which ran yester in green forest;

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(Where Idhig's battle-lance it pierced;) that might,
Venutios' tired march-riders break their fasts.

Now, by her aery intelligences, knows,
Fell Cartismandua all her steward's hap;
And Caradoc sees she, in a bowl of water;
Moreo'er sees journey, in far West March, queen Embla,
Folding her gentle hands, to saviour gods;
And turning aye, to heaven, her tearworn face.

What heart but hers, had, on the queen's pale looks,
Not rued. But rues, nor pities, more than Death
The corse; or wolf the fold, that Northern queen.
Envying chaste life of bounteous womanhead,
She Embla's eyes joys bitter tears have wasted;
Which, like cold stars, for cause of Vellocatus,
Had looked, on her, reproach at Camulodunum;
(Of Vellocatus, whom, with wicked spells,
She sought subdue, to her unstayed desires.)

Had Embla journeyed, from Caerwent, with wains;
Bearing, when Caradoc marched, forth, corn and stuff:
And way, among the wilds, now weary, holds,
Of Ordovican nation, in rough paths.
Another band Isurium's queen outsends,

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With forged words, Embla's heavy heart to tempt.
Feigning the warlord, ('scaped by flight from death;)
Raught to Isurium, to her royal court.

With Calduc, Caradoc sire, ere midday, parts;
Riding the king and his, on the queen's steeds:
(They unwitting; which suppose, to lord Venutios,
They went!) Are Hiradoc, Idhig and Volisios,
And Cathigern, with the king; and certain warriors.

By uplands, Calduc leads them, moors and woods.
But where they come first to Brigantine fords;
Now, after supper, when, as amongst friends,
The hero sleeps, (and most of his have wounds,)
To them, misdeeming no such thing, creeps Calduc,
And his fell crew. On every sleeper, then,
Of the king's peers and valorous warriors,
Four champions suddenly seize! Even thus, uneath,
They take the least. And though surprised, in trance;
With shout! appalling all their craven hearts;
Like to ureox, upleapt the warsire Caradoc:
And, with a stool, the hero had slain them all;
Were not a wrestler stolen behind his back;
Who, with a sudden cast of his vile foot,
Under knee-bow, where is the strongest weak,

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O'erthrew Caratacus, Strong-arm of Britain;
And flung a noose the felon, on his neck!

All, knit together their ignoble force,
Him bind then on the ground. Yet hardly gyved,
With bronze, to this, prepared, they his dread hands;
Who bellows, as an heifer, in his bonds!
Then they, that now his peers and mighty ones,
Have bound, do fetters on his royal feet.

Those thrust them, mocking, sith, in covered carts,
And convoy closely forth, through much murk forest;
That might none hear, that main voice, of king Caradoc.

Another day, come down to Abus strand,
In moorish dale, twixt holts, swart streaming wide,
Rolling dark treasons, Calduc's impious breast;
He weighs, (which all occasions should cut-off,)
Whether not Caradoc drench, and all his peers,
As misadventure were, midst the dark flood,
In that they pass; yet dreads that river's god.

Whilst thus he reasons, came, from the witch queen,
A raven, which she feeds with quicken berries;
(And, fame is, flesh of men!) That war-fowl knows
Calduc; when crakes the slaughter-bird to him,
See, and thou bríng king Caradoc safely on;

224

To enter, such an eve, in Caer Isurium,
When high feast is of great Brigantios, god.
It shall be light, persuade men full of mead,
He is run mad; wherefore ye brought him bound!

Sets the sixth sun; when they walled dune Isurium,
Approach; whence blown, is to their listful ears,
As confuse noise of revelry and loud voice;
Praising the god, a thousand drunken throats:
Where come; the dune, lo, full of reeling wights;
With whom, is the queen's guard, dancing in harness.

But when men Calduc saw, within their gates,
Went up a cry, none wist from whence, To arms!
Then ran together, presently, a great press;
But Calduc, with his spear, the people smote.
Likewise do those with him, that cry, Give place;
For urgent is this business of the queen!

Way entering in, to the dune's royal court,
Twixt two paled banks, winds. Cunobal it devised,
Is fame, for his more safety, in his days.
This privily hath now beset false Vellocatus.
Yet when main voice was of Caratacus,
Yelling he is betrayed! heard in the street;
And, in those covered wains, voice of his warriors;

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Men, whose hearts hate the tyranny of the fell queen,
Have, running to their wicker bowers, caught arms.

Assemble, in the street, then, shielded band;
Which presently entered, following with the wains;
Shut-to the gates, behind them, Vellocatus!

From the two banks, then fly his treacherous shafts!
On Cunobal's pent armed warriors; which fall pierced.
Bellows, within the cart, king Caradoc!
Who reads now all the falsehead of this queen.
The wains are halted, at the mead-hall porch!

Is this, night's chilling air; it is no dream!
Those groans, in twilight, are of wounded men.
Hark, battle-yells! Lo, gyved Caratacus,
The godlike hero is, from a covered cart,
Haled forth of vilain wights! They, impious, thrust
On the great warsire, chained, to the queen's hall.
The rest, with buffets, then, unseemly, enforce;
With murmur deep, gain-striving, to high-hall:
Who, lords of warlike peoples, had, alone,
With them, the power withstood of mighty Rome.

The Humber R.

Sits Cartismandua, in her great father's hall;
Pale is the harlot-queen. In Cunobal's stool,
She uneasy leans: bright bow bears her white hand.

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Her royal guard, all beautiful young men,
Stand backward; looking forth, with ready spears.

But her imperious eyelids, from the floor,
Durst she not lift: she might not yet sustain,
Thy godlike looks, bewrayed Caratacus!
He Britons' king, (the visage wan, o'ergrown,
With beard, is seen, of great Cunobelin's son;)
Fierce-eyed beholds, from under thicket brows.
He bellows, heard that moan of dying men,
Without: shaking his chains, he waxed nigh mad!
He roars; and seems to quake Cunobal's moot-hall,
Whilst cites dull ear of heaven, Caratacus!

Comes eftsoons in, then lawless Vellocatus;
Whom so abased have the queen's devilish drugs,
He bathes him with the witch, and sits perfumed,
Drinking, all days, sweet mead, in king's high hall;
Or dissolute else, in sun-bower of the queen,
(Built on the walls, adorned with feather-work,
And hanged with so fine precious lawn; might seem
That dew-dropt weft, which beards, when Harvest-moon
Wanes and fall the first leaves, the thorny glades.
And storied it had fingers, long and small,
Of Cerna and Erdila, of Belisama caught,
With needle-work; bright maidens of the queen;)
Devising how betray, even Britons' gods,

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To Romans. Sped his bloody work, that prince,
In ivory settle, sate down, with the queen;
And hopes, with Cartismandua, to reign soon,
O'er all North March, with the strong aid of Rome!

He calls, for drink! Ceased now all noise of strife,
Without; behold, the ancients of this town,
Come bending in. But, in their secret, weep,
Old men, that call to mind great Cunobal;
Beholding, bound, betrayed in his high hall!
In ignominy of chains, this chosen of the gods;
Who duke of the resistance of blue Britons.

To them, with violent and stern voice, bespake;
Yet, on that terrible visage, could not look,
Burdening great Caradoc, falsely, Vellocatus;
How he would have delivered, to Venutios,
The queen. She only him forestalled in this:
And he himself must fight in her defence,
Whose blood derives, from that high warlike god,
Whose feast, renowned in all their coasts, to-night,
Isurium's citizens keep. His battle-wound,
Which bruised his brain, makes warlord Caradoc mad;
Whence now, from his obedience, all be loosed.

Beckons high warsire Caradoc, he would speak:
But straightway is shouted down, of the queen's guard.
Ribalds, they mock godlike Caratacus!

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Outcrying then, all at once, He is mad, mad, mad!
Stern, rising, in high settle, Vellocatus;
Steal the elders forth, afraid of their own deaths.

From thence, not twenty leagues, stands walled Caer Ebroc;
Where keeps Venutios, now, his warlike court:
Whom fearing Vellocatus, lest he march,
To loose out of their hand Caratacus;
His fell thought whispers he, unto the queen!
Wherefore, so soon as they might hear, again,
The people's drunken stir still, in the street;
They Caradoc thrust, without or drink or meat,
Anew forth, chained, unto the night; and bound,
With him, his lords: and, in what covered carts,
They now arrived, again, men them, by force,
Shut in. Shall Vellocatus them, with chariots,
And household armed, string champions of the queen,
Convey forth, to the Romans' duke Ostorius!

They part: cries after, the injurious queen,
Come forth, before her porch; See they mad Caradoc
Keep well; they keep him low and scant his diet;

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Lest, journeying, he break forth, to some excess!
In that she spake, slided the harlot's foot;
In dreary slime, spilth of men's murdered blood!

That great voice of the king, as by the street,
They pass, covers hoarse voice of trumpet's throat;
That seems to blow the vigil of the god.
They, come without the gate, their impious voyage
Pursue forth, under stars, and without pause;
Hoping thus to outgo the king Venutios.
Day dawned; awhile, they rest. All that sun, sith,
Taking fresh beasts, whereso they find, by force,
Those speed, till eve; they journey, yet, that night.

Last, almost spent, they win to mountain hold,
In march of the mid-Britons; whose bleak cliffs
Like some vast chamber, in moon's hoary light.
Strait is the gate, betwixt two justling rocks,
Whereas their beasts and wains may hardly pass;
A fastness of such strength, that might few warriors
Maintain it, gainst an army. Vellocatus,
Here now secure, will wait Rome's duke Ostorius;
Unto whom he sent, with utmost speed of horse.

Now, in that night, (abhorred of men and gods!)
Wherein the witch-queen hath delivered bound,
Great Caradoc, unto felon Vellocatus;

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Were many, in Cunobal's town, keeping the feast,
Of king Venutios' part. Were those, for late
They arrived, not slain. Then leapt some of them down,
From the dune wall; which fleeing, by dim paths;
Stint not their running, all night, on towards Ebroc.

Lo, those, at hour, when gin the leafy woods,
To ring, with sweet consent of the small birds;
Draw nigh some forest hold, whereas abide
Four brethren, woodwards; which, gainst lawless wights,
That border keep, for king Venutios.
Heard the men's words, betwixt their panting breaths;
(Those left, to rest,) twain of the brethren ran.
From nigh hill-brow, the land-cry raise, anon,
That other twain. O'er wood, o'er field, speeds forth
Then tiding grave, to hamlets, village steads;
And gather warriors soon to king Venutios!

Ere noon, are those two brethren nighing fast,
Unto Caer Ebroc! where already bands
Assemble armed. Those halting now, from race;
Where, mongst tall warriors, harnessed, stands Venutios;
One of the brethren, that assays erst speak,
Reels, falls, for brast his valorous heart, a corse!

The king bade crown him, that lies dead, with bough,

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Ere he were cold, of sacred yew. Heard then
His germain's tale; lifting his royal palms,
He prays the Sun all-seeing, far-shooting god;
With arrow of death, smite felon Vellocatus;
And give, that might he save Caratacus!

Now issue first foot-bands, from Ebroc walls.
By way that to Isurium leads, those hold:
(Shall king Venutios follow on, ere eve;
With all his horse, and speeding chariots.)
March Ebroc's host, with blowing trumps; and grows,
From league to league. Night-time, to them, Venutios
Arrives. But brought more certain word, at dawn,
Is, how, with wains, went forth king Vellocatus;
(And bounden, in them, lies Caratacus!)
From Caer Isurium, with strong guard of horse.

Now York.

Found their wheels' trace; pursues stern king Venutios
Fast after; and he prays just battle-gods,
With burning heart, of vengeance as he rides.

Ridden on the spur, the Romans' duke, Ostorius,
Is reached now to that hold, with knights and horse:
And covenant there he makes, with Vellocatus,

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At all times, send an aid of Roman arms,
To maintain Cartismandua the queen's part;
Gainst her strong foes, (now many,) in wide North March:
And Briton Vellocatus, on his part,
Shall now deliver him Caratacus.
Joining right hands, it, by his nation's gods,
Whom he betrays, swears felon Vellocatus!

Britons, their warlord yield, to Britain's foes;
Yield, to be done, to shameful death in Rome!
There to be made a spectacle, ah! of scorn,
Nay of pity, even to his cruel adversaries.
Hero divine, they yield Caratacus!

Called Gaulish smith, one who rides mongst his horse,
Commands Ostorius; he offsmite the chains
Of king Caratacus. Forbid it gods,
Quoth he, of Rome, so noble foe were bound!
That Roman duke then taking, by the hand,
The hero; admires, longtime, his royal feature!
His tribunes also gaze, on that great Briton,
And captains! he who, in swift-teamed shrill chariot;
And girt with royal band of barbare gold,
Leading blue hosts, had seemed some hostile god!

But when is come new dawn, leaving that place,
Ostorius; Caradoc, captive king of Britons,

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Must, midst thick-spears ride, of Rome's Gaulish horse:
They, each night, after long swift journey, lodge,
For peril of the way, in fence of vallum.
Great is their charge, who bring Caratacus.
Ostorius, in his tent, him entertains.

Last all, to legions' stative camp, arrive;
(Is that now Noviomagus, dune by Thames.)
And sith, ere this moon's end, with guard and wains,
Led in, sad captive, lo, bright Embla queen;
To adorn, with him, some cruel pomp in Rome!

Her, journeying, horse which Cartismandua sent,
Had overtaken; and they, on her, did seize,
By fraud, and her sweet babe. Then, that fell queen,
Far ways about, from king Venutios' ken,
Did send them, with strong guard of horse, to Romans.

They few days dwell; and sorry is duke Ostorius,
For their nigh deaths; who pleasantly oft discourses,
In tongue of Latium, with these high-born Britons.
Then he commands, make ready, the ninth legion;
King Caradoc to convey, his wife and brethren,
To Cantion port; whereas they shall embark.

Such power he sends; lest even, in Roman Province,
Some leaf-crowned Britons tempt, despising death,

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Rescue their king. Behold is led king Caradoc,
Midst Roman soldiers; on tall Gaulish horse.

From Thames' green banks, and all along the path,
Each hour, to vale of Kent, fast-flocking Britons,
Hanging their heads, spread disarmed hands and weep.
Fair women beat their open breasts, down loost,
(Clear as the gleaner's sheaf,) their long hair-locks,
Like to ring-gold. Is, all day, loud and great
Lament of those that see their warlord led,
Captive, in their own Land! and Embla queen,
That daughter of dead Kentish Dumnoveros:
And their sweet babe, the Maid-of-Kent, they name.

At Dubris, galley-ships, lo, with stepped masts,
To take them in, ride ready; and merry wind
Blows fair. Ha! mock great Caradoc's captive case,
Even at his own white cliffs, of foster Britain,
That shall he see no more, Rome's legionaries;
Whose majesty them confounds. But generous Publius,
Who emulates that old continence of Romans!
(The prætor's son,) taking this king's right hand,
(Which multitude hath, untimely, of harnessed soldiers,
Sent down to hell,) walks with him to Kent strand,
Where he inships; and down even to sea-billows.
Last bids, with manly cheer and voice, Farewell!

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The gods, cries he, of thee, most noble Briton,
Have cure! Him follows, with their daughter, Embla;
(To whom, mild countenance show Italic soldiers.)
In other keel, his oath-fast brethren sail.

They loost, at eve, to shun the pirate-navy;
At day-dawn, touched Mainland. Through plain then journey,
Of Gaul, in much disease, in covered carts,
Those royal Britons: sith, vast Alps overpassed;
They turn, (but captives now!) to hostile Rome.

Venutios speeding, with his warlike scythe-carts,
Drew nigh, the fourth day, to that mountain hold;
Where warded was betrayed Caratacus.
But they now all forlorn that strength behold!
Yet of poor wight, whom, under beechen shaw,
Larding few swine, they found, Venutios hears;
Was Vellocatus, yester, parted forth;
With horse and covered wains, and swift-teamed scythe-carts.
He led away, king Caradoc saw, mongst horse,
Of enemy strangers; that him hemmed, with spears!

Vain pursue after were, the Roman squadrons,

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With weary steeds. Then king Venutios rides,
At second morrow, on his enemy's trace.
When fade night stars, and gins new morn to break;
Being ready now to halt, and graze their teams,
They espy some wavering steeds of Vellocatus;
That browse, with bridles loost, in the fresh glades!

Blindness of heart had cast, on those false Britons,
Avenging gods; that wander they distraught,
Seeking widewhere, and cannot find their path:
Nor knoweth one, any more, his fellows' face
And voice. Steep clouds them seem some frowning woods,
Blue holts wan waves; fire seems the wavering wind,
Which, their distempered entrails thus consumes.
For victual spent and spoiled, they gnaw wild leaves;
But, kex and dwale, the angry Briton gods
Give to their hands; nor find they aught to drink,
Of that earth-mother's breast, which they betrayed!
(Had these been scattered, before Vellocatus;
Who slew his own folk, yester, from iron chariot;
When fell dire frenzy on him, from the gods!)

Like heartless deer, dismayed, at thunder's sound,
They gaze on venging scythe-carts of Venutios!
That powdered, with long course, to them approach;
Whose riders shine, with glaives drawn to their deaths.

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Then extreme headlong fury, upon them, seized.
Dispersedly, on sharp iron and whirling bronze,
They rush of him, who most expert of dukes.
He, like to erne, which, on his quarry, stoops;
Now on them hurls, without regard, save this,
Them make, and Vellocatus, ravens' meat!

Men diversely report, how eftsoons met;
That felon Vellocatus could not smite
His rightful lord, the king, whom he had wronged:
And how Venutios held his wrathful hand;
And would not slay a wretch, beside his mind;
To heaven, remitting his dread punishment!
Whereof bards, in their chants, strange things endite;
How of crude fiends, in guise of immane birds,
Being ravisht; and long buffeted in wild winds;
That prince was cast, in dim abysmal place;
Strewn, with their corses, which had gods offended;
That stings of serpents, fangs of ravening beasts,
And ravens' beaks send on them. Fretted die
They, each day, till eve: but made, at dawn, alive;
Each soul new wakens, to new direful death.

Ere noon, were all his people cast away;
Nor more was Vellocatus seen of eye.
Men vainly him sought, among those bloody corses.
Howbe are some, which say, 'scaped Vellocatus;

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And lived with Cartismandua, in secret wonne;
In luxury, until, when changed her woman's mind;
She, instead of wont love-potion, in his drink,
Strewed venim privily; whence he swelled and died.
Yet sith repenting, by tremendous spells,
She gods constrained to loose her love from death.

With strength of foot, horse and shrill battlechariots;
Then marched, against Isurium, king Venutios;
Whereof foreknowledge having the witch-queen,
By aery intelligences, which obey
To her enchantments, Fagl, she compelled,
Prince of air-running nation of false spirits;
And sends, by welken paths, back, to Ostorius.

Fagl, gone forth; enters now Roman Verulam,
In form of Calduc. Squadron, with him, rides,
Of scythe-carts, whose hot teams vent hellish breath;
Nor might, save by 'scance-looking of their eyes,
From women's sons, be known those hollow fiends.

To Rome's prætorium, they presumptuous hold;
Where Fagl proffers tokens from the queen;
Then terms of late-sealed covenant, he recites,
Requiring instant succour of Rome's legions;
For marches all the North, against her raised!

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Fagl, in porch, without the council-house,
Vaingloriously, with his, (his reasons said,)
Attends, then answer of the imperial legate.

The occasion, deems Ostorius asketh haste;
Is season fit to conquer all North Britain:
Wherefore, the same day, parted; he takes horse,
At Troynovant; sent letters on before,
To Camulodunum, and, (new burg on Yare,)
To Gariononum; to make ready cohorts;
Commanding, that those meet him, in the path.

That royal witch, who skills black weathers raise,
And chain the wavering winds, sends other fiends;
Which, baleful, borne, on eager rushing wings,
Wake magic tempest; lightning splits the craigs:
Is filled then dusking air, with blasts of dread.
And met with other spirits, of hell-ground,
Those make earth's face to quake, and reel the woods;
Whence cumbered is the march of king Venutios.

Sith when that warlike king heard, how the legions
Approach; he rose from sieging round Isurium:
(Wherein all dwellers fear the outrageous queen;
That takes off, and for aught mistrust she hath,
Whomso she will, by venim, or night-murderers!)

Venutios hastes hill-passage then beset,

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Hemmed with sharp craigs; and whereby, the third morrow,
He deems, must marching Roman legions pass.
And seemed his chariot-wheels, as burning brass,
With hovering ravens' wings, so fleetly he drives;
Who most, of noble warriors in the North,
Is skilled, in full career, wield rushing teams.

Bands, with the king, ride, of Brigantine horse.
An armed backrider sits, on each steed's croup:
Are those, in fight, light-runners, with the scythe-carts.
Three-hundred follow, of the land's trimarch.
Run many chariots, with the king Venutios;
And powderous, flecked, with spume, come their teams' breasts.
Loud sound the stripes, of hundred crackling whips;
Of who tall lords, in them, to battle, ride.
Glister their rushing wheels, uprolling dust.

But looking forth, at morrow, from steep craig;
Far-glancing arms, of Romans' expedite cohorts,
Venutios sees, already past the strait!
He must return then back, to his caterfs.
Last he his weary powers draws to hill-foot;
Where now they rest, come eve, in covert place.

But when shines wide East threshold of day's god,
As a vast hearth; to battle impatient, blue

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Brigantes hail this surging sun! Venutios
Leads forth his chariots. Seemed a whirlwind risen,
Then, like to storm-god, on the Summer plain.
Venutios foremost rides; and soughs the wind,
About his blowing hairs; that, like flame, girds
A bend of gold. Romans, at crow of clarions,
Though taken unwares, (had marched the legions' trains
Before the sun,) halt, range them, do helms on,
Embrace their shields. Their tribunes, at a run,
Lead up the rearward. Time fails, stand in ordinance;
Soldiers them gather round their stoutest ones.
Gauls' horse, in field, with knights of Rome, ride forth.

Impetuous assault of swift iron scythe-carts;
(Whence barbare yells affray Italic breasts!)
Reap round them living swathe. Venutios leapt,
To grass, and chariot-riders, with him, made
Yet more red slaughter: for the king, in force,
Though old, is next to great Caratacus.
Drivers of iron scythe-carts, then draw off,
To breathe their sweated teams, for come his spears;
Which footmen now, in wide half-moon, he leads;
(Was this old warlike wont of Cunobal,
His enemies to enclose.) But went not forth,
To-day, Brigantine gods, mongst their blue warriors:
(Fear holds their hands, dread quells their divine breasts,

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Of Fortune, god of Rome; that, in North March,
Arriving, threatens hurl them from their seats,
Aye and send them, exiles, forth!) whence shortly enforced,
The Britons' loosely ordained caterfs are seen!
Brigantine bands are, each from each, dispersed.
But, from an ambush, warriors, oak-leaf crowned,
Fell out, with so fierce brunt, they saved Venutios.

Come to Isurium soon, from field of fight,
Rome's duke, behold, Ostorius, with the legions!
Where Cartismandua, unworthy queen, now him,
With feast receives and honour, only due
To Britons' sire, betrayed Caratacus.
Princes of many lordships of North parts;
Then, (lest their dunes were burned and wide fields wasted;)
Come in, entreat of peace. The imperial legate
Will, (hostages imposed and yearly tribute,)
To Claudius some, the noblest of their sons,
Send; to be fostered up, in sovereign Rome:
But unto Romans, comes not king Venutios!

These things determined, and left foot and horse,
For garrison; hastes to part again, Ostorius;
Had tidings of new tumult in his Province.

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Chuchid is up, last son of Moelmabon:
(For valorous Cerix, prince, is dead, of late!
Whom all men favoured, hope of Deheubarth,
Of his sore, many, wounds; which he received,
Warding the warsire hurt.) From all West March,
Chuchid leads warlike youth; that come uneath,
To man's estate and spousing days, have crowned
Their beardless heads, with leaves, to fight, to death!

But Cartismandua soon, queen, Briton-born,
Waxed weary in her light mood, of Cæsar's soldiers;
That up and down the street of Cunobal,
Chant insolent proverb, in lewd Latin tongue,
Woe to the vanquished! shamed, she daily hears,
Her royal maids; and Briton wives undone.

Forlorn of all men, Vellocatus dead,
She now forsaken is of her fathers' gods.
Bright Belisama, in whom she hopéd most,
Abhors her, which betrayed Caratacus.
Though seethe she many a night-cropt cankered root,
Her magic spells have lost their former force;
Despise her perverse spirits now her behests.
The griesly night-hags of dread Morrigu's train,
Conspire, in their dark watch, to mock her rest;
(Wherein she shrieks, and weeps for Vellocatus!)
By day, are they as clarions, in her ears,

244

Tongues that upbraid, which whisper dark suggest;
To slay herself! ere vengeance of the gods,
Her overtake. She sees, before her, rise
The souls of all whom she hath done to death;
That beckon her, to pains of Underworld!

Then goddess, Kerriduen, in that march,
Of the Brigantine women, on her cast
Distemper foul: whence, full of loathsome sores,
Might she be known, bereaved her beauty, uneath.
And her luxurious loins are thrilled with ache.

In vain, to Aermod, goddess, which hath charge
Of healing herbs; and, daughter of the god
Of leeches, Etain, Cartismandua calls.
Like carcase longtime dead, is this queen's corse
Become a stink: and who her lovers were,
Her now abhor. Great queen she, in North March,
Doth only therein live, that none ease hath;
Which, (when her journey done,) each thrall-wife hath!

Moreover, seeks felon Calduc her decay;
Hoping, dead Cartismandua, or else undone;
He should himself sit, in great Cunobal's room:
But Cartismandua, semblant made of feast;
She taketh him off, by venim, in his meat,
So sharp, that burst his belly, or he deceased.

Then fallen in hatred, of all men and gods;

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And had all in suspect, the damnéd queen,
Used cruelty extreme; and daily did torment,
As many as she misweens conspire her death!
As one past hope, sought Cartismandua, at last,
Atonement of her much long-injured lord;
With secret proffer, to revolt from Rome.
But might not more Entreated be Venutios.
Alone, he grants, in grace of her great sire;
Her body dead, to bury, and not expose.

In vain, she mullen burns and sacred vervain;
And, in the thick fumes, mutters mighty spells;
Which wont to open doors were, of dark Hell,
And move dead world: she calls strong spirits beneath!
Her maidens answer, only, to her crying;
Havisia, and eye-bright Erdila and Goleudyth,
And Arianlys. The people tell, in form
Then of swart hound, the royal hag outran;
Banning the gods, whose anger her transmewed,
(Her, hairy hide now covers!) to beast's shape.

She delves, in graves, with her inhuman claws:
She rends dead flesh; and that by covert night.
And rotten hearts, of who her enemies were,
Plucks forth! (her hand the most sent to their deaths!)

246

To make more devilish charms, then on green grass:
Whence burdens her the people's dreadful curse!

Being come Caratacus, and Embla and peers,
With long disease, to gates of hostile Rome;
When it is night, and no man in the ways;
To the Gemonium, (prison named of sighs;)
All brought, in covered carts, therein were cast:
Where hidden, in loathsome den, beneath the earth,
As in a tomb, from heaven's cheerful light;
They await the ignominy of most cruel deaths!
By strangling, at base hands of vilain wights.

Yet erst will Claudius show Caratacus;
(King, which these nine years hath withstood his legions;)
A public spectacle, in the Roman streets.

Behold then, on set day, those royal Britons,
Sad, squalid, chained, are lifted, bleak of hew,
Up, from that dreadful lower prison-pit,
Of Servius Tullius; (which, four-paces deep,
Is ceiled with stone, beneath the Roman street;)
Into sun's blissful ray, to march, from weight
Of night, to death! Behold Caratacus!
With pomp, (great barbare Island's king!) led forth;
By the world's sovereign-City's thronged paved street;

247

And through triumphal arc, decreed to Claudius;
Whereon his fond new name Britannicus, writ!
Behold, bronze images, gilt, on that arc's top,
Set up; of Britons' trimarch, and scythed war-carts:
And, in the entablature, battle, graved, is seen,
Before paled walls of hill-set Camulodunum!

Loud trumpets sound! Much insolent concourse is
Descended, in Rome's ways, of mingled speech;
(For flow the world's offscourings now by Rome,
Wherein are infinite slaves of many wars.)
Stand, on all foot-ways, Rome's proud citizens,
Ranged; bove whom framed be scaffolds, in long rows;
Where sit patricians, and Rome's senators;
And ambassades, with purpled magistrates;
Women look proudly on, from every porch;
Stairs, pillared temples. Other throng house-tops;
Where great Britannic king Caratacus,
Their Sacred Way along, towards his death,
Shall pass. He cometh, lo, chained, like salvage beast!
Afoot. With him fares Embla; and, twixt them both,
Their little daughter traces, Maid-of-Kent.

His brethren peers, come after, in Rome-street.
As, on Jugurtha bound, all Romans gaze,

248

On thee; (with ribald jests, they mock thy looks,)
Sword-of-the-gods, divine Caratacus!

Great king Cunobelin's scythe-cart, then is seen;
Wherein war-kings of Britain wont to ride.
It draw forth, teamed, six tall young noble Britons,
War-captives! and winged dragon seemed the beam;
With vermeil shining scales. The bilge is full
Of dints; yet seen distained with battle-blood!
The wheels seem running eagle's claws, of bronze.
And men those barbare brazen hooks behold,
Whereon, were wont be hanged, in every field,
The off-hewed polls, of chief slain ones of Romans!

Was taken that royal cart, at Camulodunum;
Wherein is reared now of Cunobelin,
Broad sun-bright targe; and hauberk of Manannan.
The shrieking Briton axe-tree, of hard bronze,
Rumbles, not-washt, with scab of battle-dust,
And rotten gore, on, dread, through mighty Rome:
And thereon gazing, shrink the hearts of Romans;
That fear again the antique Gauls of Brennus!

Thereafter, four-wheel Briton wagons drawn
Are. March tall young men, captives of the Isle,
Beside; upholding barbare glittering ensigns.
Those wains pass forth, behanged with painted shields,
Of island peoples, vanquished in the wars.

249

Gleam war-horns, in the first, and long iron glaives:
Bound, in the next, lo, thraves of bronze-head spears.

Passeth forth godlike, pale, Caratacus,
(Whose only arm a nation's shelter was!)
Betrayed, not taken, in wars; midst dog-faced press.
The Briton king, erect, magnanimous,
Vouchsafes not them behold. The stings have pierced,
Of ire, his noble breast; proud sorrow slays.

On Embla's looks, long-time, all Romans gaze!
Though she, from prison-pit, come lean and wan;
So fair a woman's face, is none in Rome.
Her tresst locks part are wounden, like to crown,
Upon her noble front; part, backlong hang,
Like veil of gold. She, sad-faced Britain's queen,
Hath a royal majesty, in her countenance!

Like snowdrop pale, (the innocent oppressed!)
Their maiden child, she leads on by the hand.
(These oft speak, twixt them both, in Briton tongue.)
That little daughter dreads swart looks of Romans;
And cannot choose but weep, because these chains
The king, her father, bears: nor wots, (amaze
Her, so sore, all things;) they wend to their deaths!

Those peers, that follow, of Caratacus,
(His brethren named,) seem harts, mongst wolves of Romans.

250

The cruel Romans murmur, whilst they pass;
What joy were, see these enemies cast to beasts!
Great-statured Idhig seems them Father Mars,
His harness doffed; such his great brawns and breast!

One led, lo, of the royal war-cart steeds,
Which Caradoc fed, with the white barley ears;
And Embla's white hand combed, in far-off Britain;
His mane, long-drooping, stains yet warlike woad.
Is he the last of those which drew the chariot
And royal sons of great Cunobelin;
With silver bit, and barded to the ground,
With gingling little chains: dight his breast harness,
With coral studs, and emailled scaly brass,
Fashioned like sheen spring-leaves and bright-hewed flowers.
Lace, of great pearls, hangs, on his neck, of glass.

Not as when Hart-foot, with his dam, Blue-mane;
Or his yoke-fellow, swift Gold-hoof, he ran,
Under bright silver yoke-tree of Cunobelin;
And shook the hulver-beam of the king's chariot.
Wound-weary old, this famous battle-steed,
Gaul's long paved way, and, sith, vast Alps hath passed.
On his broad chine, hath carrion leanness seized.

251

His bronze-shod hooves, which wont, in island Britain,
To trample Roman shields, uneath tread forth.
Of stature low, he goeth, in Rome's paved street,
With drooping crest. And heard, mongst mocking Romans,
Was word, from mouth to mouth, Whether is this
The horse or ass, of king Caratacus?

They gaze on arms upborne, of tall blue warriors,
On staves and tables, of two Briton kings.
But most Manannan's hauberk Rome admires;
That casts, divine, a strange victorious gleam!
Much like quaint precious armure which uphangs,
In temple of Bellona, of Britomaros;
Or that of Gaulish king Bituitus;
Who rode in Fabius' triumph, of old time;
In silver war-cart, clad in gilt ceiled harness.

Men gaze on Caradoc's helm, of lucid steel,
Whose crest that dragon of his royal house;
And golden belt of strength, and tremble Romans:
And the king's glaive, which heapmeal hath slain soldiers.
The same is noised, was sword renowned, that Brennus
Cast in those antique balances of old Rome!

252

Yet seen borne collars, kingly ornaments,
Gold frets, broad brooches, rings and long-spired bracelets,
Cups, silver mead-horns of old Verulam kings;
Gold bends of charioteers, bright tyres of steeds;
Then spoil of infinite bronze, lead, silver, tin.
Last princes, hostages, of submitted tribes,
Of Britons, march; about whose noble necks,
Wreathed torques shine, of the fine burnt gold of Britain!

Duke of Senones, defeated B.C. 283.

King of Arverni, defeated B.C. 121.

BOOK XXI

And having beene with acorns alwaies fed;
The Tears of the Muses; 590.

ARGUMENT

Caratacus is led to the Roman forum; where is sitting the emperor Claudius, with Agrippina. Cæsar receives a message from his daughter Octavia. He pronounces, that shall not die Caratacus: he pardons him and all his house. Sudden tumult of Gauls in Rome; which is appeased, by Briton king Caratacus.

All South Britain is now a Roman Province. Only Silurians remain unsubdued. Chuchid, last son of Moelmabon, leads forth their warlike youth. He overthrows Roman cohorts. Tidings are brought to Britain, of Claudius' death. Nero rules.

Cuan chants, of the New Life, in Alban. There Amathon hath now tiding, of his son's death. He dies. Herfryd with their child Rosmerta, was gone forth to minister to Kowain. When might her wains no further pass; she journeys on, afoot, with the child and her nurse. They hear then a land-cry; that Maglos, Hælion and prince Kowain are fallen!

By night-time, those come to that burned place; where newly Kynan buried Britain dukes. Kowain's grave is found. Terror falls upon them, in the next night; and they hastily remove. The women's weary and deadly march. In that long path Caltra dies, the child's nurse. Herfryd, at length, descended from Mendip, comes to border of Avalon's mere; which, for flood, she cannot now pass. Longtime she calls; but none there hears her bitter crying. She travails in the

night, and bears a deadly babe. Rosmerta waking, at dawn, finds her mother cold; in whose dead bosom is laid a new-born babe. Dylan, hearing the child's voice, swims to her, from Avalon shore. His sons row over their bark; and laid their lady dead, therein; they ferry again to Alban. Lamentation for Herfryd.

War-worn Britain now hath rest, three years; whilst unwarlike Nero rules. Deceased is also the duke Ostorius, in his charge. Suetonius, the new legate, marches against Mona. Romans, scattered the defending Britons, cut-down their sacred groves.

Boudicca's great revolt. King Prasutagos dead, the quæstor's servants, entered the royal dune, put all to sack. The queen is beaten with rods; the royal daughters are outraged. Prasutagos' herdfolk, who come in from upland, heard that tiding, overrun and slay those Romans. Queen Boudicca's complaint. The land-cry is raised. A multitude of Britons arrive: which grown to great angry host; Boudicca leads them forth, now the third morrow, driving in her royal chariot. To Camulodunum, is their dread march. There Roman veterans take again their disused arms: but prodigies have amazed their fearful hearts. They flee to temple of Claudius; where soon raging Britons have them enclosed. At midnight, an earthquake shakes those temple-walls.

Lo, to the forum, Rome's chief market-place,
They now arrive; where sits, in curule state,
He, to whose nod the world obeys and Romans.

With Cæsar, Agrippina sits; who vaunts
Her blood illustrious of the imperial house.
(This, his fourth wife, is sister to mad Gaius
Caligula, dead; Germanicus' progeny both:
Being niece to her incestuous husband Claudius!)
Her throne, lo, little lower made than his.

But ox-faced Messalina, for her crimes,
(She common sink of all was lewd in Rome;
Whence Venus Cloacina, named of Romans,
In scorn!) ere three years had, consenting Claudius,
The imperial slave Evodos put to death;
Smiting her, which she, infamous, well deserved;
With glaive, in those magnific gardens, where-
Of seized, by bloody fraud, she newly was;

Gardens of Asiaticus Valerius,
Rich consular; friend-companion ere to Claudius,
In his renowned Britannic enterprise:
For she it coveting; of those drivelling lips,
Of Claudius; which, in colling him, then she kissed,
Thrice falsely kissed, obtained Valerius' death!

How stands then, with fixt eyeballs, Caradoc!
Who stern regards, beyond the purple wretch,
In Cæsar's stall, on that high temple-rock!
And draws his beard, through his high warlike hand.
He looketh him, lo, about, to-day as Brennus,
Whose seed he is, looked, yore, on vanquished Roma!
Whence, in his totty poll, much marvelling Claudius,
Whose pate aye wavereth, as a flickering leaf;
And nodding poppy seems his ruddy face;
Through an interpreter, the cause requires.

Then Britons' godlike king Caratacus;
Who aspect bears of high heroic worth;
Though smitten down, before strong gods of Rome;
With far-resounding voice of his vast chest,
And royal frankness; using Latin speech,
(Which Verulam him taught, in his first youth,
Whereas dwelled many Gaulish fugitives;)
Responds, I did bethink me, Claudius,

Of my Sire's clemency, from whom I, in Britain,
Am fourteenth king; (and well could I them name,
From sire to son:) that, when was partly burned
This city, in antique wars, a remnant spared;
Which famine, in yond sacred arx endured;
Rock and high fane of greatest Roman gods!
Where I, myself, have also offered gifts;
Which sent Cunobelin, for the peace of Britain.
Gods, which made you so great, have cast us down!

Voice of the captive king, like warlike trump,
Resounds, in marble Rome! Nor Caradoc changed
His countenance; nor his royal looks abased.
And, quoth he; Romans! whilst I viewed, from hence,
Your palaces, your gilded temple-roofs,
I marvelled, ye could covet our poor cotes!

Looks on, with rheumy eyes; and admires, Claudius,
The integrity of the man, and noble speech:

And rolling heedful thoughts, with various mood,
Falls gleam in him, as of some old remembrance!
That this the same, the stature and the man;
(Though blanched, in thrice three troublous years, his hairs,)
From Britain came, in Gaius' days, to Rome;
In embassage, from island king Cunobelin.
Yea; and by the valour of whose only arm,
He, Claudius, lives. Was this, who smote those murderers,
Camillus Furius and Vinicianus,
Young, senators both; that drinking, of one cup,
Their mingled blood, gainst his imperial state;
(Which tablets manifested, with them found,)
Conspired! And oft, towards Embla, glancing Claudius;
And gazing on their little daughter's face,
Refigures, in this child, her father's looks;
Such as he was. Brast out, at foot of Claudius,
That little royal maid, at length, to weep!

Desire of glory, as rheum, in his blear eyes,
Springs evermore, in Claudius' impotent breast;
Which praise would have, of tongues, in ribald Rome.
He lord of hundred, all-world conquering, legions,
He himself esteems less worth, in secret breast,

Than this great captive king Caratacus;
So godlike rich, in all the gifts of Nature;
In war so great, gainst him, unjust, and Romans.
What glory it were, in grace of his great merit;
Pardon this captive king an enemy's death!

In that, is told, a chamberlain brought up tablets,
To the high hand of Cæsar, from Octavia,
His daughter dear; (but now not happy wife
Of the young Nero:) wherein, hastily writ,
Reads Claudius; She, which led is in the street,
I have seen, is Briton Embla; which, in time
Past, friend was of my maidenhood, in Rome.
I knew not, till I marked the child so like her,
That Embla espoused had king Caratacus.
Then I, a Briton servant sent unto her;
Have this now ascertained, of her own mouth.
Father, beseech thee, save them both from death!

Is told, how also Embla message sought
Send to Octavia, from the prison vault,
But could not; was her little not enough
Vile gaoler bend to deed of gentleness.

Clamour, gin bloody Romans; This alone
Discouraged the army! Away with him to death!

But Cæsar beckons, that their cries should cease.
He cheerfully then regarding, that great Briton,
Who, as bound lion, mongst hunters, stands, spake Claudius;
Thou shalt not surely die, Caratacus!
Whom Friend, ere wars in Britain, named our Senate.

Hark, commands Cæsar; Offsmite the king's chains!
And thereto, That his brethren's bonds were loosed.
Claudius grants pardon, then, to all his house.
From hence, the imperial sergeants shall them lead,
To hostel; where the nations' embassades lodge,
Guests of the people of Rome. The Britons' diet,
Be also at charges of the public chest.
And where, in Italy, list Caratacus,
There might he freely dwell; but taking oath,
(And these,) to Rome, of fealty; and shall they pass
No more the Alps. Great is our Claudius! shout

Then all Rome's pickthank parasites, hark! from street
To street. Live Clemency! Live Caratacus!

But tumult hearken! and fast thronging feet!
Run, in the forum, frantic rushing wights,
That cleave, with chant of Gauls, the Roman press.
Seem, by their stature, and long yellow locks,
Some slaves, whose grandsires carried away Julius,
Captives, from Britain. Standing those to view,
That pomp erewhile of Britons, slowly pass,
Sorrow did wring their hearts, to think on Brennus!
Whose songs live, in their mouths, from sire to son.
Be other seen with these, Italic Gauls;
Nay, are some even soldiers of prætorian cohorts!
And all have crowned, to death, their furious brows!
Those Brenhin! cry out, Brenhin Caradoc!
For thee, we die; in whom lives spirit of Brennus:
Sharp weapons seen are glittering in their hands.

Sits Claudius on, in peril; and was changed
His ruddy hew to wan. Caradoc, uplifting
His little maiden child, in all men's viewing;
What, hold! cries he, (great-voiced, like trumpet throat,
In Britons' tongue,) your hands! So saves, in Rome,
This second time, the life of Cæsar Claudius.

Run Almains' guard then; that, with barbare spears,
Closed fiercely round, disarm those desperate ones.
Kill, kill them; hale to torment and the cross!
Cry angry yelling Romans. The imperator,
Had, (partly also risen in his see!)
Looked, where might he and Agrippina fly.
Howbeit, seeing all again brought to good pass;
He asks of Britons' king, What mean these men?

To arx Capitoline, temple of Rome's gods,
Lifting then hand! responds Caratacus;
He deems, some oathbound ones: such head-long heats,
Wherein they retchless cast away their lives,
Common infirmity is of Gauls and Britons!
As he this day, by clemency lives of Claudius;
He prays, that they, with him, to die for Claudius,
Might live. This those shall swear before the gods.

And Cæsar grants; yet asks of this word Brennus,
Heard in their crying. It declares a Gaul,
(One of the interpreters, which at Cæsar's footstool,
For the affairs of nations, dwell in Rome;)
Chant druids, descended is the spirit of Brennus,

In this, Isle Britain's king, Caratacus;
Whom Cæsar pardoned, of his only grace.

Though, in the painted theatres, Claudius pleased
Be throes of dying wights, to see; men fight
With men, and perish, cast to bloody beasts;
Yet, for opinion, which to-day, him seems,
Raised of his glory and high felicity,
And magnanimity, pardons all those Claudius,
As Gauls run mad. They now disarmed and cold,
Submit them, humbly kneeling before Cæsar!

Only, yet somewhat panting, Agrippina,
For the past fear, shows evil countenance.
Well would she, had all damned Claudius to be dead.
Yet, for licentious Nero's mother is,
In whom the blood of Julia and Antony flows;
Kindle, neath amorous eyelids, with desire,
Her teeming veins; seeing how kneel unto her,
(Her reverently saluting, after Cæsar!)
Comely young men, well-statured as the gods.
(Impatient of his life, this Agrippina;
That Nero might, her cuckoo son, soon rule;
Shall, in his mushrooms, venim give to Cæsar:
Wherefore determine Roma's greatest gods,
Forewitting, fearful unheard judgment on her.
Whose end shall be, by that son Parricide!)

But Britain, whilst these things be done in Rome,
Is like to man, upon whose feet hath seized,
And on his belly, some extreme disease;
So that half-dead, and without hope, he lies.

Are all South marches, now twixt Thames and Severn,
Become a Roman Province. Midland tribes
Disarmed, yield tribute: only unvanquished rest
Silures; whose war-youth upgrown in time
Of Roman wars, now Chuchid leads. Is this
Last son of great king-warrior Moelmabon;
Who stricken in years, and since the timeless death
Of Maglos, in his hall, blind, bed-rid, lies!

And Cerix, fighting for his foster-gods,
Finished his course; which like to river tossed,
O'er high brink; that is broken in dim reek,
Beneath. And were, from pyre, his cinders laid,
Under swart mould; where all who run shall rest!

Kindles Silures' heart then published voice,
Of Roman dukes; Should be their name cut-off!
And how decreed Rome's Senate, plant their remnant,
In Gaul's mainland. Marched headlong, from Caerwent,
Like angry hornets, in the smoke; and met
With cohorts, that relieve the garrison towers,
They them o'errun, in that they vallum cast:

And put, with fury, to the sword, all Romans,
Which fall, into their hands. The sixth day's march;
Wherein they grown now were, to a main army;
They overthrow a legion's stedfast ranks;
(And hew down, in long bloody rows, Rome's cohorts!)
The rest, till night, pursue, in dreadful chace.

Of Romans, in the Isle, these days, in arms,
Fell a sixth part! Sends Chuchid, through all tribes,
Their captive ensigns. Shaped like scourge, o'erhangs
Behold, new comet star, the island night!
And druids chant; Thís should chace the Romans forth!

Flags Rumour his vast wings, uplifted, fill
The air his whistling pens, with whisper dread;
Is, in men's ears, derne bruit of Cæsar's death.
Imperial messengers put-on, day and night,
To furthest Provinces of great sovereign Rome.
The fourteenth day, vast Alps and sea o'erpassed,
Ostorius, in far Britain, tiding hath;
That deceased Claudius, Cæsar now is, Nero!

The duke no more, to field, his war-wont cohorts
Leads; till the certitude might be known of this:
Whether unwarlike Cæsar, that now is,
As repute many, will withdraw his legions.

Then was, whilst Britain's warlike soil hath rest,

Immense new disadventure fell on Romans,
Such as not heard, since great Rome founded was.
Perished six cohorts of the fourteenth legion,
Victrix of Britain, named, and Gaulish horse.

Long fiery drought was, in those Summer days;
When, lo, revoked from field, the cohorts march;
Till that sun's setting, o'er a wide waste moss.
Loud trumpets sound then, Lodge! and soldiers, labouring,
Night-fence of dyke and vallum round them cast;
(For dread those always Chuchid and blue Britons:)
And sith, of boughs, men gathered in the path;
Made hearths, they kindle now their supper fires.

Creeps yawning slumber on them, after meat;
For weary are, in Summer heat, their joints;
Long going, in rough ways, in wilds, and brakes.
Seem the dark heavens, over their dying fires,
Vast tent, wherein they rest; and the night's lamp
This comet-star. Few wake, with drowsing sense;
Towards mid of night, strange smell their nostrils smites,
Of burning! Men run crying, then through camp,
Of the night-watch; anon, sound out loud clarions!
Men shake, to waken, their companion soldiers.

Now is every hearth a smouldering pit, beneath:

And cannot those deep hidden fires be quenched.
Waxed bleak then swart Italic visages;
When they deep turven all discern that ground!
Those fear here dwell; they dread much more to march:
Lest sink their feet, through crust as brickle ice,
To fiery deep and Phlegethon, beneath.

In that the starry heavens' wide crystal bent,
Smote Taran, thunder-god, that rattled wide;
And fling seemed three-forked lightnings, from his hand!
And kindles rife around, the peaty sod;
And rose, on that dim field, dry rushing wind.

Their castrum-fosse, eftsoon, flames, like a wall,
About them. Seized then panic fear, on Romans,
Seen all this mould a-flame; and they cut-off,
From safety. Niger, tribune, blew loud note;
The assembly! Made short speech then to his soldiers,
Sitting, well seen of all, on his tall horse.
Let all, as many, he cries, as can, 'scape forth!
Only not cast their arms; for we are soldiers.

Vain words! he captain, mongst first dazing throngs,
Of rushing Romans sought, but might not pass,
Though mounted on strong steed, his castrum port;

Whence whirls red-flaming mouth back of night-wind.
He must return, where yet is living breath.

As furious cattle, hunted in a pen;
Run hither, thither, frantic yelling soldiers!
Fire, eachwhere, glows, in camp, from the sere earth;
And shouldered is to heaven, of this night-wind;
That heaven a kiln! earth smoulders, neath men's feet;
Wherethrough some fall: is in whose anguished flesh,
Then passion, each life's moment, of long age!
They do consume, as whole-burned sacrifices.
Other, which fallen are on the reeking mould;
Breathing that sulphurous fiery fume, dismayed;
Writhe, dying bodies, seized-on of wild flames.

Then Niger, then centurions slew themselves,
Riving their gorge; or, through their withered bowels,
Chacing short glaives. Now, now vast soaring huge,
Above the cohorts' camp, destruction roars!
Nor hope is left. Where least then flaming heat,
Few rest armed soldiers; that feel their helmed brows
Burst! feel their bodies baken, in their harness.
Then ere more fearful death them overtake,
Romans, they last, with iron, invade their lives!

Chuchid's forerunners; which lay nigh, that night,

In woody hill, being waked of some which watch;
This immense burning of the Roman camp,
Beheld! heard yell of dying enemies,
Aye, and sough of flames; as murmur, some seacliff
Beyond, of flood. They marvel, they cry out!
Praising the Britons' high avenging gods:
For was this death's night of great Antethrigus!

Few Romans were, as fingers of man's palms;
Which, on fleet steeds, wrath of the element,
Half-scorcht, outrode; even towards them, that bare shape,
Of human kind. But those, abhorring Romans;
Because men, which stretch to them suppliant hands;
(So left Dunwallon, in his laws; observed
Of Britons' tribes!) become as sacred guests,
They might not kill; those bind them, in wild forest,
To trees: and leave to die of famishment,
And teeth of wolves, those wolves of men and Romans!

Month-long, was all that heath, as burning hearth,
Men say, league-wide, house-deep; where sunk the cohorts.
And the burnt field, (where ofttimes, after rain,
Be yet seen men's white bones and crumpled harness,
And Roman arms,) the Legion's Pyre, was named.

Now Nero rules, the Second Antichrist.
But weary thou, to sing of battle-gods;
Turn, Muse, the tenor of thy warlike string;
And it, to chant, accord, with heavenly voice,
The deep sweet things of Christ; who, of the earth,
Great Morning Light, is risen on Utmost Britain!

Over the watery holms, of sacred Alban,
Are the Lord's eyes; and open Heaven's ears,
Are to His people's prayers. Lo, to Christ's saints,
There gather fugitive Britons, as wont bees,
To Summer flowers. Amongst them dwells lord Amathon;
And eat, of the old bountiful sire's hearth,
All whoso will. Ofttimes, in Joseph's house,
He sits; and joys hear sing, like soaring lark,
Cuan, Christ's Peace, to dreaming instrument; from
Whose strings, as sparks from stith, spring words of light.

Son of All-power; the womb-born God, His Breath,
With Truth, these days, descended to the earth;
And Love, in the beginning, was with God.
Like doves, they light down, from the heavenly towers!

When spended God the crystal firmament;
And hanged therein stars' ever-brenning lamps;
And gathered lands, and seas, to lowest place:
He, formed all flesh; and, therein, Spirit of life,
Breathed. Bountiful, fair, delectable, was that
First world: but entered, Enemy of God,
Foul Death; him vanquished hath man-saving Christ.

This old Dumnonian lord, which erst received
Christ's shipwrecked saints; ere Roman wars yet wasted
Had fields of Summer Land, and Isca burned;
Is lean, cast down and fades his ruddy hew.
Void is and cold, as bird's forsaken nest,
His heart for Kowain. In some peril reads
The sire, (made divination,) lies his son.

For his unlusty age, laments he then;
Which, as a frost, so stiffens his dull joints,
He cannot handle glaive; else he would forth,
As in his youth, to field, in battle-chariot.
He calls that day to mind; when he smote down,
Riding with Kamloc, king, in one swift scythe-cart,
Lothur; who inroad, (man of immense force,)
Made, with six pirate-keels, from Sacred Erinn:
Which seen, his caterans turned to flight; and great
Laud also he acquired: and battle-chant,

Amergin made thereof; that time, chief bard,
And singer in kings' halls, in Summer Land.

Are these consuming sorrows, daily smart,
Which fret his flesh, and drinketh up his spirits.
But when he captive hears Caratacus,
He looseth breath! Lived not long after this,
(Sorrow hath pierced him, in his latter days!)
The sire. He, of some fugitives come now in,
Ah, father, hears, was slain his only son!
Nor wots he, if Herfryd, great with Kowain's child,
Were saved; when, Rock of Duffreynt, fell his son:
There can him none assure, where she became.

He bade then Dylan, knap his staff atwain.
It brake that faithful hind, in equal parts:
This part the sire commends, to righteous Joseph;
That other takes to Hyn, the magistrate;
And bade him hang, in Brigida's sacred house;
In token, thus to his children he departs,
And to the people of Joseph's God, his goods;
In trust to feed the poor, after his death.

Fainting all day, died Amathon sire, at eve.
At morrow's setting sun, poor Alban folk,
(Polled their long hair-locks; and with clay-smutched faces,
In sign of mourning,) making great lament,

Follow, in hundred osier barks, his corse.
They bury Amathon dead, beyond the mere.

Herfryd, sprung of the valorous royal house
Of Golam, lords of antique Moridunion;
With wains, had journeyed forth, when Kowain marched.
She passed through coasts of Ordovican Britons:
And their loved child Rosmerta, with her, rides;
Child, which ere healed the shipwrecked man of God.
But Kowain, hasting towards Caratacus,
Had, on the Icknield way, her wheels forepassed.

So long she went, with hasting heart of love;
Till, mongst the cragged wastes of Deheubarth,
For wheels and teaméd beves, is no more trode.
Down-lighting then, she with her servants, leaves
Those beasts and her slow wains; on neck sith lays
Of Greth, strong painful thrall, few needful things.
And Caltra, with her, the child's nurse; they both,
Twixt them Rosmerta lead: and sue still trace
Unwont to this, upon their tender feet,
Of that ascending host. The third sun riseth
Now, over cleft, where had they, weary, slept,
In thorny brakes; then shouted heard through laund,
(Such, in their ears, as surges' bitter sound,

To drenching wight) Is fallen prince valorous Maglos,
In battle, and Hælion, and fell Amathon's son;
And all the host is cast away and slain!

Seemed then, as axe cleaved Herfryd's heart in twain;
Her knees fail, daze her eyes, and sleeps her sense:
But her, that wonder-working God of Joseph,
Sustains. She did not swoon: but kneeled down, weary;
And sighing deep, was all that living gold,
Of her long hair-locks, loost, sprent, on the ground,
With dust and leafy moss: in heart she prays,
Spreading, towards habitation of high gods,
Her trembling widow's palms; that might, soon laid
Her corse be, in one mould, with Kowain slain.

Her sobs brast forth; she, piteously then weeps.
On slumbering Rosmerta, fall burning drops.
The wakening child; what ails her mother, asks?
Sad Herfryd stinted then, and hid her moan;
(Though seemed her chest an iron band constrain,)
Till day she make, for Kowain, funerals.
She kissed Rosmerta; and sith she said, her sire
Died, with the sword of glory in his hand!

He fell on highway of his foster gods;
His spirit lives henceforth, mongst the holy stars!

They journey, slow and mourning, all that day;
Following still Britons' trace, before them passed:
And seem the skies to lower; and silent sits
Each bird on spray; and soughs this wilderness:
And fail their hearts, within their feeble breasts;
Whose busy thoughts, whilst they pace drooping forth,
Seem loud tongues in their ears, in the derne forest.

Past twilight, when now kindled the first stars;
As upon ashen, tread their weary soles;
And there salt smell of fire their nostrils pierced:
For are they reached, to fatal forest grove,
Which Kynan burned, who buried Briton dukes.

When cometh now up the sheen moon's goddess-face;
Cliff-valley, all fúll of scorched swart stems, appears!
Casting long shadows dread; and wroted earth,
Where men with men, to murderous death, contended:
And wide-strown writhen iron, and much burned bronze;
In that night's bale-fire, which were Britons' arms;
And banks of half-baked graves and carrion bones!

Alone, in horror of the frozen stars,
In this dread place, her dead sought Herfryd forth;

Longtime, even where wolves, gnarring, with fell paws,
Dig! She, with shut-up heart, each new-heaped earth,
Mongst blackened stubs, views; nor yet any token,
Finds which was Kowain's: fainting she returns
Then, where Rosmerta, in Caltra's bosom sleeps.

And Greth, aye, valiant thrall, keeps watch, in arms,
Hearkening each sound! Now bounden, his just brows,
With oaken spray; he to his soul hath sworn,
Die, in thís his lady's and dear child's defence!
She sate her down; she leaned her to a tree;
And sighed, as seemed her weary heart should break.
But pitying heaven, steeped soon sad Herfryd's sense,
In the sweet slumbering dew of dreamless sleep.

Thus Herfryd slumbers, till new dawning ray:
When risen, she yonder sees, neath that ash tree;
Whereto not raught bale-fire, three mounds, apart.
Are graves, wherein laid Ordovican Kynan
The Britons' dukes, ere yester, and passed forth.)

And Herfryd knew, by signs, who sleeps, beneath;
Which, on the wild head-stones, king Kynan set:
There limned a wheel; here image of a ship.
But an horned ox-skull, at this mid-mound's head,
Is token, lo, of the son of Amathon!
Of none needs Herfryd ask, Where Kowain laid?

Lo, sitting, at her knees, Rosmerta weeps;
And mourn, with her, and strew the rest, with moss,
And leaves, the hero's grave, and flowery grass.
Herfryd lay weeping, on that mould, till eve.
Her heart is shut in sorrow and distress.
And as oft seen the crawling writhen roots,
Of forest beech, some wayside bank enfold;
So, numbed, her tender knitted limbs outstretched,
Cold sacred sod, of Kowain dead, enclose.
Sun sets: and drowse now all, by her, forwatched.

They, midnight, wake; for it is cold, in forest:
But, sent from heaven, then on their weary spirits,
Such horror falls; that, risen, they haste remove;
Lest they should fall, in cruel hands of Romans.

Trembling, they journey, backward, all that night.
Wide lies bleak moonlight o'er their former path.
Gainst dawn was, when strayed from them, in a glade,
That faithful hind, which aye behind them marched;
With shield, and spear, aye ready them to ward.

Longtime, till sun high climbs, they called and sought;
But they saw no more Greth: who, in some pit,
Where digged men, ere-year, ore of warlike iron;
(Which afterward was known,) amidst the fern,

Is suddenly fallen! and was his faithful life,
There, dasht to death. They weeping, as they went
Forth, reach back, now third morrow, to that place;
Where had they left the wains, under grey cliff;
And tethered beves left in nigh river's mead.
But might they not find these, how long they sought:
(Beasts, servants, wains, all reft away had Romans!)

Though fail, that have not tasted meat, their hearts;
Herfryd, with Caltra, upon her widowed feet,
Still hastes 'scape forth: they bearing, twixt them both,
Rosmerta; afraid of every leafy breath,
In hazel-bank. Those fear each thicket place;
In every brake is dread of ambushed wights.
They shudder, at each shrinking of the fern,
Whence scuds the startling hare. Heard sudden shrike,
Of woodwale, that flits forth, how quail their hearts!

The weary women's arms uphold, uneath,
Kowain's sweet child; that stooping, oft, those kiss.
Each one walks staying on a manly spear;
But they, of kind, two feeble women are.
At even, under green-wood eaves, they rest;
Where, for their hearts' cold dread, must one keep watch;
Dread of night-prowling bloody wolves, in forest.

Seldwhiles, they find, in some forsaken cote,
To lodge; or aught there, they might bake and eat;
And forth ere day, in dread to be bewrayed.
They so long gone, then, on way-weary feet;
That all their little wallet-store is spent.
Are hips and berries of wild wood their meat.
Fail now their limbs, gins Caltra deadly faint;
Consumed she is, in so long forest paths.

One dawn, when they did wake, she cannot rise.
The kindly heat fades from her swooning corse.
She, foster, as some nesting thrush, that flits
Over her fledgelings, crowded aye the best,
In her child's mouth; no morsels, to herself,
Reserved: each day, she hoped to be relieved.
She waked and sighs; and kissed that little maid
Her dying lips: and seemed still on her gaze,
The foster's unclosed eyes. Then Herfryd said,
The goddess' shaft hath stricken her, alas!

Long shining lock, as harvest corn, she cuts
Then off, from that clay-brow of Caltra cold;
To make, when they might come, to Amathon, home,
Remembrance of her, in loud funerals.
Draws Caltra's body, Herfryd's feeble force,
To some old loamy barrow, in bramble bank,
Of broc or fox. There, under hazel root,

She buried her, and sand o'erheaps and earth.
Sith went they twain on, weeping, in their path.

Herfryd's intent is now to Avalon, where,
And they might so far come, lives Kowain's sire.
Great is the way, and she nigh seven months gone,
With child, grows great now burden of her womb.
Spouse to the son of so rich Amathon;
Where winds blow out, she sleeps, and in the rain.
Green thicket is her bower; her hall, wild woods:
But of that spirit is Herfryd, whence, of yore,
Kings' houses sprang, mongst kindreds of the earth.
She recks but small, of her poor outward part,
And she might Kowain's children save from death!

Neath her stained mantle, in their weary rest,
She lulls Rosmerta, on her panting chest.
Naught she hath left; nor pity of her false gods!
Help finds she none; for Romans lately passed,
Have all before them reaved and burned and wasted.

Yet Thou, All-father, watchest o'er their path;
Pleased, that, in this dear child, Thine Holy Name
Should dwell, as altar's flame, in temple pure!
Cold sorrow wakes; aye dark grief sleeps, with her.
Her germain, Golam, fell ere, in the war;
Now her loved spouse have cruel Romans slain.

She fears wild beasts; but from this highway, far,
They follow legions, and iron stink of gore.

All fretted is her weed, of thorns unkind;
The shoon to-torn, on her wayfaring feet;
That the healing tender herb doth clip and kiss.
Yet soars her spirit, as eagle from the cliff.

From league to league, when Herfryd fainting halts;
What for her uncombed locks, tangled with moss;
Her whiteness, where she leans, drooping, with grief;
How is she, like some birchen stem, in forest,
In Winter season waste; when, Autumn ended,
Few sere leaves rattle, on her sprays blown bare;
The cruddled mist, weeps from her comely crest;
And ragged all is seen her gentle rind!

She follows back, her people's upward trace;
Of whom none homeward turn again, alas!
The blackened pits she finds, of her own hearths.
But Cotswold past, wayfaring, Herfryd, last,
From Mendip hills, descends. She gazing, thence,
Sees; where, in forepast years, of Britain's peace,
Pastured the beves and ewes and hundred steeds,
Of Amathon sire. Now all ben scattered, lost:
His dune, his bowers and hall and granges burned.

And she, to help her, in her woman's need,
No woman hath, and nigh, she feels, her smart!

Sore, with long travel, stand her feet, at eve,
By Avalon's lyn; and now she can no more.
Ah, God! how these cold waters of the mere,
Sith days, increased be on the mead so wide.
Where way was ere, of beams, laid on the mire;
Now fry of fishes swim. Late flowed, in flood,
When tempest was, the river on the land.
Now Herfryd faints; and it soon will be night.

How is there none, ah, that doth Herfryd hear?
Who lifteth up, till latest eve, her voice!
None marks her bitter cry: she bark doth hear,
Of hound; now Alban's evening smoke sees mount,
Where each most wretched wight hath meat and warmth.
She, ah, heárs even the cornmuse, of shepherd-hinds;
But hears no man her weak holloa, alas!

Herfryd, night glooming, now; in her poor weed,
Rosmerta, hungry, laps to sleep. She marks
Then, nigh unto that place, some new-made grave;
And thinks her widow's heart, on Kowain cold.
She wist not, in that earth, lies Amathon dead;
Nor yet her sire is rotten, in his shroud!

So lays her down; and blows the bitter wind.
It is the boom of bittern, that she hears;
And whistle round her bed, these fenny reeds.

Late, in that night, none comfort in her pangs,
Her saw, in travail, fall, unhelpful stars.
And little or bleak dawn, too early, alas!
She brought a man-child forth; and sighed, and passed.

When smite first sunbeams, on Rosmerta's face,
The sweet child wakes, from long uneasy rest;
And she anon, sate up, her mother calls.
But Herfryd, yonder, without life and cold;
Mongst tumbled rushes lies! and, in her barm,
A babe, a little naked one, that weeps.
Are set the mother's eyes, that answers naught.
Rosmerta, child, loud wept! nor wist she, aught,
What thing is this! Loud weeps she, kissing oft
Her clay-cold lips. All, in her little smock,
The babe then lapped; and shrieking, to the lake,
Starts; though prick sedge, though cumber rush her feet,
Blindfoot, for grief, nor wots her passing grief.

An herding man went down; it Dylan is,
Before his many-footed flock, at sun's

Uprist, from the holm's bent, to mere's green brinks;
Where, daughter of the rain, springs sappy grass.
Anon, unto his aged ears, raught voice,
From o'er the lyn, is voice of child's distress.

Man, from his youth, right worthy; straightway cast
His upper weed, wades Dylan strongly forth;
For ready was no bark, as in that place:
But takes his crome, for doubt of some wild beast.
Sith swimming, he that heavy hindering wave,
With tough arms, hurls aside. Old is his flesh,
But evergreen his heart; as aye wherein,
To man and Godward, embers glow of love.

Then shortly Dylan wins to reedy shore;
And stumbling, from the miry shelves upgoes;
And there, mongst sedges, finds a weeping child!
Rosmerta, through her cloudy tears, him knows,
Her grandsire's hird. She on good Dylan's knees,
Whose wife was Caltra, her dead foster-nurse,
Hath oftwhiles played. And this poor herdman's name,
To generations, yet unborn, shall come.
Such honour gives him Christ; for he received,
Of Britons, first, His shipwrecked saints to land.
But knew not Dylan straight that little maid;
That so baked in the sun, of briars to-torn,
And lean; the hunger-starved dear child is seen.

Led by her hand, through sighing reeds, he finds
His lady, in childbed, ah! of thicket grass.
Woe-worth! the old hind mourns; and when he hears
That Caltra, his wife, is dead, in the long path.
The gentle child, all sobbing rife, him tells,
(Who feels to faint his knees,) this careful case!

Lies Herfryd, like some lily of the mere,
Comely in the humiliation of her death;
Mongst willow-herb, loose-strife and water-mints,
With with-wind, twined, and purfled sedges sweet;
Where shine blue marish flowers, as gems of price.

And some tell; Dylan found a roe come there,
From thicket side, to drink; which licked the babe:
And, laid, with teary eyne, down her lithe flank;
Did give, the while, it suck of her wild teats.

With loud What-ho! then, fluting in his fist,
Wide o'er the mere, calls Dylan his stout sons,
Fetch quickly round the skiff, and ferry over!
Those eftsoons hear; two young men run down light,
Upon that meadow's breast, to launch the bark.
They marvel, see go straying their sire's flock;
And what he makes, on yonder fleeting brinks!

Gathered sheen store, in this, of waterlilies,
Broad leaves and ivory blooms; them reverent laid
The herdman Dylan, o'er his lady dead.

Last this old servant, groaning, humbly kneels,
Her wounded feet to kiss; and weeps for Caltra:
Yet, erst, like little lamb, untimely cast,
Whose feeble plaint him, to the marrow, doles,
(His master's seed!) he reared that night-born babe;
And, in his bosom, huggles from the cold.
His aged breast seems travail with the child.

In that, his sons great alder-trunk outrow,
Hollowed with fire and adze, to their rude need,
For ferry of ewes, betwixt these grassy holms;
That shoot seems, at each pulse of their strong arms.
He makes none answer; though, with shout, those ask,
Father, what ails thee? The young men, from bark,
Outleap; and silent when they see this sight,
Amazed, they stand! Is Kowain, Dylan spake,
Our lord, in battle dead; and in the path,
The mother Caltra, ere our lady, died!

With sorrow slain, those stand, a little moment!
Then sobs, as that would rend their chests, break forth.
He, on his sons, they on their father weep.
The meadow-shore, their manly grief resounded.
It heard was o'er the mere; and men, from Avalon,

Run down; and eftsoon the old herdman spake,
Weep not, as now, my sons, the mother dead.
But when have mourned, for Herfryd and for Kowain,
The people, all day; and we, folded at even,
The ewes, come home to house, raise the lament!
Now bear we our lady, on boughs, unto the bark.

They erst, therein, strew bed of lily flowers;
Sith lift they, reverent, Herfryd cold; and laid,
In the boat's stem. Then, sitting, her beside,
(That bitterly laments,) the little maid;
They row back, mourning, to the shore of Alban.

Much people, upon that grassy bank them wait.
Cometh Ithobal, with Barnaby and Aristobulus;
(On whose head there a radiance seemeth to sit!)
These here wont walk, at dawn, in Summer season,
To pray. But nighing now the shepherds' bark,
Britons behold therein lie, without breath,
With lilies dight, ah! lady Herfryd's corse:
Then gazing-on, men mourn and women weep!

They bear up Herfryd, dead, to Brigida's house;
Where the elder women, making shrill lament;
Shall wash and wind their lady, to the grave.

But seen, in Dylan's barm, laid deadly babe;
It young wives cherish. Much, in vain, they press,
Each, to her full warm paps; for, ah, is passed,
That poor last blossom of lord Amathon's house.

Dead then they lay him, on dead mother's breast!
To-night, to lordship born of ere rich Amathon,
He, an hour, lacked warmth and kindly nourishment:
Wept; and from this his little slough of earth,
Flitted his weary ghost. Rosmerta weeps,
That men shall grave her mother, in swart mould!
Sweet-smelling herbs, all on the bier she strews.

The people of Avalon, outlaws, fugitives,
All day make loud lament, round Brigida's house,
Till eve. In the long twilight, then, in barks,
They Herfryd follow forth. They bury her,
Where laid men lately Amathon, that good sire.
Sith ween the heathen folk; they Herfryd seen
Have, as white swan, go swimming in the mere!

Rosmerta, led to Keina's temple-house;
From hour to hour, twixt wake and sleep, she faints.
Her feeds that priestess of pure fire and light,
With honey and milk, warm from the sacred hearth;
For weary is the little noble maid;
What for long ways, past fear and evil fare,
To death: she cries out, in her dreams, till laid

Joseph, again, upon the orphan head,
Of Kowain's child, his healing hands! She tells,
How, in long wayfare, Caltra died, her nurse:
Her mother graved her; she a long hair-lock,
Ere, weeping, shore, from neck of Caltra cold.
They find that lock, in Embla's wallet rent.

Night fallen, was wailing heard, in Dylan's cote;
Of manly voices lifted up to weep.
Mourn Dylan and his sons, which came now home,
From Herfryd's funerals: Caltra, face to earth,
(Which holds the mother dead,) they loudly name!

But Dylan, on the morrow, unto Keina;
And to the holy women of Christ's house;
To nourish up, betook that little maid:
Whereto the hall of dead lord Amathon,
And bowers, assigned them Hyn, the magistrate.

Now hath, three years, all Britain rest whilst rules
Nero, who wars with God, His saints and Romans,
(Unwarlike else.) But erst deceased Ostorius;
Outworn, is told, with troubles of the war.
One Didius Aulus then, is Cæsar's legate,
In Britain; whom succeeds, in his high charge,
Veranius: but this died, in the next year.

Captain renowned, now Nero sends Suetonius,

Conqueror of Mauretainia, in days of Claudius.
He, being arrived in Britain; finds this Province
Still smouldering with incensement of the druids.
To furbish that long rust of Roman arms;
Suetonius draws then forth, to new emprise,
His legions; and an expedite army leads,
From Verulam. They hold ways, through coasts and woods,
Of Midland tribes. He Mona will invade,
Dim isle of druids; and now become, he hears,
A last receptacle of war-fugitives.

To Mona's strait, reached from his eighteenth camp;
This side the sound, the legate Segont took.
There, lodged the legions, Romans fell much wood.
Suetonius, on thick floats, of beams, would pass;
Which had he seen, what time, (curator sent,
Of the Tithe Lands, ) he served in forest Almaigne;
Upon the flood of Rhine. By light of watchfires,
All night, his carpenters labour, at the shore.
Come dawn, the cohorts, on those timber frames,
Ferry; and founden, at sea's ebb, a ford;
Gauls' horse, part swimming, that salt sound o'erwade.

Romans behold; how stand, on further shore,

(Whence druids wont cást blue steed, to Nuth, each year,)
The islanders' strange threatening multitude;
Long spear-armed, glast-stained press, them seems green wood.
They see, amongst them, running frantic women,
Girt in long saffron stoles; old wives the most,
Their dugs displayed, and wintered hair-locks loost,
Out-blowing on the wind: whose white arms smirched,
And furious faces all with victims' blood!
Those leap, with firebrands, from their altarhearths;
Loud imprecations shrieking, dire and shrill!
Stand druids, lo, chanting, with uplifted hands;
As men unmindful of approaching legions.

Italic soldiers, climbing from sea-strand,
Pause, in amaze. Fear not, cries duke Suetonius,
Their gods; despise yond barbare multitude.
Behold, how feeble, soldiers, be their ranks,
Striplings, old men, few warriors, women wights:
Your glaives, all strength and manhood have consumed,
Already. Each exhorts other; battle-shout

Raised, Romans, as from dream, waked; with great brunt,
Run hurling javelins, from a wall of shields!

Come to hand-strokes, they on their bucklers' spikes,
As hunters beasts; bear back resistance weak,
Of blue long wicker-shielded multitude.
Men fight confused, mongst trees and thicket rocks.
Full shortly of slaughter, is that cragged field!

Fly Mona's warriors, scattered to her woods.
Romans, few slain of theirs, gather, till eve,
Much prey. Commands, at morrow's dawn, Suetonius;
Hew the antique horror of the druids' groves,
(Which nigh unto that place,) and insane gods:
Wherein found altar-stones, burned-smooth, as glass;
By druids' nefarious often sacrifices;
Aye, and brazen chaldrons, to receive man's blood!

Those find Rome's ensigns also, erewhile lost;
Uphanged in temple-cave. They, that fair porch
Break down of Samoth's god, boast of all Britons.

Applied Suetonius then, to certain chink,
His guides showed in that cliff, his listful ears!
Hears busy dinning noise, as of smith's forge;
Roaring of billows, clang of hammers; crashed

Cymbals, in measure! far-off rumour rife,
The divine wheels, (say Britons,) of sea-god!
But all contemning; Samoth's oracle-cave,
Suetonius bids, be choked with enemies' corses!

Agri Decumates.

Once more, like eagle, stooping from steep skies,
To earth's low wilderness of derne fields and woods;
Record, dear Muse, loud lay of warlike ruth:
Breathe thy rich spirit, in my breast! (which erst,
In this dear tongue, most sweet unto our sense;
After thy shepherd Colin, sang true note;)
That I great queen Boudicca may complain;
Britons' last dread revolt, her timeless death.

Deceased was, in these days, rich Prasutagos,
Whom Aulus ere, in room of Bericos,
Established king, with grief of all good hearts.
This Prasutagos, taking thought, how best
He might safeguard possessions of his house,
After his death, had coheir Nero named,
With his own daughters; but all otherwise
Then came to pass: for when was Prasutagos
Burned on a pyre, and were his cinders laid,
In mound; and found, in the king's testament,
Such was; entering Taesdune, the quæstor Catus

Took seizin, as his own, of the king's goods:
And gan put all to sack, his Roman servants.

When them, base slaves, Boudicca, widowed queen,
Rebuked, commanded Catus, her be spoiled;
And scourged as Roman thrall! Her, insolent strangers,
Queen and king's daughter, hale, by the hair-locks!
Merdewy and Perigor, kinsmen, brethren sworn,
To dead lord Prasutagos; that her save
Would from their vilain hands, and him withstood;
At Catus' word, they chained, and smote with rods!

But happed, ah! móre cursed case, remediless!
Maugré their shrieks, which to high heaven, resounded;
And women's frail, to death, gainstriving force;
Have other ribald servants, of fell Catus,
From sink of filthy life, which marble Rome;
Those royal virgins damnably oppressed;
Not yet have fine Rome's extreme injuries.
Catus, when he those noble men had bound,
Issued his writ, sequestered all their goods.

But chanced, this day, unlooked-for, before eve;
Three-score stout herdfolk, hinds of Prasutagos,
Repair, towards shearing-feast, home from their heaths;
To dig now dipping-troughs, and stall their flocks:
And, league-long, follow their white trooping trains.

Joy Catus' servants, looking from dune walls,
See all this good, which cometh so to their hands!

Those hinds soon meet with some, which now scaped forth;
Shrouding, for fear, them in thick hollow place;
Whereas beasts' carcases were wont be cast,
Mongst stinking elder, cankered nettles, docks;
From whom they hear those heinous deeds of Romans.

Sergeants, being come eftsoon, to them, from Catus,
(Unwarlike vilain kind of swarthy Romans,)
Require, with threatful signs, bring-on their flocks!
But, spoken few words together, in their tongue,
Each carle gripped stoutly his cudgyl or his crome:
And strait those all, on strange lewd Romans run!
And as strong husband beats corn in a barn,
Valiant poor wights, Boudicca's herdmen, Romans
Slay, break their bones, and bray them in the dust.

The arms, which fell from those vile sergeants' hands,
The herd-wights snatch; and on with hideous shouts!
Leap great hounds with them, baying with deep throat!
To Prasutagos' court and dune, they run;
With fearful yells, all bloody now their hands.

With a beam's brunt, as the men's over-hird,
One Digol, showed, they break-up the barred gates.
Other, which follow herdman Eorth, beset
The walls; that might not one of Romans 'scape.

Romans, done hastily on, within, their harness,
Stand globed, like frightened deer, taken in the toils,
Which lay together their horned heads to ground;
And they might so rebut the raging hounds.
Though armed with glaive and targe; the quæstor's Romans,
Conscious of guilt, that merits barbare death;
Faint, blind with coward fear, their impious breasts;
When brast-in, on them, those tall herdfolk Britons;
Whose very hounds stained with their fellows' deaths!

In panic terror those then turn their backs.
In bowers, they seek, in hall, of Prasutagos,
Where hide them; way, some covert way of flight,
Of 'scape. Hither and thither men and hounds,
Course them; with furious bats, with cattle-goads.
Like as some fitchew taken in a gin,
Rends her wild limbs, might she so eschew death;
The remnant, trembling, die on their own glaives!

But burns wide hall of boards, of Prasutagos,
Which embers kindled, in that strife: whereas,
(Like butcher's floor, where bloody fells ben cast,)

Lie now the slaughter-heaps, of Catus' Romans,
Scorched carcases. Then, broken down the walls,
And prison doors; have loosed, men of the dune,
From shameful bonds, Boudicca, outraged queen:
Then they, enlarged those lords, return to kill;
With them, to kill who last, (now hid,) of Romans!

Of whom, report is, some, snatcht Briton babes,
Of those did make their shields! For all which, Britons
Spared not to slay: even mothers crying, kill!
Into new bodies, should pour heavenly gods,
Their murdered spirits. Were better thus their deaths,
Than to be heirs, of servitude, to Romans.

But curséd Catus, fled by secret gate,
From the king's house, which joined there to dune walls;
Won forth, was saved by fleetness of his horse,
Which he himself had bridled; whilst he was,
In Britons' fray, forgot. Catus, all night
Rode on then fearful, by Rome's new paved street;
And raught, day breaking, Camulodunum walls.

Commonly but mendosè written Boadicea.

Stands queen Boudicca, in Taesdune's market-place,
With flaming eyes, a glaive drawn in her hand;
Like cow she is, from whom, with cruel blows,
The butcher lately hath bereaved her calf.

The prints upon her royal arms, she shows,
Of Rome's ignoble gyves. Come to her there,
Her daughters, whose wan looks cast down to death;
Defouled, remediless, their bodies pure.

Her faithful hinds, come driving to the queen;
With buffets of their fierce-armed rugged hands,
Certain swart Romans, from blind lurking-places;
Whence they now rent them forth! were those, say men,
That damnably, ah! have defouled the royal maids.

Britons, in that they came, have them unmanned;
Whence they nigh dead, what for their heinous guilt,
Durst not their craven eyes lift on her looks.
Boudicca them, that, at her royal knees,
Grovel, on their breasts! adjudged to hasty death.

She, spurned them; trode, with fury, on their base necks.
Sith, when men have long worried them, with hounds;
They lopped each brutish poll, from his lewd corse.
Their bloody carcases, drawn without the walls,
Of Prasutagos' dune; all, in that fosse,
To beaks of hoodie crows and teeth of beasts,
Those perfumed swarthy Romans forth were cast.

At word, of those two brethren of the queen;
From brow to brow, men shouting then o'er fields,

The Land-cry raise! With sign of fire, speeds voice,
To arms! East Britons, gainst the bloody Romans!

Boudicca, trembling pale, stands in the porch,
Saved from that now burned hall of Prasutagos;
Her royal vesture stained with Romans' death.
Like to wolf-dam, her looketh about, the queen.
Black heifer, garlanded with yew, is driven
Then in, her sacrifice, for Prasutagos;
Whose head, drawn down, towards swart infernal gods;
Slay druids. Sith, on the victim's splayed warm hide,
Before the altar, the pale outraged queen
Sate down. The people flock to her, and mourn.
With face as night, she sighs, bowed to the ground;
House of the dead, and buried Prasutagos.

Warned, by those fires, which shine from coast to coast,
And the Land-cry; ere morning-star, arrive
Loud múltitude; men, lo, bearing shepherds' bats
And reaping-hooks, for war-spears and for glaives;
Whereof erewhile, Ostorius, them deprived.
When those hear word of the queen's Roman wrongs;
Fierce murmur rose of thousand angry throats!
All then; even who were lately of opposed part,

Lifting their hands, them bind, with a great oath,
Avenge the woes of Prasutagos' house!

Nigh on East hills now is the dawn to rise;
Nor yet Boudicca, queen, hath plained her fill,
When looking up, as who wakes, from fell dream;
She is ware, how stand about her people's press.
Then spake Boudicca, in taking to her breath;
Unto her appeared, this night-time, Prasutagos,
Among the stars; which show out of their rests,
The blesséd gods conspire, in one, with us,
To cast, this year, forth, Rome's invading legions.

Shall all one wreak, one ruin, overtake
Them, impious bondslaves of incestuous Cæsar;
Whose Roman crimes unheard, since the world was!
For Nero, in his hell-fury, entered in
Womb that conceived, of his thrice-curséd dam,
That bare him; his own mother knew! What then?
He murdered her! bade rip her belly then:
And looking on, (where he himself had lain,)
Sometime! he called for wine; and quoth, she was

A fair woman! Sith Nero hath forlain
His sisters germain! And all day, mongst Romans,
Be these things spoken of. And shall such, O gods,
Tread down, O Britons, cinders of your hearths!

Boudicca queen, thus saying, let backward slide,
Unto the girdle-stead, her shining weed;
But seemly gathered, stern, before her breast.
And all deformed that angry multitude
Beheld, with Catus' scourges and vile rods,
Chine of the widow of royal Prasutagos!

How long, Boudicca weeps, great saviour goddess,
Chaste Brigit, guardian of our sacred hearths!
And naught may purge the guiltless body's stain,
Save only bitter flames of funerals!
War, pestilence, hath this plenteous soil consumed;
And famine slain her people's multitude.
The field grows rank of her own children's blood!

Why tarry O, ye, in heaven, our fathers' gods?
Avenge your altars' extreme injuries!

Remember Claudius, he who interdicted
Your sacrifices! Him have Romans, dead,
Godded in room of Britons' vanquished gods.
Compelled, by scourges; Britons build, to Claudius,
High impious fane, seal of our servitude.
Part to that temple-service, they divide
Our glebe; part mete unjustly to their soldiers.
Britons, whose children scarcity endure of bread,
Must yield, of all their best, to priests of Claudius;
That might those even our foster-gods oppress.

Full now, of Roman surfeit, be all halls,
Of Briton princes, fallen in the war.
Who captain of a century of strange soldiers;
That, swart-faced Roman, stinks of wine and sweat,
Shall lord it over kings, of Briton nation!
Hear, in thy grave-hill, Spirit of Prasutagos!

Mean scrivener servants entering, of the quæstor,
The people's cabans, under name of tribute,
Put all to sack. To merchantmen of slaves,
Snatcht from the weeping Briton mothers' breasts,
For cups of wine, even babes, in this East March,
Were sold; and those, beyond the seas, them vend!
Nor have they, impious! reverence for the dead,
Whose orphans they devour. But, only, in Britain,
Romans intend, how may they pill the poor;
Whence they might sith their lusts fulfil, in Rome.
Hear, in thy grave-mound, Spirit of Prasutagos!

Is it for such, on Britain's hills, ye feed
Your flocks; or ear your glebe, that those eat bread;
Which you devour: pay tribute for your souls;

That might ye live to serve them; in those fields,
Which gods, for an inheritance, gave your sires.

Why longer dwell I, in this outraged flesh?
When I might put it off, as raiment vile,
And mount, by flames, to Prasutagos' spirit?
Our royal daughters dight them to their deaths!
Ah, have the accurséd strangers, childless made
Our house. Ne'er shall these mother's hands, alas!
Deck a dear child's bride-bower, or spousal bed!
Seest thou, ah, from high hill of heaven's light,
Where sitt'st thou, Prasutagos, with stargods,
What things be done, done in thy royal house!

Heard of Boudicca queen, the loud lament,
Cast dust upon their heads the ingenuous Britons:
And loud they shout, To every Roman, death!
Rising the sun; anon, much people ran,

To holy grove, nigh hand, of antique oaks:
Where bound their furious brows, to Camulus,
With the sheen leaves; these vow them, not to cease
From fight, until they fall down on their faces.

Boudicca, called her herd-folk; much commends
Then their true service; and, to each, an house,
In Prasutagos' dune and field assigns,
Without; and Roman arms, which wan their hands.
Unto Eorth and Digol, the men's overhirds,
Wreathed collars gave the queen, of the red gold;
That, mongst her council, they might sit henceforth.

Swift runners, then, the queen, with brands, outsends;
Kindled from burning hall of Prasutagos!
Religion is, in what place their feet faint,
Should other, caught those brand-staves, bear them forth.
They run, these days, through all East paths of Britain:
And war breathe, in men's hearts, their battle-gods.

Now aftermorrow, in the royal scythe-cart,
Issues Boudicca; standing her beside,
Those royal daughters, clad in funeral weed,
And oak-leaf crowned! With the Icenian queen,
Follow tumultuous glast-stained host, in arms:

And all the way along, risen like a flood
Come to them, through their fields, the neighbour Britons.

To Rome's abhorred colônia, Camulodunum,
Is their dread march. All aliens they cut-off;
None leave they alive, in whom is Roman breath!

This immane tumult, come to Roman town,
The open suburbs Britons erst o'errun,
Where none withstand them. Few and trembling Romans,
(Men, veteran soldiers of the emperor Claudius,
Longtime disused, in Britain, to bear arms,)
Helm-clad and harnessed, look from their new walls!

Have prodigies amazed those Romans' hearts!
Vast murmur heard ere-yester, from the ground,
That quaked, as voice were from the sepulchres.
Then sound of wailing, in their council-house:
Was shout heard, in the theatre, in strange tongue!
That statua also of Victory-winged, and gilt;
They set-up, lately, in their forum place,
Is fallen down, the last night! Seen, in Colne Fleet,
Were, yester's ebb, as ruins of a town;
Seemed, on Colne's oozy shelves, lie bloody corses!

Like flocking crows, Britons, fierce infinite swarms,
O'erclimb, dread-yelling, their half-builded walls.

Soon in long cross-street, slaughter is begun.
Fly those armed husbandmen, which once Cæsar's soldiers;
Fly to yond impious temple of Cæsar Claudius;
That stands upwalled, made like to Roman castrum,
Four-square, in soil of Britons' servitude:
And clenched the towréd port is, with iron plate.

Fierce Britons, at their necks; this hardly closed,
Behind them, Romans. Surge East Britons' swarms;
Is Rome's blood now, on whose rude venging arms!
They rage, with dreadful clamour, round the walls.
What though these lean to heaven, in many floors;
Will they them conquer! Ladders knit, of spars,
(Long traves and rafters, rent from Roman streets,)
Icenian craftsmen; whereon oak-leaf-crowned
Men, vowed to Camulus, eftsoons shall upmount.

Come eve; uplean them Britons, under shields.
Romans, which, harnessed, hold yond battled tops;
Then launch great stones, some pour out burning pitch,
Some darts shoot down, on Britons' furious press.

Mount, gainst those heady stranger walls of Romans,
Men crowned with druids' holy leaves, to death;
Upholding, in their other hands, short shields,
Of osier, bulls'-hide dight, over their heads;

And biting sharp skeans, twixt their teeth, of bronze:
Till seem, who first essayed, as birds, on height.
But there were slain the most; whose bloody corses,
That headlong ruin, beat in moisty grass,
Like stones! but, not dismayed the rest, for this,
Still upward mount. Who hardly are reached, on height,
With grapples, Romans, pluck down, hurl! nor might,
Gainst many, few, that giddy foothold take.
All too, on-loft, unequal is the strife;
As who fight, swimming, gainst who stand on ship.
Then waxed blue Britons weary of that new death!

Now gainst those brazen gates, they bank much wood;
That they, by fire, might enter; but have Romans
Their port walled up within, with lime and stone.
Nathless, gives that wood's burning light to Britons;
That wake, like Winter wolves, round the tower walls,
Under long shields. Come midnight, showed the gods
Dread signs, portending nigh the Romans' deaths.
For all their arx, from the ground-walls they shake;
As that proud temple, would their powers beneath,
Cast out, from Britain's earth! Then harnessed soldiers
Haste, to the floor descend, from temple-roof.

BOOK XXII

ARGUMENT

Claudius' temple taken. Boudicca destroys the image of Claudius, therein. Britons dig down and furiously overthrow the temple-walls. Burned Roman Camulodunum, they march now forth, dread glast-stained multitude. In their way to Troynovant, they encounter, in an heath and utterly overthrow, the ninth legion. Come to Londinium, they make slaughter of all of Roman name, therein. Alexander attains the crown of martyrdom.

Boudicca, in Verulam, is acclaimed Lady-of-war! Her speech to the Britons! They march; and next day lodge in a border of the East-forest. Suetonius hastily marched from Mona; seen their watchfires, pitches nigh Britons' camp, that night. Boudicca, at dawn, beheld the Romans' castra, blows loud battle-note. She, twixt her royal daughters, drives forth armed in Prasutagos' battle-cart.

Suetonius' speech, to his soldiers. Battle joined, the royal maidens most valiantly fight. Three noble youths, their former wooers, run, in arms, beside the royal chariot. Suetonius' cohorts break through the Britons' loosely-arrayéd multitude.

The queen's flight. Digol and Eorth close their valley-passage, against the pursuit of Roman horse. Boudicca is come, at even, to a sacred grove: where her servants build a pyre. At dawn, the royal maids, thereon ascended, drink of a deadly cup, which Boudicca hath prepared. She, heard coming of the Romans, last upmounts: she also drinks thereof; and falls

then forth upon her dart! Women, keepers of that grove, fire the wood. So cometh Suetonius.

Famine in Britain. Joseph and the brethren succour the fainting people, in Alban. Caer Bran, in Mendip, is now a Roman villa of Aulus Verus. His son, Pudens, wounded, is besieged, in a tower, with one Felix Murcius. Pudens journeys, with Felix, to Mendip.

Pistos passing-by, from Avalon, finds Felix. Pistos persuades him to seek healing, for Pudens, at the hands of Syrian Joseph. When Spring is come; Pudens rides with Felix, to visit the man of God. The Roman knight, walking in Alban fields, sees trooping flocks and herdmaidens; and one among them, who is like unto an heavenly vision! At even, he goeth, with Felix, to salute Salema. Rosmerta reads forth the Lyber Bret. Pudens, returned to Mendip villa, languishes for love of Rosmerta. Then cometh again Pistos, to Verus' house; and Pudens beholds his servants, at dawn, assembled, to break bread of the New Life. He also lifts up his heart, unto the High God, of Joseph!

Again is a bitter cry of famine, in the Province. The sea, in a night-tempest, beat over the strand; and drowned is now the plain of Alban. Pudens obtains the legate's commission, to repair those sea-breaches. He rides to Avalon, where Rosmerta hath care of all the fugitive hungry women and little ones; that are come in. An angel from heaven crowneth the praying maiden.

When some goodwhile then Britons mark no watch,
On the tower-head; new leaf-crowned men upmount.
They win, they stand on the fane's battled top:
Where none make more defence; now heartless Romans,
Failing their victual, and their water spent;
Nor hope of succour left. Is duke Suetonius,
Far-off, with strength of legions, in West parts.

Those, under statua of godded impotent Claudius,
Hold hasty council, on the marble stones;
Nor rests, or heart or spirit, in their cold breasts.
They stand, as men condemned, that wait for death!

Those reason, must they evil ending make:
And cause was the only avarice of cursed Catus,
Exacting taxes, which remitted Claudius;
Whereto joined usury is, in Roman Province;
More than might Britain's sunless soil bring forth.

Best greatest Jove, requite all such, with loss!
They cry, by whom, after much blood and wars,
They, which had hoped to pass few quiet years;
Be now, in this dread tumult, like to perish.

To them, each sound is death. Hark! gods of Rome!
Hark! trample barbare feet the temple-roof.
Hurl now down Britons, by the marble stairs;
Gods! those tower-stairs, which they forgate to fence!
Short fearful then the strife, so aghast were Romans;
Nor marked, how few and naked wights them smite.

Dim is, with only the priests' lamps, the place;
Under proud arcs of that high vaulted roof;
Whereas now harnessed Romans, as penned beasts,
Twixt wall and pillars perish: chace them forth,
With dreadful cries! victorious fierce blue Britons.
Would soldiers, that they mold-warps were; then might
These flinty walls they undercreep, to earth.
Like bats they flit, they fall now heartless press!

Soon are the walls, with gore, stained; the pave-stones,
Under men's tread, swim thick Italic blood!
Smells Claudius' temple, as some slaughter-house!
Blood-sprent even Claudius' image was then seen;

Whom fatal Fortune, genius of proud Rome,
Made Cæsar, to destruction of Isle Britain;
And mockery, even unto ages yet unborn,
A god! Were eftsoons all those Romans slain!

Britons, augustales find, in secret adit;
(Are Claudius' priests,) proud queazy, faltering-kneed,
Men, fat of the lean people's gifts. Haled forth,
Them chace fierce wights, without the temple-gates;
That they, now day, break up, with fearful shout!
Where angry Britons' concourse those receiving;
Hundred hands buffet them! Done their tunics on,
Some play, in mumming-wise, then, Roman rites.

Mad druids, upon the altar of dead Claudius,
(He who decreed, their bloody sacrifices
Should cease,) some of them slew! Boudicca entering
The fane then, statua of Claudius all defaced;
Hewing, with broad-sword of wronged Prasutagos,
And wreak of woman's arm, the impious stone.

Sith, under-delved; those temple-castle walls;
Heaving on cables, might of thousand hands,
Plucked down, in dreadful ruin, to the ground,
On Romans' bones. Few of those priests reserved,
In purple stoles, (like women, gem-adorned!)
Men set on the elephants, here, from days of Claudius,
Remained alive: and those huge beasts, through camps

They lead, and lodgings of blue mingled Britons;
That all, with mocks, cast mire, on them, their fill.

Last, in strait place, men hurl, betwixt two walls,
Those priests to ground; and o'er them cause to pass
The elephants: those thus, trampled, bruised to death,
Were: on whom men slay, also, the huge beasts;
Wreaking them of past injuries of proud Romans!

Who Romans' wives then, and their children small,
Pale weeping company, are, to brackish shore,
(The outraged queen commanding,) led forth, where
Colne's land-stream, wide commingles with salt flood.
There some, being now low ebb, they bind, on stones;
Other to pales, driven in the stinking ooze:
So leave to drench, under a rising tide.
Who looking, then, from hill of Camulus,
Beheld their anguish; how, like worms, those perish!
Last burned Boudicca the new Roman town.

Britons pass forth! By queen Boudicca's chariot,
With their stout herdmen, blowing shepherds' pipes;
Digol and Eorth march, armed with Roman glaives.
Brethren, then, of the queen come, in one war-cart,
Merdewy and Perigor; midst who oak-leaf crowned,

Conquerors of Claudius' fane, remained alive.
Sith druids, which chant loud hymns, to Camulus.

Follow them pomp of the chief men of war;
The first bear captive-ensigns of proud Romans.
With shout and dance then, guirlanded with flowers,
The honour of the field, to the war-god;
Thick-thronging, headlong, Britons' multitude,
With immense noise, disordinately beat
That Pedder-street, which to New London leads;
For dread revolt grows daily of East Province!

The third day was, when they, in wide waste heath,
Meet, hastily marched against them, with few horse,
The ninth Hispaniensis' expedite cohorts,
Whose tribune one Petilius Curialis;
(The same, who prætor sith, Brigantia's March,
For Cæsar, wan.) Britons fall, naked warriors,
Loose, mingled, glast-stained host, upon them, furious!

As raging flood, which all before it bears;
They overrun, like sheepy flocks, Rome's ordinance:
Nor cease, to-day, they slay them; till wax weary
Their gory hands. With few knights, fled Petilius,
Gainst eve; when nigh destroyed was now the legion!

Britons, thence, the third morrow, to Lud's town;
Lóud host, arrive, men bearing Roman arms.
To Troynovant they, with fury, by new bridge,

Of beams, and the ford's shallows, overpass:
Where lately, (of his war-wounds, mongst sorrowing Britons,
And abhorred Romans, dead;) made, for Marunus,
(Who, mongst men, seemed of kindred with the gods!)
By silver-streaming Thames, were wailful funerals.

Full that new city of strangers; all whom Britons
In-thronging meet, with Roman glaives, they smite:
Till choked all common ways, with carcases.
And as, in Gaul, we see beyond the seas,
In vintage days, streets run, with lees of wine;
So these, to brackish Thames, with Romans' blood!

Britons, with hymns, heap spoil, to Andates,
Victorious goddess, without Troynovant walls;
And divine Bran, and glast-stained Camulus;
Whose praises still, till fall of night, they chant.
Last then, with brands, they fire the wooden streets;
On both sides Thames; and burn, at bank, all ships.
Smoke of Thames' burning city, dimmed the world.
See far-off peoples, her wide-shining gleam,
In their night-firmament! In this sénnight perished,
As thirty-thousand souls, of Roman name!

Had Alexander, of Christ's shipwrecked saints;
Which yet remain, in Britain's fenny Alban;

(By mouth of Pistos, faithful in the Lord,)
Been called of certain proselytes, men which, ere-
Time, had believed, in Asia, on Jews' God;
(Being of the parts of Lycia, and of Greeks' speech;
And servants to the legion now at Aquæ:)
To teach to them, that way of the New Life.
And, when had, of the Lord, enquired and prayed,
Christ's little Church; they devout hands, all laid,
On Simon's son: and sent that man of God,
Amongst the strangers forth, to pasture souls.
He, at year's end, síth, to Calleva passed;
And thence to new-built Roman Troynovant,
In the mutation of the garrison cohorts.
He sojourned there in hall, fast by Thames' side;
For the receipt of merchant strangers made.

What day that fury of Britons' new revolt,
Approached, he would his ministering not forslake,
To sick poor folk; but all which might not 'scape,
He caused them, in that hall, to be conveyed.
Though cry of foes, fire, slaughter, in the town;
Which dures long dreadful forth, he preacheth Christ!

Is last loud hasting tread of hostile feet,
Come to their gate; whereon now yelling smite,
With weapons and with stones, fierce glast-stained wights!

The imposts those do heave, with dreadful threat!
Strong Alexander, set to door his back;
Somewhile, alone, that immense poise, sustains!
But, in the end, blood-stained blue men in-brake:
Which, ah! the saint, mongst many strangers, pierced;
He trampled under, meekly yieldeth breath.
But joys, upmounting, as the lark, his spirit,
To heaven's gate; whérein, now, he rests, with Christ.

Is marched, on new paved way, of thirty milestones,
Boudicca forth, which to New Verulam leads,
By Cassio forest. Follows, with the queen,
Dread rushing host of glast and gore-stained Britons!
In whose most hands, be seen now Roman arms.

Blue Britons passed, with confused dreadful shouts;
That should affray the enemies' very gods!
Ver fords; behold the gates stand open wide,
Of Roman city. Britons risen, to-night,
Which therein dwell; had slain the Roman cohorts!

Boudicca queen, rides through that towered great port;
Whom follow fast, to Verulam's market-place,

Thick-thronging folk; which acclaim, with one voice,
In royal city of great Cunobelin,
Her Lady-of-war, o'er all blue tribes of Britain!
Druids pronounce, The gods have chosen her.

Mongst press of Britons armed, behold Boudicca,
In battle-cart, stands leaning on bright spear,
Semblant divine! Be her great lofty looks,
Like unto priests', which converse with the gods!
Her warlike limbs, clothes party-coloured weed,
Over her harness, fastened with broad brooch.

Who princes, gird her, lo, with golden belt;
To be grand captain of East Britons' wars:
Which, when she had received, she feels new force,
Infused in all her veins. Her span-wide front,
A royal chapelet tires, of beaten gold,
The leaves; whence her long swart hairs, in a tress,
Arm-great, hang from her nape. Hark, to her folk,
Cries, with loud manlike voice, dissonant sounds,
Boudicca, queen, of unrequited wrongs!
To Britons' glast-stained throngs, cries; she, to-night,
Beheld sure vision of the blesséd gods;
Which show; victorious still should be her arms;
That have already, in field, o'erthrown a legion;

And taken three Roman cities, and them burned.
And perished, in each one, ten thousand souls!

Moreo'er, do promise gods, to give, these days,
Into her hands, Suetonius, Cæsar's legate;
Whence should be ransomed home Caratacus.
Nor turn their beaks, shall Cæsars, any more,
To Britain's cliffs. Recording then her harms;
The widow-queen, with flaming pupils, cries,
That, Sooner should the clodded field remove,
Flit as a cloud, than may her soul have rest;
Till she last vengeance have of abhorred Romans;
Till mark her borders their unburied bones.
Britons! shall, by your virtue, be preserved,
Unwemmed, your children; and chaste wives, unstained.
This said, with loud harsh voice, the Icenian queen,
Sudden! drew lightning brand of Prasutagos.

Lifting the white-armed royal Britoness,
That her bright steel, to woad-stained Camulus;

She prayed him, Hurl from Britain's white cliffs, Romans!
Her Coritavian kindred march to her,
Caterfs likewise, she cries, that gathered were,
To the Two-Avons' camps. Tidings, more o'er,
She last night, hath, by sign of beacon-fires,
Received; how further Britons, whom Venutios
Leads hastily, in her aid, already approach.
These should o'erthrow last remnant of Rome's legions!

Long shout they all! Then sheathed the warlike queen
Sheen glaive: and ready in battle-cart, anon,
The supple reins on necks of her proud steeds,
Shakes; that desirous of the way rush forth!
Follow Boudicca, not few wives, in wains,
To see that victory is promised of their gods!
With her, march blue loud-voiced war-multitude.

Boudicca, next day, enters in East-forest;
Which joins to Epping-chace. Thus with Venutios,
Master of war, she hopes the sooner meet.
Now in border of that wold, Boudicca's host,

Do lodge, in champaign place: and when night falls,
They see far flames, of often beacon-fires;
Message of glast-stained nations, that approach.

Her destiny here, in idle camp, the queen
Detains; who her war-journeys should have hasted,
Till joined were, to her great tumultuous host,
Mid-Britons; whom not Romans, yet, of arms,
Deprived; and foot and horse, which leads Venutios.

Dwy-avon-tre, now Daventry.

Behold, in this extremity Cæsar's legate,
Marching from Mona! He hath fifteen cohorts,
Besides vexillaries of the twentieth legion,
Five hundred veterans, and twelve troops of horse.
And like as falcon, holds wide aery skies,
Nor cures all lesser fowl; so duke Suetonius
By marches speeds, now hostile all to Romans.

Lo, Cæsar's legate, after seventeen camps;
In twilight of clear stars, halts in strong place;
For, little ere, wide-burning Briton watchfires,
Have seen his scouts to flame, beyond the forest.

At day, is erst descried the Roman vallum!
Then blow commands, Boudicca, battle-note.
Clad in fringed tunic, broidered, like spring mead,
Whereon sewn glittering scales of tin and brass;

She stands, whom girds that belt-of-strength; and shines,
On her large bosom, mirror ornament,
Like to a sun: her morion is leaf-crowned.

The war-queen mounts; so drave forth, in shrill chariot!
Her milk-white arms, matchless in war, ben stained,
This day, with woad, like to the jacinth flower:
Ride, standing in one chariot, now with her,
Those daughters royal. Shrouds, ah, funeral stole,
Each high-born maid: lo, are tired both their heads,
With chapelet of oak-leaves, to warlike death!

Their cold-blue eyes look out, from golden locks,
With Britain pearls, long-broidered in a tress;
Like sunny rays, that pierce the evening clouds.
Their hands, (hang rattling quivers at their backs,)
Bear spended bows. In Prasutagos' chariot,
Then, whiles they pass, in all their people's viewing;
Made bare the betrayed maidens, their white breasts:
And laid each forth her paps, like mourning doves;
With rife plaint, them most cruelly doth wrong!

Their heaven-born looks, uplifted, to war-gods;
The maidens' voices, clear as shepherds' flutes,
From lips; which like to blissful dewy roses,
Full of soft smiling happy laughter were,

In days, (before the coming-in of Romans,)
Of Britain's peace! intone, towards their deaths,
Loud battle-chant, of those which made Carvilios:
Souls'-music, seems, aloft this weary earth!

The hearts, of Britons' generous youth, it pierced,
Confounded with their beauty and their wrongs!
And for had Belisama, upon their looks,
Made living ray shine; kindling love's desire,
In those, to perish with them, in one death!
The glast-stained host, long vehemently shout!
And stretch to gods their hands, accusing Romans.

The queen, beholding this new-surging Sun;
To the all-bright god, her two blue-palms uplifted;
Before her glast-stained nation, sternly prayed;
He run, with speedy wheels, his day's career;
And might, soon setting, soaked, with Roman gore,
He see this field! Then showing, with her spear,
Suetonius' camp; Behold, this last of legions,
She cries; of whom none shall be left alive,
Helping our gods, to-night. And ye, which wives,
Contend, to-day, in valour and brave mind,

With men. She cried then thrice, midst her great army;
The day is come of vengeance, for our wrongs.

Yet spake the queen new word, mongst Britons armed;
And being one offspring of this foster-soil;
I say, stooped down, let every warrior-son,
Mould of the field, even as his mother's knees,
Kiss reverent; and her swear, defend from Romans!

When, on the legions' part, surveyed Suetonius
Glast-stained disordinate enemies' multitude:
He, in his heart, decreed, this day, to fight.
Britons' familiar routs, he shows his soldiers;
Blue battle-throngs, of little warlike worth;
Nor those, tumultuous, ordered in caterfs.
Whence should them easily break his warwont cohorts.

And sternly cries Suetonius, Those behold,
Soldiers, whose tumults have o'erthrown the Province:
Britons' rebellions grow, like Summer fires;
Else, were, with such, to fight, reproach for Romans!

But we to-day avenge, O Cæsar's soldiers;
Soldiers and citizens, of his wasted Province!

Though long, before you, these may not endure;
Nathless, ye shall have need of all your force;
And be ye in battle, unmindful of all preys.
Let none 'scape the just vengeance of your hands,
Man, wife, nor child; and die the unborn babe!
This said, he led, from camp, his cohorts forth:
And them, in form arrayed, of phalanx deep.
Soldiers loud shout! though weary from long march.

Gave sign eftsoon Suetonius! and run Romans
Out, confident, ás men who, to vanquish, wont;
Careless of wounds, gainst glast-stained nighing routs:
Their only heed, hurl javelins and give death.
But falls thick sleet, on them, of Britons' darts;
Which, (sunbeams in their eyes!) they fence, uneath.

Then mainly, the angry hosts, together rush.
To the heavens, rebellows hideous battle-noise,
Of the earth's children and lamenting cries!

Stands queen Boudicca, in party-coloured weed,

In cart, with glittering belt. She, Lady-of-war,
Guiding her team, leads, squadroned, those few chariots;
Which Romans only left to Prasutagos.
Her royal daughters, drawing mighty bows,
Pierce, with long fledged shafts, noblest now of Romans.
With teeth, her Briton steeds, and their fore-hooves,
And armed their panting breasts, with pikes of bronze,
Do fight gainst horsemen Gauls and Roman knights;
By whom these three queens suffered heinous wrong.

Their quivers emptied, hurl the royal maids
Out thrilling darts, on enemies, where they pass.
Runners, light-armed, which fence the royal scythecart,
Those Romans' heads, whom slay their shot, hew-off;
And, horrid, hang, still dropping gore! their polls,
Round the queen's cart. Of them who fight thus forth
Afoot, the chiefest are three noble youth:
For when their nation lately disarmed Romans;
Those reaved their fathers' famous teams and scythecarts,
And harness spoiled and precious antique arms.

Yet known are, by their comely ingenuous looks,
And golden collars, Ennion, Rueydan,
(Like-minded entire friends, noble of port;
Not faint, in friends' distress, and both East Britons;)
And valorous Keduan, tall Cornavian prince.
At Taesdune, came those suitors to the queen;
In happier days of rich king Prasutagos;
Drawn of wing-footed teams, in glittering scythecarts:
Nor yet had curséd Roman Catus slain
The honour of the Icenian royal house!

Howbeit Gladusa, of long golden locks,
The elder, affianced, but in secret wise,
To Cathigern was; who far all noble youth,
In beauty and virtue excelled, in wide East March.
Whereof had cognizance peerless Elidore,
Her sister, only; for was Cathigern,
Of hostile kin, of Antethrigus' house.

Ah, soon shall mount Gladusa's virgin spirit,
By fire, to heaven; nor tarry, come to her,
He; on whóm now mortal sickness falls, in Rome:
Above the stars, shall their unburied loves
Renew. Have those young lords bound, mourning token,
For maidens' wrong, their shorn heads, lo, with yew:

They cry; Gladusa and Elidore, wait for us.
We only ask, ye not prevent our deaths!

Who martial wives, companions of the queen;
And Prasutagos' daughters' maiden peers;
In chariots, follow fast, with loud holloa!
Of whom some sharp hooks hurl, other shield-stones,
Drawing out thongs, which lap round Romans' throats.
And as men snatch, with angles, scaly fish,
Forth; so these harnessed knights pluck down, from horse!

Wife-men, with fury, as hawks, leaping from scythecarts,
To grass; make butchery, of fallen impious Romans.
Riving with knives and bodkins, their base breasts!
Were some, for their young lives, heard make lament;
Romans, of barbare women, to be slain!

Men, oak-leaf-crowned, in border of the field;
Whom, (brethren of the queen,) Merdewy, lead,
And Perigor; (with whom borne their manacles are,
Their chains, lo, and fetters of their feet, for ensigns!)
Slay Romans. But deep-ranked, now, legion-cohorts,
Like river's flood, which buffets with much wind,
The loose resistance and tumultuous arms,

Bear bloody aback, of the glast-stained fierce Britons:
And break well-nigh through, to their drawn-round wains;
Wherewith her camp had only fenced, the queen.

Being parted thus, and pierced the island powers,
Romans bear-round, unto both parts, their ensigns!
Boudicca, (Britons hemmed thus and distressed;)
Hark! eftsoons, cries, with stern and deadly face,
To wives, on axe-trees shrill, that next her ride;
Flee women; lest ye, captives taken, were sold,
Beyond the seas, to Romans' shameful life.
This said, she incites her team, to utmost flight!
Fly chariot-women-riders, then, with her;
Whilst men-manned chariots hurl again on Romans.

Lo, East-men warriors, on their faithful faces,
Them cast to ground; that o'er their bodies ride,
Where else none passage were, their Lady-of-war!
She shrieks, 'Scape! save you all to thicket woods!
So o'er dead foes and fallen friends, she drives!

After her, then Gauls' Roman horse pursue.
Covets each knight, next to his own soul saved,
The person to take captive of this queen:
Which, helping him some god, might he achieve;

How should, blazed through the world, in trump of gold;
His name sound to the stars, in sovereign Rome!

And Gauls had then attained Boudicca, queen,
By fleetness of tall steeds: but them swart Camulus
Frustrates, to whom, with many vows, she prayed.
Bellona him lately reft of his vast shield;
Else had he saved, this day, blue Britons' army.
Is fame, that god descended in a cloud,
Which breathed his divine steeds, Boudicca's team
Led forth; the whiles much dust a rising wind,
Lifts, twixt Gauls-Romans and the Icenian queen.

Came Roman slaughter, to the four-wheel wains,
Whence Britons' warlike wives hurl darts on soldiers;
Aye, and aught that cometh ready to their hands;
Fighting, from thill-boards, as wont men in chariots.
They yell forth imprecations dire, on Romans!

Short their death-strife was; for, as birds which pierced,
Of shafts, they ruin thrilled, by Roman darts:
And, at the cart-wheels, fell their little ones.
Nor spared the Italic gall them pierce to death;
And fling down, dying, breathless carcases!
Lest grown to manhood those, in warlike arms;

Should wreak, another day, their parents' wrongs.
Gored even that Roman fury their yoke-beasts.

Helped of strong god, Boudicca outwent pursuit,
And warlike wives with her. Digol and Eorth,
Be with the hirds, league's-way from Britons' camp;
That keep the neat and swine, and those great flocks;
Which were for victual of East Britons' host.
Breast forth their oxen slowly, in valley-path.

Cometh mainly driving, by that way, the queen,
With women's war-carts, to escape from Romans;
Which newly follow, eager, on her trace.
Those hirds, the queen, loud hailing! range their droves.
By, hastily, with few words, Boudicca passeth;
Like to a rushing wind, leaving men marvelling!

Those hinds then seeing, pursuit of glittering Romans,
To horse; Digol, with spear and targe, stood forth,
Amidst the way; but erst, with robust fist,
Pluckt to him bramble-spray, for, in that place,
None oak-leaves were; dight with the thorny fret,
His vehement brows. Likewise, do all the hinds,
Which deem is come the day now of their deaths.

Gauls, loud-hooved squadrons, yelling, gainst them, ride,

With levelled spears! Contemn those, few hedge-folk;
Are armed, with bats, whose most ignoble hands,
And few with glaives. But, to the midst, these chace
A stubborn press of sharp-horned beasts, gainst Romans.
Wherethrough, Gauls' horsemen struggling; the stout hinds
Fall, at advantage, on them with rude arms:
Whose heavy hands then seemed resistless bronze;
That slay, that beat Gauls, mainly, from their steeds.

This strife dures, whilst the battle-queen 'scapes forth.
Fight, with their horned heads, Britons' beasts gainst Romans.
But when, at afternoon, fell Digol pierced;
And the most herdfolk, three-score wighty men,
With Eorth, were slain; the rest are overborne.

Fled-on Boudicca queen, and wives, till eve;
When, what for pathless, dim, uncertain place,
They last must light, and gone forth, on their feet,
Unwitting then, they entered sacred grove:
Known to Boudicca it is, in her own March!
Which hard to ween, is easy for the gods:
And there a well and altar-stone of druids.

Ere day, few more 'scaped, chariots and war-teams,

Following Boudicca's trace; raught to this grove.
The queen, leaned to an yew tree, weary slumbers:
She, at sound, starts, of their voices from short rest!
But when what multitude of Icenians perished,
Boudicca hears; and at the four-wheel wains,
The mothers stricken; and how, from battle-chariot,
Merdewy and Perigor, Prasutagos' brethren,
After great deeds, fell mongst their oak-leaved warriors,
Under Gauls' rushing spears! the queen despairs.
Feigning then some war-sacrifice, here, she hath,
She servants sends, in moonshine, out for wood.

Lo, those, with thraves, return, when daylight grows;
Whereof, in order, laid, at the queen's word,
Halm and sere boughs; wide-builded is high pyre.
And this full-ended; will the widow-queen,
And daughters royal, burn, thereon, with her,
Their wrongéd flesh; and thence, to heaven, upmount;
To intercede for Britons, with the gods!

Now soars the sun, ascend those royal maids:
But tiding yet Boudicca waits; who sends
Out other faithful messengers, through green grove;
To watch all glades; whence they, with instant shout,
Might signify approach of any Romans.

Of kex and yew, which, o'er the queen, spreads forth

His sacred arms, to everliving gods;
The royal mother cup prepared to-night;
Whereof who sups, eftsoons, forgetful sleeps;
And cometh, anon, dull death, without sore smart.

Now voided all men being forth, from view;
Their harness doffed, them spoil the royal maids,
Of over-weed. And each the mother kissed;
When, from her hands, they both receive that cup.
Yet, ere they drink, each sister sister kisseth,
With twining, long, dear last, tear-bathed, embrace!
The innocent souls, that meet upon their lips,
(And are they twins,) now ready to flit forth.

Looks the elder, on broad glory of this new sun;
And sighing, stedfast, to her lips, approached
The cup; so drinks! and sith the younger drinks.
Then laid they twain, holding each other's hands,
Them down, soft murmuring prayer, to gods of death;
To guide their souls, to place of happy rest!

But, yet, the queen of Britons not upmounts.
For safety of her East Britons, yet consults
Boudicca, Lady-of-war. The golden belt
Deposed from her; and raised then funeral chant,
She last upclimbs, on that heaped fatal wood:
So sate her down, midst her dear dying ones.

She, upleaned on spear, yet looketh, from funeral bed,
About, around! so kisseth each swooning child.

But heard then coming shouted of some Romans;
Erst little pouring, to swart gods, beneath;
She tarries not, that deadly cup drink-out!
Yet spake last word the queen, with constant face;
Ye, which shall live, haste save you in thick woods!

Rise hardly, at that new voice, upon the pyre,
The royal maids! for not yet dead they were;
Like drooping flowers, that sun of afternoon
Hath stricken, they stoop: they muse, whilst dulls their sense
The cup, the people's cry to hear! Sate up,
Each dimly, on other, casting looks of love;
Drawn their sharp girdle-knives, their innocent breasts
Do launch, at once. So covered each her feet,
With broidered weed; and sinks each down, in death.

Boudicca queen then fell forth, on her dart!
Down to her knees, there rails, ah! purple well;
And like to swan, which pierced hath hunter's shaft,
Neath the left wing, she fails: yet groans, Put fire!
So twixt, behold, her bleeding daughters, both,
Boudicca lies, ah, now, in throes of death!

Two ancient women, keepers of that grove,

Have kindled sparks; which, twixt their withered hands,
Blown, they put-to. Ascend then writhing tongues,
Of crackling flames; and roars dawn's rising wind.
And some report, died presently the war-queen;
Other, rose up Boudicca, from the pyre;
Looked with fierce eyes, and saw approaching Romans!
And seemed the three queens' bodies heave, alwere
They dead; and wreathe, as holly, in herdman's fire;
At coming of the Romans' duke Suetonius.

High ride the flames, now giddy bowering wave;
Which licks, with golden throat, the Summer woods,
Surging to heaven; wherein ascend their spirits,
Like unto like: whence now, immortal pure,
They look from stars. Fell, from those funeral flames,
A golden mist; which token is, from high gods,
Of their unending glory to endure.

But ridden Suetonius, from far field of fight;
With guides and last pursuit of Gaulish horse,
By the moon's lamp, hath reached to this green place.
And find, therein remained, those weary Romans,
Alone, of Britons, two poor women-wights;

Which wallow on swart mould, beating their dugs,
Before a burning pyre, and dreary shrieks,
Cast forth; that even those enemies rue to hear!

They deem, that one was nurse to Britons' queen;
And this was foster, of her daughters twain;
Whose breath, now ceased, these sacred flames consume.
And the enemies do their constant faith admire.

Now and when the duke, through his interpreter,
Hears, of their trembling lips, this careful case;
Abhors the Roman's proud ingenuous thought,
Him who distained, destroyed, betrayed, the house
Of Prasutagos, friend erewhile to Romans.
To Rome, he will write letters of all this;
His procurator, Catus Decianus,
Cause of so great destruction of his Province,
Accusing, unto Cæsar, and the Senate.
(Catus, from Britain fled, Kent seas hath passed!)

Still, sitting on his horse, a bill Suetonius
Writeth, with his own hand, in Roman tongue;
For the safe-conduct, praising much their faith,
Of these poor women, Britons. He that scroll,
To them-unwilling, gives; wherein he warns
All men, and he, in Cæsar's name, commands;

Unto whom this script might come; suffer to pass,
By the paved ways, these women freely forth,
Bearing the ashes of their royal dead;
Until they come to Prasutagos' tomb.

Quoth then Suetonius; how him liever were
Have saved Boudicca, than have vanquished her!
Collar of gold, which fell down from the pyre,
From her white bones; he takes up, to send Cæsar.
Likewise, two frets of pearls, slackt by the fire;
Of Prasutagos' wrongéd daughters fair.
(Had, in the sacred well, already cast
Those faithful Briton wives, the war-queen's belt;
That might it thus be saved, from impious Romans!)

Returned Suetonius, to burned Troynovant;
He pardon, for the Britons' late revolt,
(Whose root was the only avarice of cursed Catus,)
Proclaims: (and this prescribes Cæsar's new edict,)
To all, which, within certain days, (set forth;)
Shall to the clemency them submit, of Nero.
And this the rather, in that, now, new famine,
Travails the Isle: for their prophetic druids,
Fondly persuading, they should eat this year,
The Romans' victual, Britons reaped not down
Their harvest corn; and follows pestilence!

Of fair Duffreynt, war-wasted wide, these days;
Much people hunger-starved, to Avalon holms,
Wander, whereas is bread, they hear, which sends
A god. Remembered the Lord's voice, His saints,
Gone forth, lead sick ones in and harbourless;
And succour who fall fainting, in nigh paths.

Where, in Caer Bran's spring-camp, erewhile, dwelt Titus,
One Auleius Verus now his villa hath,
Præfect, of knightly estate, of thousand horse.
Verus, withdrawn from Aquæ, in Summer season,
His leisure sooner would, mongst poor herdfolk,
Man of the antique mind, in Mendip, pass;
Than dwell, midst surfeiting new Nero's Romans.

Pudens, his son, wars, mongst young Roman knights:
And lately, in Mona, fighting in sea-ford,
(Where manly he slew his foe,) sore wounded was.
But when had hastily marched, from thence, Suetonius;
Pudens, within a tower, (of those Ostorius
Had built, by fords, and certain passages;
And garrisoned, with two maniples, each, of soldiers;)

Was left, with other sick. They there beset,
Eftsoon, of raging Britons, endured siege.
And daily heard their land-cries, (dreadful sound,
In Latin ears!) as, Camuloudnum taken!
Cut-off, to the last soldier, Roman legion!
Londinium burns; were all within her, slain!
Boudicca this day entered, Verulamion!

Is keeper of that hold, one Felix Murcius,
Primipilaris; than whom no man hath
More collars, bracelets, martial ornaments,
And crowns, gifts of his dukes, in many wars;
And who, now twenty years, hath served in arms:
In Aquæ, lately, he, (Galatians both,)
Found Pistos; through whose word, of that New Life;
Felix believed, on the Lord Jesus Christ.

Sith, like a rising dawn, that heavenly hope
Lightens the soldier's breast. The young knight Auleius,
Oft Felix hears, in his long languishment,
Communing of these things: though day and night
He painful be, in his committed trust,
Felix finds breathing-whiles, to serve the sick.

The villa, (a manor, with its grange,) was a Roman gentleman's country house.

2 Tim. iv. 21.

Yet other cries rebellow, in vast night,

From hill to hill, to Britons! which make known
Yester, great battle lost, nigh Verulamion!
Wherein are fallen the most part of Easthost!
Sith voice was shouted, of Boudicca's death!
Then turned their late victorious songs to wailing:
Rose great lament of Britons! Quenched their watchfires,
Blue warriors, at day-star, that siege forsake.

When passed a month, come cohorts; which relieve
The towers, with men and victual. Journey, hence,
With them, the sick; and mongst them Felix rides,
Emeritus, for his covenant now is out.
They march forth in the new paved way, towards Aquæ.

Pudens, yet languishing, Felix further brought,
(The young knight is spear-wounded, in the breast,)
To Caer Bran villa; where he gins revive.
Auleius, recalled his father finds, to Rome;
To witness, in the cause of accused Catus.
There shortly of a flux, in time descended,
Of greatest Summer-heat, from the cold Alps,
Deceased good Verus. Pudens, the next month,
Received hath letters, of his father's death.

Soon after this, by Mendip, Pistos passed.
(Interpreter now, in both the tongues, for Christ;
Is he, mongst who few strangers, in these coasts,
Are of the house of faith.) He, brother Murcius
Finds; by whom being constrained, at Caer Bran, Pistos,
That day, abode, in Verus' Roman house:
Where also, certain bondfolk have received
The Word; whose life, henceforth, is Jesus Christ!

Pudens yet lying, feeble of his hurt;
Pistos persuades, send for the stranger Joseph,
In Alban dwells, whose face as morning light!
And who an healing gift hath, of the Christ;
When, on the sick, he lays his prayer-worn hands.

With Pistos, on the morrow, Felix wends:
And, come to Avalon, tarries with the saints,
There, certain days; wherein, more fully, is Felix
Of them instructed, in the things of God.
He parting thence, received a salve of Joseph.
This Felix brought, with devout prayer of faith,
To the young knight, in his hill-house, in Mendip:
And he, the third day, (cleansed his wound and closed,)
Is risen, behold, from bed of languishment!

Come sith that month, when springs the tender green,

Pudens, with Felix, rides to visit Joseph.
How sweet the Spring-tide, in far island-Britain,
When soars the heavenly lark, with merry throat!
Descended now, they much deep way mote pass:
Sith, partly wading, come up to Isle Avalon.

Felix brings Pudens then, to bowers and hall;
Which timbered ere Phœnician Ithobal:
Where, they alighting, cometh forth agéd Joseph;
Who them salutes, with Peace, in name of Christ!
They enter in the Syrians' hall, and rest.

The stranger shipwrecked brethren come, gainst eve,
In, one by one; men clad in blanket weed,
Featured like Syrians, bearded are as Greeks.
And each quoth, Peace of God, in Jesus Christ!

Now when the timely hour, bringeth Sabra and Salema,
In dish; and, lo, they all, in giving thanks,
Do sit around: and fishes of the lake,
And loaves, with honey of wild bees, do eat.
And, after meat, an holy hymn they sing.

Sith, in the Britons' speech, which he, in Mendip,
Learned of his servants, communes Roman Auleius;
And partly in Latin tongue, (interprets Felix,)
With Syrian Joseph. He the father asks,

In whom found virtue of High healing God;
What end foresees he, of the wars in Britain?

Joseph took, from his bosom, then a roll
Of the prophetic Scriptures: and reads words,
Declaring, o'er all nations, must prevail,
Until fulfilled her time, the Power of Rome;
When should, the last, another kingdom, rise.

Heavy with years, and ailing in his knees,
Joseph no more departs, from Avalon's mere;
Where dwell those shipwrecked saints, mongst outlaws poor;
As stewards of the heavenly Providence.
Night fallen, beside the hearth, now Romans rest,
Under poor roof-tree of the Syrian Joseph.

Pudens wakes, on the morrow, as from dream
Of wonderful, of joyous healing light;
Whence he will, that day o'er, dwell with good Joseph.
He, with the sun, walks forth, in Avalon fields:
Till, being yet feeble, last, he weary is.
So sits to rest, awhile, on this green grass.

Come hither trooping lamb-flocks of the Britons;
And maidens, carolling, lo, before them trace.
He a virgin, mongst them, spies; much like a vision

Or one of the inhabiters of heaven!
Anon, like guileful hunter, Roman Auleius,
Her to behold, him couched in thicket bush.

Chief of the shepherd-daughters of the fen;
Like gracious lily, in some thorny wood,
Is this, that wends and gathers herbs and flowers!
He deems it her, (which nymph of that fair mead,
Or goddess seems!) of whom runs voice mongst Britons:
That daughter named is of the stranger Joseph,
Howbeit her father perished in the war.

As wont the dewy flowers, at Summer's dawn,
Unfold, with parfume, gainst the light divine,
So her dear aspect, entering through his eyes,
With subtle influence, ere might Pudens find
Defence, his heart transmues, sublimes his being.
Then flows the blood, in a delicious tide;
With high aspiring, frail, quick, confuse thought;
As when spread riotous leaves' green multitude,
On some fat ground; which of few seeds, arise.

Eftsoons, his soul, assembling all her powers;
He stedfastly refrains the stormy passion;
Firming his thought, on steep philosophy;
Idéae, (as stars, cold flaming from night's sky;)
Patterns of things immutable in the heavens;

And which the soul beholding, that descended
Thence, as pure fire, subdues base fleshes jar.

What spirit revert, to that her former being,
And fly, on eyas wings, would, from the earth;
Must strongly her frail affections still represss;
Being thereto armed with heedful fortitude.
She keepeth, aye, harnessed watch, upon all walls,
Of her clay citadel, leaguered round; where most,
Churl-of-the-flesh, strong Captain of her foes,
She fears; howbe, at erst, of gracious guise,
This seemed; yet one he is, of brutish kind,
Titanic wight, wont wallow in the fen,
(Earth's son,) with swine: lest, on the soul, disarmed,
He, all suddenly sallying, with his vilain powers;
Should snatch the crown of honour, from her brows.

She suffers to be kindled none strange fire,
On the chaste temple-altar of her being;
Whose strong contagion steaming to the brain,
And that close-creeping ferment, in the blood,
Turns sweet to sour, suborns the greedy sense;
She, both contemning, stedfast doth recuse.

Pudens still musing, in his hazel-bush,
Hears sing the Alban virgins, as they wend:
And after them, trace many-footed flocks,
Wide-wavering on the green. But she that seems

Goddess, or sunbright maiden of Diane,
Chants hymn of Cuan, as blithe lark in heaven.

Some spin of their lambs' wool, which hither pace;
Other the field-flowers crop, blue violet:
But guirlanded, (who primrose of them all,)
Is she that nighs, with budded eglantine;
Which seems a parfume cast, on earth, of heaven.

Lord of life's breath, she sings, The Love of God,
Which brake the gyves of death! Hark, herding songs,
Attuned to shrilling pipes, of fenny reeds!
One sings, among her fellows, with clear voice:
Sings, golden spring-time, in the shepherds' cotes;
When seemeth a flowering orchard the wide earth;
And every bough a garland: when is season
Of milk, and comes again the stork, to house;
And quiddering swallows flitter in our eaves;
And sweet birds answer, all day, in the woods.

Of silly sheep she sings and shearing feast;
When maidens and herd-grooms dance on the green;
And the bright moons, when shepherds fear no wolf.
Then all run, laughing, linkéd, fere and fere,
To gather primrose buds, in the new grass.

100

Passeth the virgin choir, in Pudens' breast,
Such sweetness leaving, as this furze in the sun:
And thinks his heart, on songs of witty Greeks,
Of other isle; but which none shepherds were.
A creeping pleasance, springing breath of love,
His heart infirms, as steel relents in fire.

He musing, still, in his deceitful bush,
The day drives forth, amongst these herbs and flowers,
Of Britain's meads. Again, in Ithobal's house,
He sits, among the saints, at eve, to sup.
Pudens admires their humble lofty countenance!

But, after supper, new occasion finds
He abroad, with Felix Murcius, soon to pass;
To salute, namely, Salema, spouse to Joseph,
Because they should, at morn, from Alban, part.

Come then, with lanterns, those, to the white porch,
Of Amathon's hall; and looking Romans in,
(The door on-jar;) yet silent stand without,
A space. On rushes, at clear hearth of turves,
Lo, age-bent comely Syrian mother sits.
By her, sits Keina, priestess, with white locks!
Gazing, him-thinks, how noble be their looks!

Maidens, on stools, companions of Rosmerta,
Be seated round the walls, of this poor hall:

101

And they, to clothe, intend, the poor of Christ,
Their cheerful tasks. Wool of dead Amathon's flocks,
Some card, some spin, some weave. Her agéd voice,
Lifts Salema oft, among, in sweet discourse.

Rosmerta sits by Keina, next in place:
And she, to-night, reads forth that Lyber-Bret;
Wherein is writ, of the New Life, in Christ.
Seems some glad heavenly chant; and they rejoice,
With smiles and dulcet murmur of chaste lips.

Pudens then goeth in, boldly, Roman knight.
(And, in that, Salema, mother of His Church,
In Avalon, warns Christ's Spirit; with this loved maid,
Should that elect young Roman be made one!)
And Pudens her, whose looks, as Summer gladness,
And eyes as star, which shines before the sun,
Beholds: she last him then beholds again,
Only of her womanly pity; and when she hears,
Was this he whom had healed her father Joseph.

Him, sees she angel-fair, for so would Christ;
As born again, purged from all earthly dross.
That looking of her eyes falls on his flesh;

102

As when a sunlight gildeth some waste ground.
It pierced his soul, which yet in darkness lies!

When, after greetings, sit down Roman guests;
Rosmerta, as Salema bade, that roll gan read,
Anew. She opens, peradventure, place,
Where writ; He journeyed, eachwhere, doing good:
And when the day's sun set, on Jesus' head,
The Lord, alwere in open field, abode.
And white of hew was Jesus' virgin flesh;
Benign His countenance. Where He passed, He said,
Peace, to each wight, of high or low estate,
And beckoned unto heaven, with His hand!

Transported, Pudens gazeth, on the maid:
And pale he waxed and cold, and hot and red.
His stout heart quails, within his Roman breast.
Him seems converse in heaven! The whiles she reads,
Seem lamps her eyes, (whereon he looking dreams!)
Of love: such seem they, as, unto who sick,
The lattice-peeping star, in night's unrest.
And like to blissful sound, in Summer heat,
Of rain, that measure of the virgin's voice;
(Voice which him-seemed, in field, of Muse's lips,

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Attuned to sweet consent of Phœbus' lute,
Making ambrosial melody, among the gods!)

When, after this, those sing an heavenly laud;
What manly heart is there, of woman born,
But would not move to love, that sweet accord,
Lifted, of maidens' throats, to heavenly gods.
Sith Pudens risen, the spouse salutes of Joseph!
So turned to Ithobal's hall; but not to rest.

v.p. 128, vol. ii.

In that fresh hour, when Britain's lavrock mounts,
On trembling wings, up, from the pearléd grass,
Rides Pudens forth, but having little slept.
To Mendip hills, returns the Roman knight.
Where come again, though he see no more Alban;
Yet cannot Auleius from himself remove.

His heart, wherein is war of opposed parts;
Is like to vast sea-billows' rumorous face,
Whereo'er have some great weathers lately passed.
Wanders his soul, then, as in wilderness;
Where, neath dog-star, without or herb or bush,
Is giddy drought, consuming bitterness;
Where woven have hot winds the sliding sand:
And only is God; and under empty loft,
The fearful echoing of man's forlorn voice.

For love is like a fever, that ransacks

104

The reins, and dries the brain and inward parts:
A flower whose stem is fire, whose leaves are frost.
And lacking longtime sleep, each moment leaps
The heart up, in dry throat, of straitened breast;
And there stands still! Live present her dear looks,
Aye, in his transformed thought. The young knight day-
Long dreams, of eyes of love and meeting lips.

He would a murmuring bee he were; to sip
Of arcane sweet, (like to Elysian bliss!)
For evermore, from thence, his sustenance.
He dreams that maiden hand of her white flesh,
(Like Christ's,) joined unto his, in holy bond;
Which, in earth, maketh happy marriage.

He would he a lavrock were, that, all day, might
He, o'er her, singing flit, from toft to croft;
Where walks Rosmerta, like to golden Dawn,
Before her sheep-flocks, in fair mead of Alban.

Oft sitting, by his river's bubbling brinks,
Pudens, like Lælius, casts-in pebble-stones;
And would those flints he were, she the clear brook;
That evermore, her crystal sliding foot,
He might abide beneath, abide and drown.

Wastes then his sullen hours this knight of Rome,
To cast lots, with the spotless flowers of God,
That blow beside; tokening these daisies pied,

105

Himself; bright kingcups her, dight of pure gold:
So sprinkles, on the pool, his warlike hand.
And, as they mingle, or those swimming blooms
Be sunder drawn; so rise his hopes or wane.

How full of the infinite harmonies of my God,
Be these sweet fields! whose flowery Summer breath
Embalms the brain; where naught, to gentle heart,
But only, in all the world, sweet-love seems worth!

Then he, who daylong lonely wanders forth;
The eternal mystery, Infinite Love, discerns,
Which all upholds, before and with all was,
Love, increate, unborn God! Love spake, and stars
Were! and went forth, upon their crystal spheres.
He spake again; and spread forth, from His hands,
Wide earth, to be the nations' dwelling-place.
But whilst Love weary slept, an envious spirit,
The seeds of his decay, sowed in man's flesh!

Thus daily he fares, lone lingers, till late eve:
And henceforth all those daughters of the field,
And voiceful air, trees, herb, craigs, clouds, sweet birds;
And silver-footed streams of Mendip hills,
Wax dear, as kin, to him with wonted face.
When, last, now wanes from skies, day's cheerful light;
And kindled herd-swains' lucid star; (that fold
Then flocks, what hour wont fare forth evil beasts;

106

Whence handmaid she is named of huntress Cynthia;)
Gins Roman Pudens, pensive, homeward, trace:
But sith, upon his bed, finds little rest.

Looking, towards infinite gulf of these night-gods;
He cannot choose but think on Rosmerta!
Him-seems then, mongst celestial signs, ensphered,
To walk, alone, with her, in crystal paths.
From love to love, with her, from light to light,
His spirit seems mount; and yet with her is Christ.
He dreams, and yet is wake, till morrow's cock.

The Roman knight, pale, erewhile, of his wound,
Like one, now waxed, forgetful of his good.
So love, that drinketh up the spirits, still found
Is wasting malady, a consuming smart:
Love that, from highest mountain top, draws breath,
Love that can lift the basest from the earth!
Few had then known again this knight of Rome;
Who walks aparted from wont fellowship.

Oft would the Roman, he were Briton-born,
As Rosmerta; or hers were Latin tongue,
Which issues, from her mouth, as chain of gold.
Ah, might he but to her dear love attain;
And join to his, that only loveth Christ,
To his unworth, the sweetness of her life!

107

For multitude, be his unquiet thoughts,
Like to a city's thronging, in her streets;
Whereas men noble-lignaged seen to space;
Who commons most. Go some by, knavish wights,
That stink of misery, and are evil breathed;
Which clamour raise, at the soul's temple-gate;
Where might those enter, should they all deface;
And tread down her bright bowers. In Pudens' breast,
If some dark whispering, hell-crept, spirit entice,
(For he, mongst vanquished nation, Roman is;)
Through guile, or else parforce, his love possess:
Divine Philosophy, thy clear discipline,
Remembering, puts away this perfect knight,
As spotted serpent, so ungentle thought;
As breath on mirror of her image bright!

A certain Christos is that healing God,
Of her reputed father, Felix saith,
Judæus; but dwell not Jews, (whom Claudius erst
Expulsed from Rome,) to-day, in Cæsar's palace!

Is not long since, (was in his father's days!)
Accused of His own people, of the Jews,
(His crime sedition, in a Roman Province;)
By Roman Law, judged and condemned, died Christos;
Impaled, mongst men transgressors, on vile cross;

108

(Which only, of slaves, the infamous punishment is,
And murderérs!) but rose, Divine, from death,
Christos, and He to heaven, so Felix saith,
Ascended: where He was, ere thrown the stars,
Of God, were on their spheres; so Felix saith!

Then doubts this knight, how might he daughter bring,
Of barbare Isle, to Scipio's house, in Rome!
Though far her heavenly virtue should appear,
Bove Rome's loose ladies, and excelling feature.
Ah, noble Briton maid! he sighs; so rose
Pudens, from daylong musing, weak and faint.

For living wound is love; a deadly life,
Heart's dear constraint, which gladly we enclose:
A music's healing sweetness, in our souls;
An heavenly trance, a dovelike true consent;
Souls' covenant, drawn from their bodies forth;
To walk in gardens of fair lawns and flowers.
How seems, then, our life's dream, whereo'er there shines
Love's rising sun, a new-found world of gold!

Love is here lowest stair, to the Infinite Good.
Love-labour easy is: is aught so hard,
But will attempt it love? with panting breast!
For love, love lightly would forsake the world!

109

Well wots he; might Rosmerta not be given,
To any Idolater. Thirsts then Pudens' soul,
Like to dry beast, that wanders lowing forth;
And cannot find, where to go down to drink!
How, being Roman? how, might he believe,
Great Pan was slain, and rose again from death!

Be many, in Asia, found, religions strange:
Him semblable, this of Syrian Joseph, seems,
To Mithras' rites, which lately brought to Rome;
Aye and mystery of Astarte and Adon slain;
Who raised, the third day, each year, is to the goddess.
But Felix saith, Christ greater was than thus;
Who sought passed spirits, in gulf, beneath the earth:
In Whom being also raiséd from the dead,
Shall we men from last powder of the grave
Eternally revive; so Felix saith!

Pistos, on whom Christ's saints their hands ere laid,
To preach God's word, in Britain's Roman Province;
Returning by Caer Bran, is Pudens' guest.
The morrow, first in seven, the Lord's day is;
And lo, assembled in his villa court,
Yet being very early, to break bread;

110

And nothing minish of their Master's tasks,
Poor souls together, brethren, which believe,
On Christ: and those bondservants are to Auleius!

Uprose young Auleius; who laid on his bed,
Long, without sleep, hath heard a mingled voice,
(Souning with swallows and these early birds,
So rife in Britain,) óf hymns, in rude mouths
Of his own servants; glad and weeping voice!

Soon from his balcony, pale yet, for love's heat,
And his old languor, he looks down; (nor yet
Is, but as twilight of a Summer's dawn,)
On this strange new assembling of his servants.
All stand, whilst Murcius fervent prays; which ceased,
Pistos exhorts, in lifting up his voice!

He marks that mild demeanour of them all;
How gaze their eyes, like lovers' eyes, far-off;
How smile their lips, a smile not of the earth.
Poor wights, how gentle is their clownish cheer;
As some the noblest of this world they were!

Marks Pudens, certain, kiss their adversaries;
And some, with tears, confess their former guilts:
Some fallen, upon their faces, quake and weep;
Some bowed down in their prayer, make moan; that might

111

They no more stain their souls, to death; whereof
This body should be temple-raiment pure;
Until they see Christ's coming in the air!

Pudens, being with new inward sweetness, toucht!
As one whom wakes a music in the night,
Recoils all softly, to his cubicle.
He feels, he wist not why, his soul at rest:
So makes him ready shortly to wend forth,
Unto the fields. But musing Pudens still,
Looks on the ikons, which his father, Verus,
Ranged on these walls, with his familiar gods:
Pythagoras; by whom stands old Sabine Numa,
Then Zeno; then that plat-faced ruddy son,
Of Sophroniscos, wisest man was named,
By the holy oracle; (he whom not-the-less,
His city, Pallas' city! put to death.)
Next him is Plato, Sapience of the gods.
Sith Rome's great captains, Scipio, Julius:
Last Homer's image, ever crowned with flowers!

How lifts his soul in his lararium, Auleius;
Up to that God, of loved Rosmerta and Joseph!
Immutable, from Whom came forth our spirits.
His brow great drops sweats; whilst, his palms spread-forth,

112

Towards Great Alfather, Who the world sustains,
Of men and gods, his voiceless prayer ascends.

Though hearts more ripe of Britons, to receive
God's kingdom; Christ hath called this Roman Auleius!
He all dáy, he all night-time, only sees Rosmerta.
Possesseth her pure heavenly radiance,
His being, like unto an abiding vision.
Him-seems, she beckons mild. Him-thinks he hears,
In every place, (bidding him send for Joseph!)
Rosmerta's voice. In vision he the Christ
Beheld, as an impression in the air!

Again rose cry of famine, in Rome's Province.
Have seven-times hastily Britons gathered in
Their harvest of bread corn: most scarcity is,
Now this eighth year. Hungering in wide Duffreynt,
A wretched people journey from their cotes;
That stretch lean hands forth, clamouring to eat bread;
Even of strange Romans, their Land's enemies!
Men wander, full of sores, with tottering tread:
They fall in heaths; they die in thicket woods.
The remnant train their pithless joints uneath!

Young mothers, hollow-eyed, with sharpened looks,
And faint, lay deadly babes to their dry dugs.

113

The harrish hips, in vain, the forest leaves,
They chaw; and the unkindly herb, alas!
For empty are their veins, as the South wind.
Lie cast men's carrions, under briar and bush,
Meat of corpse-birds: are filled the vales with stink;
And rot, for putrid lies the grass, the brooks.
Fight unclean hounds, o'er carcases of wights;
And gnaw their skulls, they hide then in the brakes.
Is none to bury, and all the world a grave!

Careless of warfare, which, erewhile, with Romans;
How may they only eat, seek dying Britons.
Their bodies men, to bondage, for vile price,
Sell! so their fainting little ones might taste
Of bread. Suetonius hastily, Cæsar's legate,
To Gaul, then tribute-gold sends of Isle Britain;
To take up corn, and feed his dying Province.

But rousing him, from dream, is busy Auleius,
To succour Britons; whose, towards fenny Alban,
Wayfaring feet, now Mendip, faintly, pass.
And yet, to more increase of many miseries;
The sea, which shut in God, with walls of stone,
And bars of sand, so drave a vehement wind;
That beat the giant flood, úp over salt strand!
Whence drowned the fenny plain; that, with the mere,
Conjoined, is come again salt deep to Avalon.

114

Now in lockt capsa, amongst his father's books,
Auleius finds roll of Pollio Vitruvius;
And reads, where Pollio entreats, in certain place;
How frame, by building art, all kinds of argines,
Moles, dams and dykes, gainst sea and river's force.

Rides Pudens forth, to view the sites, with Murcius;
And reasoning still, and pondering, in his thought;
And heard at Aquæ now arrived the legate;
He, turned his horse, rode thither, to Suetonius;
To whom, next day, he all his care expounded.

Hears and grants the proprætor: and, to Pudens,
He issued his commission, to hew wood,
And conscribe labourers: further he him gives
Wains and an hundred pioneers. With these
Then Auleius, marched; and all along the path,
He young men gathers and work-beasts. Come down,
To vast sea-breaches; o'er his Briton folk,
He sets decurion soldiers. Day and night-time,
These travail, hewing beams; which sith they ram,
Two ranks, in ooze, with beetles, twixt both tides,
And wind; and stop, with crates and clay-stived sacks.

But when seemed, one day, nigh to be achieved,
Against that flood, their busy hasty work;

115

And lightened is again his breast, rides Auleius,
To Avalon-ward, thence not far off. Him-seemed,
Then, as he rides, to hear an arcane voice,
Saying; Líke that Word, whereof ere Plato writ,
Christ of Alfather of the world is Breath.

And as he studies, in his mood, he is
Behold, arrived! and much uplandish folk
Finds hungry and wretched, wandered in to Alban;
Whom, housed, in turven cotes and osier bowers,
Now Shalum nourish, and the magistrate.

Joseph is borne, (infirm his prayer-worn knees,)
Amongst them in a litter; and outstretched
The father oft his hand, to heal and bless.
Now of all the famished women there, hath charge
Rosmerta: and fain are of the virgin's face,
Their weary eyes, as fowls of morning light;
Mother of orphans and their little ones;
Which thing, as he beholds, he trusts in Christ!

Blessed of the Lord; and sealed, betwixt them twain,
The lovely marriage bond, of Christ in heaven:
From that empyreal shining see, whereas
He sate, mongst Sons of God, ere this world was;
An angel slides. He lights, as Ray of Love

116

Divine, from azure wings, on earth's low clod;
Wings like to changeful tokens of the dove.

Now evening-red, Rosmerta is come home,
To Salema's bower, and lowly kneels the maid;
And bowing down to Christ, her golden head,
Her innocent washen hands she folds, in prayer.

Whilst, for her orphan little ones and poor,
She seeks the Lord; and soars her wingéd thought;
Enters, like unto glance of rainbow light,
In Amathon's hall, the angel. Else unseen,
His high immortal hand, holds over her,
The gracious crown of perfect womanhead.

His other hand lifts censer, lo, divine;
Wherein he inspiring, kindles holy warmth,
Of kindly affections, in her virgin being;
New blameless earthly sense, dumb and unknown,
Of powers and virtues, which the world uphold,
Enlarging charity; and seemed the Avalon maid,
Her, prayer-spread virgin arms, Christ's voice say, Fold
About My lambs, in spotless marriage!

Wox then her gentle lifted heart abashed;
And, in her prayer, she quakes, and weeps to Christ,
In sweet distress. And, for the evening light,
Whilst long she prayed, is wasted from the earth;

117

She doubts it were some fever of the fen,
Which her molests. A little while, she sighed,
To the High Lord; and named dear name of Christ:
Then having sung an hymn, her down she laid;
And on her pallet sleeps, as child doth rest.

She dreams it Spring-time; when erst field and wood
Recomforted are with sunny beams and showers.
And seemed her then, one hail-beat, for Christ's sake,
An enemy, she, (some Roman, wounded, pale,)
Leads in to shelter. Seen, more nigh, his face;
It is the same whom healed her father Joseph!

But word this spake; how only was, for her,
He suffered languor; whence surprised her heart,
It came, him, brother, in her simple thought,
To call; and though she brother hath no mo.
Her pity seems, that one so gentle is,
The Lord not knoweth. Gan then, within her spirit,
The maiden pray, and him commend to Christ.

Seemed, in her dream, then, that his Roman tongue
Did ask, If that she choose alway, in Alban,

118

To dwell. But when was tempest-cloud o'erpast;
And wide again seemed garish sun shine forth,
On Avalon's mere; the stranger, parting, spake,
Farewell! and ached, to weeping, her young heart!

Rosmerta wakes; and stays her soul, on Christ:
So rose; and made her ready, to wend forth,
To minister needful things, to poor and sick.

119

BOOK XXIII

120

ARGUMENT

Pudens asks Rosmerta to wife. The knight, who has ridden musing forth, is cast from his war-horse. Rosmerta finds Pudens hurt; and conveyeth him, in his swoon, again to Avalon. Waking in the night, Pudens sees Joseph; who lays on him his healing hands. At morrow, the Roman knight requires to be baptized. It is the Lord's day; and Britons, which believe, are assembled, in Ithobal's hall; to eat and drink the remembrance of Christ's death. They then salute Pudens, the new brother in the Lord. Roman Pudens and maid Rosmerta plight their troth. The young knight, returned to Mendip, waiteth for the appointed day of his marriage. Rosmerta, in Alban, prayeth, beside her mother's grave.

Pudens' happy bridal morn now dawns, in Mendip. The Roman Palilia. The young knight rides to Alban: where the brethren keep this day the memorial of Christ's ascending-up. Pudens' and Claudia's marriage. Rosmerta returns, with her Roman knightly spouse, to Mendip villa. Her Briton name is changed there to Latin Claudia. Come to year's end, she beareth a son. Joseph journeys, to visit his daughter Claudia, from Avalon.

Ithobal, gone home to Cyprus; deceased is there, in Christ. Druids, of Eryr, come to Avalon. Pudens, made a senator, is recalled to Rome. Leaving Britain, he journeys thither, with Claudia and their young children. Come in to Tiber's mouth, they behold a great smoke; which is of Rome burning! They journey to Roman Alban. The elder Claudia, Pudens' mother. Persecution of Christ's people now in Rome.

The apostle, Simon, surnamed Zelotes, preacheth in Lybia. He passes the sea, to Spain; and finds brethren. Hearing of them, that Lazarus is in Gaul; he embarks anew, to go thither. Simon come to Vienne, findeth a certain disciple; and rests in his house. They journey on together, to Lugdunum; where he finds Lazarus, with Martha and Mary of Clopas. Martha telleth of their ship-voyage; and of Miriam's death. Simon now hath word, that Joseph preacheth Jesus Christ, in Britain!

121

Being Auleius, in whose heart hath entered Christ,
As heaven's light, among his clownish folk;
To Avalon now arrived, with peaceful heart;
He is again, there, three days, guest of Joseph.

When erst then stilled the tumult of his breast;
Leading the man of God, apart, he asks;
Touching Rosmerta, the belovéd daughter;
To espouse her, as he is a Roman knight.
After short pause, the father answered thus;
My son, and thou mayest faithfully believe,
With us; and be baptized into Christ's death!

But heard this word, the Roman somewhile stood,
Silent; so, sadly musing, wandered forth.
He, found his steed, him bridles, in fresh mead;
And, (without purpose, whither,) mounts to ride;
Alone, and without any company.

Is Pudens ridden now forth, a mile or twain:
And thirsts his pensive soul, unto her good;
And yet, fantastic, dreams his gentile gods.

122

He thinks, of Álcestis, and Orpheus!
Was Plato's Word, which formed the heavenly maid;
And clothéd her idéa, with flesh of babe;
Which sith, in gardens of Adonis, nursed
The Graces three. Each gave her heavenly gift;
When they, in blissful well-spring, there amidst,
Had washed, from her pure clay, all mingled dross.
Bare Harmony, in her clear bosom, her to Earth.
Where daily her beauty the bright hours increased.
Her helm-clad Pallas gave then hew and voice,
Like descant of the Attic nightingale;
Lips dropping honey, as Hymettus' hive;
Whereas men's wandering thoughts, as bees, alight.

Is, in the lesser Elevsinian rites;
Wherein initiate was his father Verus,
Verse, which he, ofttime, heard, of him, rehearsed;
How, (children of the Sun,) should be our life
An harmony, as of music, in the earth.
Our soul age neither hath nor sex, though clothed,
(From heaven descended,) in an earthborn flesh.
Some, sign of washing, from our former guilts,
Wont be in all cathársia or mysteries.

Was in his mind, ride, by that timber path:

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But, like one blind, this young knight round still goeth,
In his long musing, as in some dim wood.
Sudden then stooped, in moldwarp's rotten earth,
Auleius' tall steed; and he, well-skilled to ride,
(That never, erst, from warlike steed was cast,)
Pight, on his head; and, in a bramble-bush,
In trance, now lieth. And that sweet-smelling briar,
His pale brows guirlands, with her dainty flowers.

None, save Rosmerta, wist of this mishap;
But eagle-eyed is love. She viewed fare forth
The knight. From hill-brow, training, turns his steed;
His gold-bossed bridle empty, on green bent!
Generous, as longs, of kind, to noble blood,
She outrúns fleet-foot then; runs-on, Briton maid.
Soon she hath caught that barded Roman steed,
Which cometh, soft hinnying, to her lily hands;
As joying vail, to her, his lofty crest,
And sue her gracious steps. Their lady run,
Saw Dylan's sons, and left the flocks: his sons
Saw the old man; who híeth-to, with his staff.
These, being to fair Rosmerta come, anon;
The young men follow back, hard on the trace,
Of the steed's hooves, appearing in soft grass.

But she, with love's divining eyes, doth erst
Discern the fallen knight; yet being far-off.

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Look, where, come to himself, sate-up, he sighs;
The sun of Summer, o'er his open head,
Towering. He, that all sees dim and confused;
Yet hears Rosmerta's voice, (who now arrives,)
Like sound of waterbrooks, in his dumb mood.

Straight, having Dylan's sons lopped alder-boughs,
In river-grove, their hands do hastily tress
A shepherd's hurdle, of the golden rods;
Whereon, this Roman bear, to healing Joseph.
But soon Rosmerta, run down to Brue's stream;
In her knit hands, whence prayers proceed and alms,
Bring water; which she proffers him to drink.
Nor tarries she her foster-brethren, twain:
A woman's heart finds means more expedite;
Nor love is not too nice, but bold indeed,
In face of men; aye, and were of hostile gods!

Bowing, as he, a battle-steed, is taught,
Under her hand, behold, his comely crest;
The Roman courser kneels now, on green grass.
She, uplift, helps Dylan, then, this dazing knight.
He upstays him; she now leads forth, a soft pace!
Three men towards Alban, coming, in this path,
Eftsoon them meet. To Dylan; noble maid,
Then she, commits, convey this stranger forth.
(Auleius, astonished, smiles; nor can yet speak!)

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Rosmerta heard soon, how the man of God,
One dying to anoint in the Cranog,
Was rowed; some elder women, which believe,
She sends; to watch, for Christ, and serve this sick;
Till that her father Joseph were come home.

Good Dylan, and his sons, have taken bruised Auleius,
Down from his steed; and softly they him laid;
On rushes now, on floor of Ithobal's hall;
Where, ill at ease, that Roman eftsoons sleeps:
Nor wakes from stupor, till now is murk night;
Hears then loud lifted voice! Opened his eyes,
Behold, stands, with spread hands, that Syrian Joseph;
(Who now returned, by dim light of the moon,
Over the mere, is wet with the night drops.)

Sate-up, well knows the Roman, that poor hall,
Wherein burns low a Briton lamp of earth.
To him the saint approached, with radious looks,
Now asketh of his health: then father lays
On him, those healing palms, of his: his lips
Murmur of gladness, mongst immortal spirits!
Twixt sleep and wake, lifts Auleius, in his trance,
His heart to heaven: him thinks he hears, he sees,
Intelligencies, more than Plato saw!

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And yet was within night, when noise of feet,
Without. Is he who enters Felix Murcius;
Ridden from Caer Bran, and powdered all with dust.
(Had Dylan sent, by one of his own sons,
Word, hastily, of the young knight's mishap, to Mendip.)
Feeble and faint, relates to him then Auleius;
In vision of the night, he saw the Christ!

Joseph, towards day, returned; the father took
Him, by the hand; and he arose, in health.
Hark, Pudens asketh, in His name, that might
He be baptized! The saint, which buried Christ,
Took water; and in that he fervent prayed,
Pours, joying, on that bowed-down Roman's head.
And fell God's Spirit, on Pudens; who adores,
(Like debtor poor, what hour, from prison-pit,
Lifted, he sees the sun, and goeth free forth,
In raiment new and clean,) Christ's marvellous Light!

Mild springs this dawn; and blithe the lark upmounts.
Come, fleeting, hither from all holms, in barks,
Of osier-work, Christ's little Alban church;
Singing hymns, as they row, over the lake.
Then men and women Britons, fresh and trim,

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Up from the strand, to Ithobal's hall ascend.
Each, on their part, at door, then enter in:
And smiling, as the morrow, be their looks;
This first day of the week, come to Christ's feast.

They sitting then, of the Apostles' hands,
Eat bread, that dear remembrance of Christ's death;
And drink all of one cup. They joy and weep;
Yea and some, oft issuing, looketh from the porch;
To see, if come not yet, the risen Christ!
With company of bright angels, from the East,
And cloud of His dead saints. Apart, stands Auleius.
And marvel Britons, when that Roman knight
They marked among them, thus. But when they hear,
That he this morn was washt, unto New Life,
Confessing Christ; they all begin salute
Him, Brother, in the Lord, with holy kiss;
And take him all, in order, by the hand.
Were last him, on his manly front, to kiss,
Rosmerta's sweet twinned lips; that breathe the Christ!

Then Joseph, standing, spake, among the saints;
Touching the worthy suit of Brother Auleius,
For Rosmerta, dear daughter, in the Lord,
He it approves; and signifies Christ's Spirit,

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The first fruits this should be, of Britain's peace!
Then gently, of maid Rosmerta, he enquires;
Whether, of her free-will, before Christ's Church,
She, brother Auleius, sealed to heavenly life,
Receive, in holy bond of happy marriage?

Forth-standing she; at erst, the bashful flame
Flushed meekly through the ingenuous virgin's cheeks;
That seemed then gentle flower of eglantine.
Sith Kowain's daughter stedfast answer makes;
In all things, she would do the will of Christ!

The holy women, and those shipwrecked saints;
That, mongst the Britons yet remained alive,
Joying, with these, rise up around them both;
Which plight, in Joseph father's hand, their troth:
And shall be knit their wedlock's spotless band,
What month her mother Salema shall appoint.

In this, as heaven's gladness, and new life;
Dwells Auleius forth, in Alban, other days;
Being also instructed of the man of Christ:
And teacheth him God's Spirit's inner voice.

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He his spouse-sister sees, in Ithobal's house.
She, coming, daily asketh, why he sighs?
Co-heir, with Christ uprisen, of endless life!
She doubts some new grief of his former wound.

After her daylong almesdeed, ben they met,
At rushy border of the silent mere;
Where, lovely, linking hands, they walk in fere;
And each to other show their faithful hearts.
All joy, to look, which meet them in the path,
Upon that pair, (she Briton, he a Roman,)
Of noble spouses, both of heavenly feature,
And likely age, agreeing well together!
She loveth him, for Christ; he Christ, for her.
Rosmerta is the gate, the path, the stair;
Whence risen his heathen soul to life, from death.

Yet somewhiles is, of maiden Rosmerta,
The heart amazed: she musing trusted soon
Christ, with great power and glory, in the air,
To judge the world, have seen, descending down!
What profit then of earthling marriage?

And though be forged, in heaven, their wedlock's bond;
Yet agéd Salema, willing to eschew
The appearance even of unseemly haste;
And till more fully established, in the truth,

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Were Pudens; she their bridal day deferred,
Till season when, in spring-time, wont the saints,
Keep joyful feast, of the ascended Christ.

Long the dim Winter is and chill, in Britain;
Whence was his former wont return to Aquæ,
New city of Roman baths and wine and feast:
But now he savours the new things of Christ.
Yet, come to misty Mendip, Auleius yearns,
More than the little fowl, to lenten tide;
To that dear happy eve, wherein made one,
For aye; they twain, from Avalon should wend home.

As who tossed of wild waves, that sails the deep,
Chides the long hours, and chafes, in long disease;
Till he do see, far-off, his haven at length;
So pass, for Auleius, those heart-weary days;
Pass, as dim clouds, that creep o'er Mendip field.
Yet, as to who, returning from long voyage,
Each step seems lighter, though more weary his feet;
So unto Pudens, this discourse of weeks;
Till come that feast of the ascended Christ,
Which blissful morn is of his marriage.

The churlish Winter-blasts, at length, be wasted;
That lately warped the field, with hoary frost;

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Which, in those days' derne light, seemed shrouded corse.
Now, from that flinty bosom of the mould,
Utters the tender herb: the ewes, long pined,
Do yean; they come, at eve, with blowen bags,
Full-fed, back to their stalls. Glad of the time,
Hark warble soft the siskin and the wren.
Now pipes the merle, and jocund sings, all day,
The throstle cock, among the golden knops.

Sweet Spring, new-born is on the sun-wooed earth.
Each eve, in Mendip, watcheth Roman Auleius,
For the new moon. O joy, at length, when he
Sees, three days old, her sickle slender face!
Soon to go down. Then daily her increase,
He views, in heaven; and comfort takes his heart:
And yields that togate Roman laud, to Christ.

Nigh is the week; are few now more the days,
Unto that holy eve, when many in Alban,
For the Lord's coming, look, till morning light.
There Joseph's daughter-in-the-Lord, Rosmerta,
Rich in almesdeed, doth speed her daily tasks;
In showing mercy, to the poor and sick.

Now afternoon; and she, in wicker bark,
O'erfared to pray, beside her mother's grave:

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Alone, there lowly kneels, adoring Christ!
And kindling her young heart, to God, she weeps:
That He remember this dear earth, what day
The righteous Lord, (as lightning, from the East,
To West, outshines,) shall appear, in a moment!
That, ah, He wake, to mercy, her dear dead.

Yet, in her heart, a little heaviness is
Left, that now the last morrow is so nigh;
When must, from this dear dust of Herfryd's grave,
She twin, with her loved spouse; and, will of Christ,
Depart, from all she held ere dear, in Alban:
But grace shall her suffice, of Christ, she trusts.

Come then last eve, bathed in aparted place,
Her body pure, and consecrate to Christ;
She wades, and budded lilies of the mere,
Crops, here and there. Gone forth, she takes to her,
Her raiment. Then her loving hands, once more,
The mother's grave o'erstrewed with lovéd lilies,
And seemly deckt. So, weeping, she her laid,
On sod, down that dear mounded earth beside;
Her head to the grave's head, her feet to feet.
And it embracing, dear, the noble maid,
Calls to her fantasy, the dead mother's face;
And thought on her, whom, oft, in dream, she meets.
So wept and prayed; she prayed again and wept.

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The day is glooming now, Rosmerta rose;
And spake, with trembling lips, betwixt her sobs,
Mother, farewell! till that great day of Christ.
Sith, went she a little way, and kneeled down by
Her grandsire, good old Amathon's grave, and prayed;
And it, with white stones, she repaired around.

Then mound, likewise, of Dylan, newly dead,
In Winter days. And him, deceased in Christ,
Over the mere, men rowed, with mournful note,
Of shepherds' pipes; where the old herdman's grave,
As dying he had willed, at his lord's feet,
Men digged. They laid his crome, beside the dead,
(Whereof, some fable, thorn did spring; whose bough
Wont blossom, in Christ-tide, amidst the snow.)

O'er him the herdgrooms, (bound, with bitter yew,
Their rivelled brows,) did sing, in rustic sort;
Lig a lily corone, on his chest,
Who sleeps here fast, tíll God's great uprist,
When shepherds, kings, shall sitten, with her Christ!

Sith entered, in her little osier skiff,
Rosmerta much communing, with her heart,
Ferries back to the holm of Avalon.
So come in Salema's bower, she finds all there,

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Prepared to morrow of her marriage!
How Salema, to her agéd breast, takes her,
Her daughter dear! and they together weep.

Spent is the night; on Mendip hills, now daws
Thrice-happy morn. There little, ere the sun,
With devout heart, mounts Pudens, with good Murcius.
His household wait, in their best garments trim.
They bless him, who rides forth. Hark merry note,
Of trump; then shout, beyond, saluting Auleius!
(Soldiers, in Caer Bran camp, where he doth pass.)

Day also, of mirth, for the Palilia, it is,
(Rome's lambing-feast,) even in this far-off Province;
Being birth-night of the city of Romulus:
When jolive herdgrooms, in all Latin field,
Sprinkled their ruckling folds; when erst, in heaven,
Is day-star seen, with well-spring water pure,
Dance on the green. Sith they, with sulphur smoke,
Do purge their stalls; and hang, on all the posts,
To Pales, god, wreathed rosemary and meadow herbs,
And laurer bough; and offer honey-cakes,
Baked on their rustic hearths. Kindled then fires,
Of the old stover heaped; when they, with milk,
Them quench, to sound of cymbals and shrill flutes;

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Their flocks they chace, with merry dancing foot,
And shouts, through the thick reek. Last Rome's herdfolk,
At set of sun, when fallen the sacred light;
Beneath those flocks and herds now of shire stars,
Leaned on their elbows; drinking mulse and milk,
In yewen cups, keep New-year's joyous feast!

Come Pudens, on the path; him-seems the Christ,
Is risen indeed; even as this blissful sun,
That maketh all glad; and soars his soul to heaven.

Where morrow's mist yet vapours from the sod;
And gossamer, in smooth South wind, blows, they ride;
By brakes, by sloe-thorns, blossomed like a cloud;
In whose sweet boughs, chant blithe the early birds,
(Men feign, to-day, each chooseth for the year;
Her make:) by meadows then, where gaudy shines
Herb cuckoo, springing in new thicket grass;
And whiten daisies pied all the wide mead,
And gentle primrose blows, under wood-side.

Seem all these wakening flowers, to sing in the sun.
Like to a subtle music of the field,
Is in his ears! The old is waxen young:
Casts-off her Winter weariness the old year.

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Yonder, leap young lambs, coursing one another;
And every ewe hath twins. Seems Roman Auleius,
Like to a new-deckt bride, this coast of Britain.
Sweet odour is abroad, high tide of love.
Warm amorous breath spires, from this flowery sod;
Which full of infinite tongues, that the All-good,
High-Father of the world hymn and still laud.
Praying, in spirit, like to yond faltering lark,
Which soars from herb, is lifted up his heart;
And joying, all the way, ascends to God.

Slow-streaming Brue they pass; whose rushy brinks,
To-day, new-guirlanded, lo, with springing grass.
Then through the lyn, they plash, by shallow ford.
And yet is early; when to Avalon holm,
They now ascend. Men mark his Roman face;
As angel, fair; for so hath purged God's Spirit,
Of base affections, riding in the blood,
His gentile soul, and winnowed from all dross;
And it restored to image, that, at erst,
The Lord in Adam formed; which was in Christ.

How is this morrow sheen! calm is the mere
Of Avalon, circling, lo, the fisher's oar.
Over the lake, shrill-sounding reeds, they hear;
Of them, that nigh in barks, hinds and herdgrooms.

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Who first arrive, mount hastily now from shore;
And carol, joyous, on this pearléd grass.

The Sun, in purple stole, like bridegroom crowned,
With lightsome rays, in chariot, mounts. The hours
Strew the wide heavens, before his steepy path,
With blos'ms; to his high bridal with the Earth:
Snowdrops, with crocus then, and primrose pale.
He gilds, with his broad streams, now misty Avalon.

Against the spouse, that nighs, o'er dewy grass;
Clad in fresh lawn, lo, maiden choirs tread forth.
Some have their clear brows, with sheen chapelets bound,
Of flowers; and wear them other in their hairs.
Of these poor Alban holms, all virgins ben;
And playferes of the thrice-belovéd bride.
Their voices ben like bells, of silver sound,
Which, cometh from fár sheep-cotes, unto men's ears.

Lo, where she stands, on threshold of her sire!
Who lily fair, in Christ, is beauty's queen.
In beauty's Isle, so fair, is seldom seen.
Her virgin fellows have, with guirlands, crowned
Her jacinth locks, and dight with golden fret,
Which Herfryd's was, emailled with budded lilies.
But she, herself, is like to lily wand.

Sweet flower of Christ, she risen, at morning red;

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Yet once, her orphan poor and little ones,
Had visited; and to them pártage made,
Of all her good; and, towards her mother's grave,
Once more, she had looked forth, and yearned to God!

Returned those virgin choirs; the bride, adorned,
Bring forth, with song; song which, to this day, made,
Cuan, sweet bard of Christ, and well attuned.
Her orphans, flowers strew of the springing mead,
Before her gracious steps, and smelling sedge;
Whilst they, with lips, like budded roses, sing.

All, on that other part, then, the young men;
Clad in their best array, with twinkling feet,
And singing Christ, do bring forth Roman Auleius.
Lead Dylan's sons this carol, with glad voice.

So go up those blithe bands, with hymns; and each
Now enter, from their parts, that hall of Joseph,
Which Ithobal builded, (who no more in Britain,
But sand of Cyprus covers his white bones;
Which wait that Pilot great, of his last voyage!)
Within this hall, stand praying, with stretched palms,
Behold the fathers, which remained alive;
Syrians, in their best Briton garments, clad.
Be those grown old, with Arimathean Joseph.
They, as the spouses enter, loud them bless!

The saints, with comfortable words, this morn,

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Bear witness, unto all the assembled Church;
Of that beheld their eyes, the Master Christ,
To heaven, from holy hill, ascending up.
And as they pray and gaze, they cannot choose,
Old men, because his coming yet delays,
The Lord, and tarries so long time, but weep.

All sitting down at board, lo, now, they eat
That mystic bread; sith all drink of one cup;
The same wherein had Christ, Son of The Blesséd,
Ordained that dear remembrance of His blood;
Which shed was, from foundation of the world;
That night, which Him betrayed to wicked death.

Before them all, then standing forth, taught Joseph;
How, from the world's beginning, the Lord gave
To man and woman, children of His breath,
Trust, helpmakeship, in fruitful holy estate
Of faithful wedlock, to increase of His
Eternal kingdom. Shalum sithence spake,
How Jesus blessed, with sweet looks, a bride-feast;
And, therein erst showed forth His mighty works.

And, lo, together laid their hands, in his,
The hand, with Pudens' hand, of her pure flesh!
And murmuring all lips, in the Lord, them bless.
And seemed a prayer, her guileless voice of love:

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In that she, angel-faced Rosmerta, plights
Her maiden troth! And her two blameless eyes,
(Eyes, that seem windows of the morning light,
Of heaven, whence issuing angels of God's rest,)
Look benedictions. In their blissful streams,
Our cloddy cares decay, dies our unworth.

The Apostle-father stretched his hands, and named
The Highest aye-living Father, and His Christ!
He layeth them twain, on his two children's heads,
Blessing them; and o'er them pray all the Church:
Whereafter, joyous, loud, gan Britons sing
New hymn of Cuan: and so abroad they pass.

But the holy women, unto whom denied
The Lord an offspring, come to Rosmerta,
Loved child, with yearning bowels of motherhood;
Her, their fruit in the Spirit, long dearly embrace!
For she is child, in Christ, of childless saints.
And weep, (with them, weeps Keina, druidess,)
They longtime, all, o'er her, for dear constraint;
And feed on her their teeming eyes of love.

All dwellers in the watery holms of Alban,
Who yet of druids, and who be now of Christ;
Gather, of entire heart, to this spouse-feast,
Of loved Rosmerta, heir to Amathon's house.

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And many have marked, this morn, is come the stork;
Foretokening happy fruit of marriage.

Behold, in their best raiment, thronging all
This people, with blithe hearts and cheerful speech;
Now, in fair meadow, bordering nigh the lake.
Under broad oaks, be, yonder, tappets dight,
Of the sere rush; where set, (which Joseph blessed,)
Is banket, on this new sweet-breathing grass;
Whereas, who list, may eat; and drink who thirst.

For there is bread in baskets white; bake flesh
Of sheep, and also sod, with corn and broth;
And butter savouring of the thymy mead;
Wild honeycombs, and waterfowls' wild eggs;
And fishes broiled, out of the rushy lake:
And flummery and junkets, clottered cream and curds;
Wood-strawberries ripe, nuts and, in Syrian wise,
Cherries and bullaces parched of the old year.

Be such poor cottage-messes of the poor;
Which yet might well suffice, to feed man's life,
Whose flesh is clay. And there be mazer cups,
And smooth milk-bowls; and wine, in yew-staved fats,
Of Avalon's apples; which prepared, to this
Day, Syrian Salema. Sit, in the rest-place,
Behold a little company of Syrian saints:

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And of that sun-kissed fruitful soil of theirs,
They hold discourse, land, wherein walked the Christ.

Seemed bride Rosmerta, to their agéd hearts,
Like blossomed almond bough. Fastened, on her,
Be women's eyes; where, like a dove, she wends;
And smiles, in taking each one, by the hand.
And every heart joys, looking on her face;
Whence floweth radious blissful influence,
To all, with parfume of high heavenly thoughts;
That heaven, whence spirit was to her body lent;
Passing, in fairness, daughters of the earth.

Then turned, they look, on that new brother Auleius;
Who walks with Felix Murcius, and with Pistos!
Men like of Pudens' stature, hew and countenance.
How spreads his heart, like daisy in the sun;
When he his bride beholds! None he so fair,
To-day; nor happy day, as this, hath seen!

Young men dance, yonder, to loud shrilling note,
Of married reeds, entunéd sweet, which plays
A jolly herdswain, with so curious skill,
That all the laund did, with wild sweetness, ring:
Those beat, with nimble shifting feet, the green.

Yond, maidens, their ring-dances, trace apart;

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Daughters of Alban holms, with virgin cheer.
With maiden fillet bound, hath every one;
As blos'm of waterflags, her broidered hair.
Their arms shine whiter than doth cruddled milk.
Smell of their garments is like Summer heath;
Where suck wild bees sweet thyme in the sunbeams.
Then glad-eyed children, lo, with gleeful voice,
Dancing in round; whose cheeks like apples rudded.

And when these sometime cease, waked Cuan chords,
Of silver sounding crowth, with happy hands.
Love is, he sings, the livery of Christ!
And, shaped like dove, seemed Cuan's instrument,
Fowl, which doth spread her trembling wings, to rise,
Towards the High God. And seemed his Briton chant,
An harmony, then, to flow, as morrow's milk;
To comfort and to nourishing of men's souls.

And aye some new-birth of his mind, he chants:
And still his numbers rise; that, were they writ,
Sweet bard, in Attic tongue; his Briton lays
Should pierce the ears of ages yet to come.
And men him give the guerdon of a bard,
Reaching him loaves, wild eggs, and honeycombs;
And maidens bring him posies of field flowers.

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Sith the hérdgrooms do, in masteries, contend;
(Come hinds, which neighbours dwell to fenny Alban,)
To leap, to wrestle and to run; with bow,
To prick, or smite, out of feat sling, with stone,
Amidst the garland. Like then butting rams,
Some wrestle. One runs forth, most fleet of foot,
Now like grey wolf; the rest, as yelling hounds,
Do hunt him on the mould! Each valiant youth
Covets a smiling praise, in the fair eyes
Of some belovéd maid. Ceased those, hark strive
A young men's company, in loud herding lays,
Who best her beautifullest bride, can praise.

Some, for her fairness, call her Avalon fawn;
(And was she suckled of wild roe, is fame;)
Some swan, some cushot, some Spring's nightingale;
Some early murmuring bee, for soft sweet voice;
Some shepherds' star, some lily; and other pearl,
Of dew, hangs midst the leaves, sheen, in the sun.
Sith carol upland roundels, men and maids.

When last gins stoop, from his mid-afternoon,
The sun, seen timely hour; yoke Dylan's sons,
To that emailled white cart, of the dead sire,
Hath long in hall upleaned, veiled with a cloth,
Old Amathon's steeds. Called aged Salema forth,
Then loved Rosmerta, from the maidens' bower;

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Where ready her her virgin feres have dight,
Towards her bride-journey, to the Roman villa.
Her upper weed is lawn of the cranog,
Fair as swan's wing, on Alban's sacred mere.
She thanketh thém, they her; all their hearts bless
This spotless flower of Christ, which doth them kiss.

Behold now her, among them, coming forth!
Seems fade, a moment, her glad countenance,
To part, so soon; and leave them here, in Avalon.
All mark, how living ray shines on her looks!
Of heaven-born beauty and grace. In her sweet sight,
Did enemies behold their enemies,
With hearts' accord, each, other, should embrace.
And yet, midst many tears, Christ's handmaid joys,
That she, with the belovéd spouse, should ride.

Now cometh that Roman, noble, joyous Pudens;
Bearing his bride-gift to her, in his hand;
Collar of virgin-pearls, in double lace:
Pearls which the Britain-shell, great Julius sought,
(Of some celestial dew conceived,) brings forth.
He, bridegroom, girds, with loving words, therewith,
Rosmerta's gentle neck; which antique fret,
(It Herfryd's was,) adorns, of Briton gold.

The chest, wherein her raiment of fine lawn,
(Which maiden daughters broidered of the holm;

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That Salema hath prepared,) is bound in chariot.
Her orphan little ones, last, having kissed;
Rosmerta, noble Briton maid, upmounts.
And Githa, with her, Dylan's daughter, rides:
(Githa shall serve her in the Roman villa.)

Part sad, she smiles. Who say, with smiling lips,
Farewell! marks she, have heaviness, at their hearts.
Then all, which heard that cry! hie, towards her chariot,
Who in the field; to see her hastily part.

She shakes the reins! Run forth those agéd steeds,
That whinny, at her dear voice, as they did voice,
Again, of Kowain hear. His steed mounts Auleius.
Murcius mounts; and they follow forth her chariot.
Cry all the people aloud, then; God her speed!
Felix before them rides, who shows their path.

But her two foster-brethren, Dylan's sons,
Do long continue, coursing on their feet,
Her steeds beside, still looking in her face;
They pray, they never mote from her remove!
A mile those run or twain: and sith, at voice
Of Pudens, who admires their antique faith,
She grants. And, for they might not stand in chariot,
Wherein no place; he caused two of his servants,
To take them up, backriders, on the croups

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Of their tall steeds. Then were the fosters glad;
As who, from drenching waves, attains to land.

Of those poor island brethren, Dylan's sons,
The younger, Elathan, later was, in Rome,
Of Auleius' household: where he, in hoar age,
Being damned of Antichrist, to fight with beasts;
Before the heathen witnessed, with great voice,
That Christ is Lord! and joyous took his death.

With skill, that comes of kind, to gentle blood,
To handle steeds, Rosmerta guides her chariot;
In so rough ways, that marvels Roman Auleius,
With many a loving look and gentle speech.
The Sun, now drooping over Mendip coast,
The welken wide adorns; whose purple clouds,
Seem heavenly sheep-flocks, garded all with gold.

Twixt new-set trees, they pass, in comely rows;
Which planted Verus had for shade and fruit,
By Roman causeway; at whose head, beyond,
Lo, Pudens' villa. Soldiers stand, of Cæsar,
Longs the two hays, with daffodillies crowned;
And wreathed their spears and war-bruised shields, with flowers.
All salute Auleius, with loud merry throat;
And Io Hymen, Hymen! joyful shout.
Then heard was Latin voice, in some rude mouth,

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Saying; Britain's Cynthia wedded Roman knight;
To-day, a Gaulish maid hath vanquished Rome!

Stand Pudens' household ready, in his hall-porch,
With guirlands crowned; (they strew, with leaves, her path;)
All, in their best array, with cierges clear;
To welcome in their lady. All her bless,
Beholding that mild bounty of her looks;
Who lights down, to her noble spouse, from chariot.
Her Murcius brings the keys, of her own house.
Trembling her heart, she enters there, with Christ!

Briton Rosmerta, Roman spouse, so bears,
These days, her meekly, in her new estate;
That all her love, which look upon her face.
And God, who made the kindly yoke of marriage,
Lightens her burden. And, in her chaste life,
She, peerless lady, of perfect womanhead;
Doth mightily commend the yoke of Christ.

Her spouse, she loves: and Pudens if her, maid,
He, erewhile, loved all earthly thing above,
Much more her now he loves; so far exceeds
Her heavenly, as her outward feature doth.
Sweet Britain pearl, beside thine innocent worth,

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Like to a Grace, amidst their dark-eyed malice;
How tawny were, who fair esteemed, in Rome!

And joys Rosmerta, seeing then daily grow
The image of the Christ, informed in Auleius.
And kindly affectioned, in all lawful thing,
Is she to please him. And when Auleius asks,
That she might seem less stranger, in the rest;
(The rather, in that named is gentile goddess,
Rosmerta,) were her name now changed to Claudia,
After his mother; and, in days of Claudius,
That, also, came his father into Britain.
Then Britons call her Claudia Rufina;
Which sounds, The Roman Claudia, in their tongue.

Through that God-given power of faithful love;
Which miracles hath wrought, and doth yet work;
So gotten, ín brief space, hath Briton Claudia,
On her sweet tongue, the use of Latin speech;
That Romans name her New Cornelia.
Then come Mid-winter, (when they dwell in Aquæ,)
Is Claudia made a mirror of Christ's light.

Returned, when New-year springs, to Mendip villa,
Hark, in her cubicle, sings cradle-songs,

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Claudia, Christ's handmaid! yet, from childbed, faint;
For, of her body, the Lord's temple pure,
This night, was born a Roman unto Christ.

Then longed she, towards her parentage in Alban;
And tidings sends; them praying, to come soon.
But agéd Salema journey might no more;
So stiffened be her joints. Bedrid lies Sabra,
Full of old aches, sith longtime, in her bower.
Also, in this Winter's ending, Keina slept;
And, washed from sin, departed unto Christ.

But Joseph rose, and girded him; alwere
He infirm, the father would his children seek.
Him faithful Britons bear then gladly forth,
From mile to mile, in frame of wicker-work;
Being men, which looking for eternal life,
Do count them debtors to the saint. Discourseth
Much Joseph, in the way, of risen Christ;
And made this hope their burden seem more light.

Joseph come to Caer Bran and Roman villa;
His son-in-law saluting, Roman knight;
He Claudia blesseth, yet feeble, and her sweet babe;
Lifted from cradle, in his agéd arms!

Have all, which of this hope, in Pudens' villa,
Comfort, in that they see the father's face;
Whose hands they reverent kiss, that handled Christ.

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How blissful this now first day of the week;
Which come about, renews their souls' high feast;
Wherein breaks Joseph to them bread of Life,
And takes them cup of Blessing; and who looks,
Upon them all, with eyes which saw the Lord.
That seems Christ's flesh, indeed, done on the cross;
Which they, in their love-thrilléd hands receive!
Next morn; and having blessed all those, and prayed,
Joseph returns, in Roman wain, to Alban.

The saints, and also Hyn, now Amathon's flocks,
In Alban, to Rosmerta, would send forth:
But Auleius, utterly, (tiding had thereof,)
It hath recused, and likewise noble Claudia;
Save half what fruit the ewes have eaned this year;
To stock the hills, about their Mendip villa.
Thus write they both; that heirs, in fenny Alban,
Were made together, of the Hope of Christ.

The Apostle father writes, at sundry times,
To his dear children in the Lord, in Mendip;
Touching that heavenly Hope, with his own hand:
Which Hope wakens, each day, the man of God;
Who, night-long, lies expecting, on his bed,
Hear triumph-shout, Christ cometh, with His saints!

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Touching that company of the shipwrecked brethren,
From Canaan of the East, which dwelled in Alban,
Strong Alexander first received the crown;
And, last year, sailed good Ithobal, to his own.
Much yearned the mariner's soul, to land and house.
Yet most weighed in his breast, to yield account,
To his ship's owners, of their vessel's loss;
And to poor men, had trusted him their goods.

Journeyed, from Aquæ, with some legion's-servants,
And come to Troynovant; he in Roman ship,
Of charge, passed over to the Main. Through Gaul
Wayfaring; Ithobal, after much land-voyage,
Found vessel, at Massilia, Cyprus-bound.
Being come to Paphos; Mnason lately, he hears,
Deceased, at Joppa, faithful in the Lord.

O joy of Ithobal, when he finds, Christ hath,
(Through preaching of the Apostle Barnabas,
His countryman,) entered also in his house!
Sith Ithobal each day sits, and speaks of Christ,
Unto all who idle sea-folk, on the quays;
Which the old shipmaster, in much reverence hath.

Came day, when should there chosen, in that town,
Be one of good report, a citizen,
To their Prytaneion. All that Paphos sea-folk,
For him; and not few citizens, gave their voices.

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With songs the magistrates and with merry flutes
Brought home then Ithobal, to their city's hearth:
Where pilot of Christ's saints, that daily his thought
Casts, towards Isle Britain, might he not long dwell.
Christ called him, to the eternal Rest, in heaven!

As moths flit to the candle, come to Alban
In, men of Eryr's druids; which óf those strangers,
From land far-off, and leading holy life,
Enquire; (in whose mouths message of God's peace!)
What thing they teach, touching that Heavenly One.
Old men have, mongst them, seen, from their hill-paths,
By night, new stedfast Light, to heaven, ascending;
Hence. (Is the evening prayer of those few saints!)
Like to that sheaf we see, from windowed cloud,
Of sunny beams; illumine all South Britain!
Other, which most discumbered of the world,
Heard voices, as from stars; and footsteps seen,
Were, in their steeps, of heaven-descended ones!

Souls, without guile, those works of healing Joseph,
Beholding, do believe, in their true hearts.
Those, of the saints, then, instantly, have besought
Them send some-one, which, with the Lord, conversed;
To teach them Way of Light, in their hill-coasts.
Then having prayed, the brethren did cast lots;

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And taken is Aristobulus, in whom gift
Of tongues; and Barnaby maker of sweet lauds,
The Ebionite. The rest their hands then laid,
On these: sith devout Britons brought them forth.

The lady Claudia, full of faith and prayer,
Is fruitful in the Lord; and, year by year,
She beareth to her dear spouse, sons: and was,
That are they Christ's, in dream, revealed to her.
And that, in troublous age, was after seen;
When, for the faith, twain laid down their young lives:
The third Christ's faithful bishop was, in Rome.

The fourth year, of this heaven-knit marriage;
Being, Auleius Pudens, made new senator,
Received commandment, to repair to Rome;
Where Nero now restores that purpled Senate,
Which ere he slew. Makes, to depart, with Auleius,
Her ready Claudia! Should not, as Isle Britain,
Be to her, every soil, wherein is Christ?

Yet oft, embraced her little ones, she weeps;
For waits, in Belgic port, their white-winged ship;
And she hath other suckling babe, at breast:
Whence she might not, once more, descend to Avalon.

But come the morn, when from their villa gates,
(Where dwelled they happy days; that it, of Christ,

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Had seemed an inn, upon their way to heaven!)
They should begin this journey to sea-haven!
Lo, their poor servants wait, with cast-down looks,
Without. Claudia's white hands, which those all kiss,
With their salt tears, ben wet. She, daughter, weeps,
Of noble Kowain, mongst her Briton folk!

Claudia, towards Avalon's lowly strand, looked forth;
Where dwell her kin, and rest her dead, with Christ!
And weep her little ones, which see her weep.
Pudens to Murcius, hath committed trust,
Of all their good; bidding that faithful steward,
Be still a father of the poor in Mendip:
So o'er fair field of Duffreynt they ride forth.

The fourth day, nighing now that Belges' port;
Servant o'ertakes them, from their Mendip villa,
(Jacinth;) with Tegid, thither hastily sent:
Who cometh, with blessing to them both, from Joseph;
And roll, to Claudia bears, this Lyber Bret!
Whilst, with a trembling hand, the father sealed
It, Tegid quoth; his aged tears brake forth.

Pudens and Claudia, in the second month;
Being come, with their sweet babes, by sea and land,
Cold mighty Alps beyond; and there embarked,

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Sith, passed by Tyrrhene coast, with prosperous voyage:
Their keel stands now, to enter Tiber mouth.
Day breaks, when Claudia risen first looks, lo, forth;
To see that sovereign City's gilded roofs;
Whose hundred legions vanquished have wide earth!

But as she holds her husband, by the hand;
Behold this rising sun, like a dim round,
Of blood, over Portumnus' temple-roof;
As seen through vast strange murkness of a cloud;
That, like as smoke, o'er all, now, heavy hangs.
Falls blown-out soot, from yond dark drift, where Rome.
Smell smites their sense then, as of fire, from land!

At Pudens' word, the master hails the shore;
Whose marble rampire full is of staithed ships,
(That tribute-fleet, Trinacia's mystic goddess,
Now, each year, sends, with burden of bread-corn;
For the base multitude of great Sovereign Rome.)

Hark! answer comes, from loiterers on yond stairs;
Rome burns! nor any durst the City approach!

Sicily.

Is Babylon made vast brazier of God's wrath!
Where most of all the subject world abhorred,
(Ire of the gods!) is Cæsar, impious Nero:

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Who, by his crimes, so Rome confounded hath;
That all, in secret hearts, suspire his death:
Thirsting men's weary souls, they know not what,
For some refreshing breath! The master, anchor,
Now warps, furled main-sail, in Rome's tawny flood.

Soon barge to them, with even pulse of oars;
Of publicans, receivers of the dues,
Outrows. Mongst those, which board them, murmured word,
They hear; how seen were Nero's soldiers fire
Rome's streets; and beat men, from their burning wards!
Which sought, (quenching first flames,) their own, to save.

Pudens, and that uneath, in Portus, hires;
Where all is fear, none better might he find,
Two wains, with tardy oxen of the plough;
For large reward. So takes his way, towards Alban;
(That other Alban, mountain of great Rome;)
Where he was born, and lisped erst Latin tongue.

Hopes Pudens come, unto his mother, there;
Whose villa nigh to antique Tusculum.
Then, by much sand way, they and upland pass;
Wood sith, and vineyards, squalid now with smoke,

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Of burning Rome! Is, day-long, thus their path.
They journey-on weary; and last draws to late eve:
And troubled, for God's judgments, are their hearts.

And, lo, the elder Claudia, mother, walks,
To view her vines; and thinks aye on her son,
Now soon, from Gaul and Britain, to turn home.
Some rumour then she heard, of wheels, approach;
And shrieking axe-trees! Leaps her agéd heart,
Which aye misgives her, in these impious days;
And seizeth trembling on her, at each voice.
A cypress shrouds her; where she stands to watch.

She a vision sees, or else beholds her son!
He, in barbare isle, long absent in the wars,
Eigh! is come again, so like his father's face!
She, Verus' widow, sees, her son's true wife;
And children small sees sit, betwixt them both!
They, her child's children, droop, for weariness.

With cry of mother's heart, adown steep path,
She, to them, runs! but loseth eftsoons breath;
Such joy, though fail her feeble knees, she hath.
To ground leapt, Pudens' manly arms embrace
Her; fainting, they sustain; and Pudens kissed
His mother's front, beneath her silver locks:
Age hath her done this wrong! Then, hundred siths,
Her cheeks he kissed; he kissed her, lips to lips.

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She come, soon, to herself; he his mother shows,
Bright Claudia, her daughter dear, and his loved spouse:
Whom the elder Claudia welcomes to her breast!
Then, their loved babes, her widow's hands, gan kiss.
But she, kneeled down, kisseth their infant faces,
Each her child's child, with infinite affect.
Howbeit, that Roman lady, a little glanced
Back, in the twilight, as who looks askance,
On Pudens' wife, this gentle Britoness.
For was it never custom of old Romans,
To wed with strangers. She, of Lælius, vaunts
Her noble blood, and of great Scipio's house.

But when she nigher viewed, her goodly feature,
Her carriage, nurture, virtuous countenance;
And wise mild speech, on silver-sounding tongue:
She received peerless Claudia, to heart's love.
Stranger religions, many, be in Rome;
And she to some affected, herself, is,
Of Asia; and other mysteries of wide East.
Whence seemed her tolerable, though believe her son,
On Christos, Voice called of the blesséd gods.

The new harbour of Ostia; a work of Claudius.

They dwell forth, many days, in Roman Alban:

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And aye dread angry ferment is in Rome,
Beneath! and Rumor, with dread tongues so rife,
Tells and foretells, each day, new miseries.
Yester, sedition in prætorians' castra,
Largess, to-day, of Cæsar; Gauls revolt:
Germans have passed the Rhine; Gauls scale high Alps.

No more be public ways safe, to great Rome;
Loosed, in the City, are men of wicked life;
Were pilled all taberns, in the merchants' streets;
Then burned; the fora are full of violence:
And ceased now seems, in Rome, all human faith;
And all authority. Sits, no more, the Senate;
Nor do their office Roman magistrates.
Sabine, who prefect of Rome's City is;
Was in his house assailed by murderers!

Then sick, of an old fever, Pudens lies,
In Alban villa. Briton Claudia, daughter
Of island kings, waits, spouse, on all his need:
For whom, each hour, she prays; and ofttime sighs!
For Joseph's healing hands. But the elder Claudia,
In whom the spirit survives of antique Roma,
Above all private griefs, sighs public harms!

Now Satan loosed, is the first death, in Rome;

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Where followeth great destruction, of Christ's name.
As wolf the lamb, the imperial Antichrist,
Himself accused the innocent unto death.

Who sought then, fugitives, to her son, in Alban,
Hath harboured Claudia; and nourisheth still their lives,
In kilns, in cisterns, wine and olive-presses.
Even Nero's bloody sergeants have regarded
Her, Scipion's daughter; that her messuages,
Her precincts, nor her vineyards, fields, nor woods,
They searched not out; where poor of Christ lay hid.

Loud crying citizens, of great cindered Rome,
Those days, for vengeance; would all aliens slay!
Then falsely accusing Christ again, to death,
Have testified Syrian Jews, of certain Greeks,
(Jews also;) how being haters of mankind,
Who of Christ's execrable name; those fired
The City Sovereign! Poor then of Christ's fold,
(Christ lately done upon reproachful cross!)
That of day-travail of their harmless hands,
Of lowly estate, in faith, hope, love, eat bread,
Apparitors do hale forth to cruel deaths!

Concerning Simon, named the Canaanite,
(Which is to say Zelotes,) of the twelve,

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Disciples: when Christ's flock was scattered forth,
He, in Lybia, preached Salvation far abroad.

Sith that disciple, after many years;
Zealous to sow seed of the Living Word,
Mongst all which use have of Phœnician speech,
To Hispania also, over seas, would pass.
And finding, at Cartenna, Roman ship,
To Gadara bound, the Apostle went aboard.

Favonius bare that vessel forth, so rathe;
That the next eve, is Simon gone to land.
He brethren finds there, Jews and certain Greeks:
And heard, with marvel, of their lips, how Lazarus,
And Martha, and Mary, preach the risen Christ,
In heathen Gaul! For this cause, Simon sailed,
After few days, forth in Ligurian ship.

The saint is come, to land, from this new voyage,
Near Campus Lapideus, in the Province;
(Whereof Greeks fable; helping Herakles,
Zeus father rained, from heaven, out infinite stones.)

To Arelas, now arrived; by long paved path,
Went Simon forth, and having little or naught;
Nor shoes, nor bread, nor money, in his bare scrip;
But what might give him men, by the wayside.

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Are sandals bound, on his wayfaring feet;
And in his hand, a staff! Nor Simon ceased;
Till he, beyond Cebenna mounts, hath passed;
Which stoop, to Rhône's swift-wheeling mighty flood:
Whereo'er great city, Allobriges' Vienne,
Lies, in his view! All weary, he sate down;
And slumbered, on his cloak, Rhône's streaming strand,
Beside. And came then marvellous thing to pass;
Rising, in his green brinks, the giddy wave;
Simon uplifting, wafted, as he was,
To further shore; nor wetted was the cloth.
Other report some herdsman, Rhodan named,
Pitying a stranger, ferried, in his bark.

Past is the sun his mid-height, when arose
The saint. He entered in great river-town,
Goeth forth; and stands now amidst their market place.
Then went one by; which, looked in Simon's face,
Perceiving him a Jew, quoth, Shalom, Peace!

After their traffic-hour, the same man, Simon
Now biddeth, to his house. There, washed his feet;
He set on meat, when timely hour to sup:
It Abda is, of the Syrian merchantmen;
Of Byblos, Justus also named; to parts

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Of Gaul, from rich Massilia, wont to trade.
Journeying, with certain proselytes, he believed.
And glad was Justus, when he understood,
Simon is one of them which saw the Lord.
But when he heard, his guest was of the twelve;
Justus yet more exceedingly rejoiced!
And prayed, he tarry with him there, a season.

Because the saint came weary, he abode,
With Abda, seven days: and Simon hears,
The Family of Bethany, which had Jesus loved;
Whose orchard-house surviews God's holy hill;
With whom it pleased also the Lord to lodge,
Now, ín Lugdunum, dwelleth; nigh Roman town.
Then on a morrow, risen from early meat,
They journey both together on, afoot.

Upon Cebennæ, (those religious hills!)
The sun is Westing now, yond streaming Rhône;
And seem his rays to crown a dying world.
Wayfaring, come then, Christ's disciples, soon,
To an hedged garden, lies before the walls.

A reed-thatcht little lodge therein, is seen.
Fair almond tree blows midst that pleasant close;
Behold, whereunder, fallen upon his knees,
Some man, in Syrian guise, spreads forth his palms;
And this who prays, and names the Christ, is Lazarus.

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And they twain, tarrying, on the man, still gaze!
Is he, who, three days, dead; at voice, arose,
Of the eternal Word, in Jesus, was.
He wounden in his shroud, when called the Lord,
Revived. And when came Lazarus forth, unbound,
To light, from powder of the darksome grave,
His body ruddy of hew and fragrant was:
So that turned home, with his Redeemer, Lazarus
Seemed some fresh bridegroom, in a marriage-house;
Or Adam, sprung from God's creating hands!
This Simon whispers, at the tamarisk hedge,
In heathen Gaul; where drawn apart, they wait.

How changed that young man's hew, whom Jesus loved,
Sith risen is Christ, and from the world ascended!
Behold now Lazarus, one of elders' age!
Swept is that little plot, wherein he kneeleth;
And fenced, from common wont, around, with stones.
There now his hands outstretched, like the Lord's rood;
They hear his words, in Syrian tongue, to sound,
Praying for heathen Gaul; and for Christ's fold,
In all the world. With voice of them that mourn,

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Then spake he, and toucht his forehead to the ground,
Lord Jesu, Thou our Righteousness, O, come soon!

Simon saith, Shalom! opening now the gate.
Turned Lazarus, knoweth Justus; and salutes
Him saying, Peace, Maran-atha! and, by the hand,
Takes. Justus makes Zelotes known to Lazarus.
Amazed! refigures Lazarus, in his thought,
Simon the Canaanite; this, which on a staff,
Now, old man, leans! so kisseth both his cheeks:
And Lazarus wept, and Simon on his neck.

Loud Lazarus calls then Martha, and Mary of Clopas!
And they twain, hastily coming forth, know Simon,
Marvelling; one of the twelve! And they, still wondering,
Do stand; and look, one upon other's face!
And taketh each one Simon, by the hand.
With joy, they enter all then in the house;
Where Mary of Clopas washeth the guests' feet.

Martha makes ready: and soon, at board, they sate;
With gladness, sup, remembering the Lord Christ.
And oft they sigh among, and somewhiles weep.
And when that plaint had somedeal eased their hearts,
Spake Martha; whilst her tears anew break forth,

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How Miriam slept! To Simon she relates,
How angry Jews of Joppa cast them forth;
Where they had, fugitives, dwelled, since Stephen's death;
When, in the Holy City, the chief priests
And scribes, would have condemned their brother Lazarus.

Of those, come certain, from Jerusalem, down;
They stirred chief Jews, and elders and devout
And honourable women. Tumult risen,
Envenimed rabble haled them, through their streets,
To shore: yet durst them not, for fear of Romans,
Stone. Lay some broken hull, there on banked sand.
This thrust down raging Jews, to the salt waves;
And them compelled, aboard. Yet fearing break
The Law, gave those them bread; fetcht pitying women
Their pitchers, full of water, from the town.

Then cruel wights, that hull thrust from their strand;
Hoping to see them perish presently:
With mocking shout, they bade them, learn to sail.
But heard the Lord their crying! and the seams
Were closed, of those warped boards, in wondrous wise.

A gentle breath then wafted, sent from God,
Their broken ship, which rode forth from the sand:

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Wherein, she and Miriam kneeled, and Mary Clopas;
With Lazarus. Wont, in Galilee, Mary of Clopas,
To fishers' barks, she sewed two of their cloaks;
Which they then loosed for sail, with cry to Christ!
To Whom obeyed swart tempests in the lake.

God sent them, softly blowing, wind, in poop,
Then, many days; nor minished was their meat;
Nor water failed, whilst, in much deep, they fleet:
And aye Christ's Spirit did comfort their cold hearts.

The second month of their ship-voyage, in vast
Deep driving; met with them Italiot vessel,
By divine grace: whose master, sent his skiff,
Received them all, with kindness, on his board.
Next eve, they saw a land; and, furled, at dawn,
Was cast their anchor, in Massilia haven!

There, led before the Roman magistrate;
He gave them cloth and sustenance, until found
Were some convenient mean, to send them home;
And gave them place, to dwell in, the Camargue.
But, the next month, the Lord appeared to Lazarus,
In dream; and bade him boldly, in heathen Gaul,
Go up preaching Salvation, through His Name.

A West wind.

Now La Crau.

Now Provence.

Now Arles.

Our Lord (cometh; or,) He is come.

Touching then Miriam's death, she weeping saith;
How journeying many days, their sister was

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Weary begone, and sickness still increased,
In her. One eve, and when she might no more,
She sate her down, by the long way, and sighed.

Was there fresh plain, like to some springing field,
In Galilea. They, laid their budgets down,
A pillow of them made, for Miriam's head.
An hind, which that way led his flock, her gave
To drink out of his gourd: they, o'er her, spread
Their cloaks; and comforted, Miriam eftsoon slept.

She, Martha, and Mary of Clopas, sought then forth
Some bitter herbs, meet for the Passover;
And which should, by their reckoning, fall, to-night.
Whilst they then wend, in Syrian tongue, they sing;
Christ, as this night, our Passover, was slain!

Now when the hour of incense, and the sun
Low stooping in the West, they came again,
With Lazarus, who had lifted, from the earth,
His hands, apart; and said, as Jesus taught,
To His disciples: and behold, was fallen
Their sister, on her knees, and on her face;
As yet she prayed! And, in that posture, seemed,
Wherein, wet with her tears, she washed and kissed
The Master's feet, and wiped them, with her hairs.
And was their sister, to the Master passed!

Then she and Mary of Clopas, Miriam dead,

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With tears, prepared, and sighing, to the grave.
Sith, sitting round, they Miriam mourned and wept:
But Lazarus prayed, and strengthened Christ their hearts.

They, in that field, being girt, as Moses bade;
Did sithen eat, with bitter herbs, their bread,
Under the stars: then Miriam they lamented,
Till dawn; when now, with jingling mules and wains,
A company approached that way, of merchant Gauls;
Journeying, from parts of Cularo, to Vienne.

Those seeing them strangers, in outlandish weed;
In tongue of Greek Massilia, gan enquire;
Why wept they, and, what for country-folk, they were?
What aileth them; and whát this, covered corse?
Good man and rich, one Drappes, with them, rides.

Heard, (owner of that field,) their broken tale,
This Gaul, moved with compassion, as towards guests,
Showed certain myrtle-headland of his glebe,
Where no plough fares; and bury, in that waste place,

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He grants their dead. Spoiled them of upper weed,
With mattock and with spade, he and his servants;
Then Lazarus, to that need, gan hastily aid.

Crowned, as a bride; her brethren, with fresh flowers,
Have buried her, in that swart stranger mould:
So, weeping many tears, closed Miriam's grave.
They, in far land, thus laid to rest, her flesh,
Yet sighed and wept; but Lazarus spake of Christ!
And, to this day, in Gaulish tongue, is named,
Where Miriam sleeps, the Beautiful Guest's Grave.

Led Drappes in, from pasture, his yoke-beasts;
His servants joined them, to his wains; wherein
He takes then up those wayworn and sad Syrians.
They, journeying, with him, on, by many league-stones;
Came to Vienne. There dwelled they then, in house
Of Drappes, (who, through their word, hath believed,)
Two years: till last, (one night-time was,) they fled,
In bark; and that for Cæsar's edict's cause,
Fearing Vienna's city magistrates.
So came they to Lugdunum; whereas Lazarus,
A little gathered flock, now feeds, for Christ.
And yet they only, of an uncertain alms,
Lived; until Drappes dying, in the Lord;

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(Had he here also land,) to them bequeathed
A field; and gave, therein, this dwelling-place.

With Martha and Mary, and Lazarus, certain days,
Hosts of the Lord, Zelotes made abode.
Much joy and consolation have they all,
Communing of the deep sweet things of Christ;
And that, (hid, sith beginning of the world,)
Great mystery of God! But pause those oft among,
And sigh they all, because, and that so long,
The Master tarries to them, to return.

They do His gracious looks record, His voice:
His mild eyes, like to wells in wilderness.
His words, as dew drops on a weary grass.
His smile transmuted all their earthly dross.

Servants, to Roman captains, in the legions,
Went, these days, certain by, from conquered Britain,
Journeying to Roma: and they, which wend from Aquæ,
Are proselytes of Greek tongue. They visit Lazarus;
Concerning whom, they heard so marvellous tiding!

Simon hears, from their mouths, of Roman Britain,
Beyond cold sea of Gaul: amazed then hears

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How Joseph, (that rich councillor, which the Lord
Laid, from the tree, in his own garden grave,)
Sith longtime, to that Utmost Isle arrived,
With certain brethren, preacheth Jesus Christ!

(2 Tim. iv. 21.)

175

BOOK XXIV

176

ARGUMENT

Simon girds himself, to go unto Joseph, in Britain. He journeys long afoot, through Gaul. He passeth, at length, from the sea-coast, to Dubris: where certain proselytes, finding him; they send forward the saint, to Troynovant. Pistos thence conveyeth Zelotes to Avalon. The fathers, Joseph and Simon, meet again there. Simon confirms the Lyber Bret. Zelotes having taken leave of Joseph, passeth again the seas of Gaul; and journeys to Narbonne. Joseph hath letters from Claudia, of the afflictions of Christ, in heathen Rome. Cuan goeth forth, in circuit. He singeth, as a bard, in princes' halls. Talaith, vates, contends with Christ's bard.

Certain lords require of Cuan a teacher of Christ's words. Tiding thereof being brought to Alban, Phelles proffers himself to go thither. In the way, he is taken captive by Belges' robbers, and sold to sacrifice. One redeems him of the household champions of Manannan; to whom they come then, in Mona.

Romans march, this second time, against that Isle of druids. Kings Chuchid and Kynan, leading the last power of West March, go up to meet them. Divine Manannan passeth from the World. Phelles wandered forth alone, descends to a solitary shore. In that place, after other days, there find him certain cruel druids; that carry him away in a bark. Come again to land, they drive him on before them, as they march.

Agricola, Roman duke, hath wasted Mona. Phelles, with

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those enemy druids, cometh now to fire-blackened glade, where are dying Roman captives seen hanging, on the green trees! and Briton lords sitting in a council-place. Phelles is condemned. His martyr's death.

King Caratacus, now an exile in Italy, dwells in Senogallia. He journeys to Roma, to behold, how is the Sovereign City burned! From his housetop, he sees the Capitolium besieged. The king's death.

Jerusalem is taken by Titus. Joseph sees a vision of the times to come in Isle Britain. Cuan visits Duneda, the aged king, in Erinn. Joseph in Avalon, now ready to depart, leads forth the elders and brethren. An angel parts them. He goeth beyond; and deceaseth there.

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Then taking leave of Lazarus and his house,
In Gaul; Zelotes set his stedfast face,
To go to visit Arimathean Joseph:
And, one day's journey, Justus brought him forth.

Simon went, forty days, then on his feet,
Nor ceased, for any weariness he hath:
Even whilst he walks, he is, in spirit, with Christ.
He came to haven, at length, which looks towards Britain;
And finding corn-ship ready, in the road;
Which should, to-day, Isle Britain's sea-strait pass;
Simon hath hastily entered, on her board.

He the Island views hence, far-off; as we see
Sometime the moon hanging, after midday,
Like a white cloud, in sky. They loosed, at eve,
Sail forth. Whilst sleeps the weary saint and rests;
Them, o'er sea-billows, wafts a South wind's breath;
So that, or day, they furl in Dubris' port.

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Were, (as the Lord ordained,) come, yester-even,
To white-cliffed Dubris, other proselyte Greeks;
Two men, of that New Life in Jesus Christ;
From Durovernium, (now a Roman station,)
For their affairs. As they, at morn, went forth;
It fortuned them to mark a new-furled ship,
Within the port; and standing, on her board,
Some stranger of their own far Midland-deep;
Seems whose sleeved raiment of Phœnician fashion.

Those then, companions, entered in a skiff,
Do row aboard. When they return to land,
Soon, those bring with them the Apostle Simon;
Whom found they one, that Maran-atha quoth,
And named the Holy Christ! They, to the inn,
Him lead, their guest; and Simon there abode,
Two days. The third, he went, with one of theirs,
Forth, which should guide his steps, towards Troynovant.
Faring then, by stone-street, and paths of Kent,
Five days; aye pressed in spirit, the father prays,
Aloud: and where they lodged, spake much of Christ.

Roman Augusta Londinium, now wasted,
And burned lies, both sides Thames. Howbeit they find

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Some which, of Alexander, hearers were;
Mongst whom, refreshed, the saint, the second morrow,
Fared-on, by new paved way, to Verulamion.

And happened Pistos there to be arrived,
Ere days; who, with great reverence, by the hand,
Takes that disciple of the Lord! and Simon
Brake also, with them, bread of the New Life:
And he their faith confirms, and they rejoice.

Being come the morrow, Pistos brought him forth;
And will him lead, through land, to visit Joseph.
Calleva now they pass; and thence descended,
By Venta and Sorbiodunum, fare to Aquæ:
Where being arrived, tiding, to fenny Alban,
Sends Pistos, hastily, whilst they rest, to Joseph;
Simon is come, the kinsman of the Lord!

He, father, marvelling, rose-up, with the brethren;
And went forth, to meet Simon, in the path.
Young men were they and ruddy, whilst conversed
The Lord on earth; now agéd men, they meet.
Joseph, who borne in litter, hastes to light;
And each, on other's neck, those fall and kiss;
Saying Shalom, Maran-atha! and they do weep.
Though changed, through length of days, their outward face,

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Simon and Joseph know each other's voice;
Sounding, in Utmost Isle of the whole earth.

Is noon, when they arrive, with concourse great,
At Ithobal's hall. There, sitting soon, at meat;
That living Bread, come to us sinners down,
From heaven, they do all break; and drink that cup
Of blessing. Sith, in much discourse, they pass
The hours, till eve; and then short night, nor marked
Any it is night; and they forget to sleep:
So joy they, in that Hope; and is the Spirit,
With them, of Prayer; and in their midst, is Christ.

Much hath hoar-headed Simon, to relate:
O'erall, Christ's everlasting gospel preached;
And of the twelve, how some were fallen asleep;
Philip, Nathaniel, Levi, and Juda, and James.
Simon, the son of Jonas, feeds Christ's flock.
That loved disciple daily is rapt to Christ,
In heavenly vision. Both to Jews and Greeks,
Saul, which ere persecuted the Lord's Church,
Hath, in all Asia, the glad tidings preached.
Simon of Githa, that withstood the Truth,
With his forged signs, is lately dead, in Rome.

He tells how Lazarus, Martha and Mary of Clopas
Dwell, in great river-city of the mid-Gauls;

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But Miriam passed before them, to New Life.
And Miriam, mother of the Lord, deceased:
And James the Just the Jews have done to death.

But heard, how many afflictions are of Christ,
By cruel persecutions; cannot choose
Joseph, nor agéd Simon, but they weep.
Whereat strong outcry arose, of all their hearts,
Which have believed; and bowing all their knees,
With groans, they pray, come quickly unto His Church,
The Lord, the Spouse. So lifting up their eyes,
Lo, day is come. Britons sing, in their tongue,
Loud hymn of Cuan; and so abroad they pass.

Jews, Galileans, few now, grown old, in Alban;
Are Joseph and good Salema, Joseph's wife;
Shalum and Aristobulos; who, at morrow,
Is come, with Barnaby, and certain faithful druids;
But Sabra, Barnaby's mother, sleeps in Christ:
Nor yet her grave is green, beyond the mere.

And with the brethren, whom finds Simon here,
Is Phelles, that Phœnician mariner;
And Cuan of blue Britons, which believe;
The Lord's sweet singer, in their island tongue;

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And Tegid, waggoner, wounded in long war;
And Felix who arrives, from Mendip villa.

Mongst these, lifts Simon up his agéd palms;
And blesseth them, which have life, through Jesus' death.
The saint reads forth then, in that roll of Joseph;
Wherein, both many faithful things, be writ;
And apt to teach these souls, new called to Christ;
Which have not seen the Lord. And Simon set
His seal, for testimony, before them all,
Thereto. The Apostle-Fathers, sith, ensearch,
Which yet hear the Lord's voice, within their hearts,
What things pre-signifieth, the mind of Christ;
And, through His holy prophets, the Spirit of Truth
Revealed aforetime, which must come to pass,
Hereafter, in the earth, and namely in Britain.

Simon, in whose heart is prophetic breath,
Foreshows, her people neighbours should, by ships,
Be, to all nations: mighty angel Albion,
Should go, in power of God, forth, with her sails;
Loosing their bands, which longtime, in the isles,
In darkness, dwelled. Now, after other days,
Was straitened the Zelotes' agéd breast;
Till turned, from Utmost Isle of the wide earth,
He see again that Mount of the Lord's house:

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Where all his vows performed, might wait his flesh,
Christ's coming, end of his long pilgrimage.

Then, taking leave of Joseph and the saints;
He, to the grace of God, them all commendeth,
And he them all embraced. Erst Felix Murcius,
Brings Simon forth, to Pudens' Mendip villa;
Whence Pistos, journeying the same way, conveys
The saint to the Longport. Thence Simon passed,
With some tin-merchants, to Gaul's Continent:
With whom he following, came, at length, to Narbonne;
Where looked Zelotes find some ship, for Rome.

But when he heard, in that sea-haven, how Babylon
Burned! and there, from Italia, was no vessel
Come in; and being now passéd other days:
Parted the saint, in ship, which sails for Carthage.

Ere might have any, knowledge, in far Britain,
Was bruit already heard, of burning Rome:
It noised had, in the air, no mortal voice;
But Spirits, which flit o'er this vast earthy mass!

Pass other weeks, or speeding messengers
Have brought in letters, unto Cæsar's legate.
Then in Isle Britain heard, All Gaul is risen,
To expulse the legions; and to slay all Romans.

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Chant druids, Should rule the world, the people of Brennus!
Then Romans fear, in this Britannic Province.

Joseph hath letters, of the City burned;
Which his dear daughter, in the Lord, to Aquæ,
Him sends; wherein, much weeping, word writes Claudia,
Of those so great afflictions of God's saints;
That, from the World's beginning, came not such
Unto men's ears. Christ's brethren, falsely infamed,
Accused of crimes, to divers cruel deaths,
Were damned; and men and women cast to beasts.
(Though they did dread to die, those feared not death!)

Wives were and maidens, spoiled of seemly weed,
Brides of the Lamb, exposed to be devoured.
To pales, in public view, those girded stood,
Of brazen chains, about their bodies pure.
But, to Him looking, Who exalted was,
Above the World; they esteemed those chains, indeed;

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Through exceeding faith, their spousal ornaments!
And like as gentle flowers, being trodden down,
Give a sweet smell; so beauty of holiness,
In their last passion, seemed to breathe around.

Yet, in another letter, Claudia writ;
How they contemning, (looking aye towards heaven,)
The poor earth-garment of their stedfast souls,
Their bodies here, their lifted souls, with Christ;
Like women, which desire their travail soon;
Did welcome teeth of lions, most dreadful roaring,
And their sharp claws; whilst yet, with lowly voice,
Which seemed of heaven's blíss, those confessed Christ!
Insómuch, that to many which, young Romans,
Looked-on, their's seemed to be the happier case;
Of whom, some going then home, believed on Christ.

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Dulling his midday beams, the sun seemed clothe,
On their vext flesh; then hid his troubled face.
The murderous beasts, abased their hideous crests;
Were seen to lick, of that poor people of Christ,
The feet! Stern murmur rose, in theatre:
Were heard seditious cries, accusing Nero;
Was he had kindled Rome! Hell-hearted Cæsar,
Startled, made sign, uprising, with his hand!
Then guard advancing them, of Almain soldiers,
They hastily hedged Rome's lord, with barbare spears.

Who keepers were, of the man-slaying lions,
(That now had bounden ox-hides, on the saints;)
Then shouted! whereat frayed, the hideous beasts

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Fell raging, on those pure elect of Christ:
And they attained the Crown of endless life!

Other, did extreme torment of the flame,
(In Agrippina's gardens, Tiber's stream
Beyond; where circus, in the golden-hill,)
Endure; smeared with much tallow and daubed with pitch;
Lighting, as lamps, the night of ribald Rome!
But they rejoicing, through exceeding faith,
Fainted not, in the bitterness of that death.

Then, day and night, continue all Christ's Church,
Throughout the World, in prayer and fast; that might
Be Satan bound. But lightly, in this far Province,
Of Britain, Cæsar's præscript is observed;
Commanding sacrifice, unto gentile gods.
Hail! thou war-wasted Utmost Isle, whose wild
Rocks, whose dim heathen woods, (ere only voice
Of shipwrecked saints; but now even of pale druids,)
Resound, Thine everlasting Name, O Christ!

Cuan, Christ's bard, went forth, from the cranog.
Kindled his breast with flame of heavenly love;
He chants, in Britons' tongue, to Erinn crowth,
Christ's gracious words. And, as then custom was,

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He passed, in circuit, by the neighbour tribes:
And men him name, the new Carvilios.

That Avalon bard came, journeying, beyond Hafren;
Singing the things of God, with sweet accord,
To Caerwent, to mead-hall of king Moelmabon:
Nor yet have Romans vanquished Deheubarth.
Him follow young men of the bards, and druids
Of Eryr; even as, in the leafy woods,
Run the dun roes, to wayfarer's blithe pipe:
And they would Cuan hear, that Vision sing,
In measures sweet, which come is among men;
And veiled in mortal flesh gods' heavenly Light!

The long-aged sire well-pleased, who bed-rid lies,
Is hearken that new chant of Avalon's bard;
Like to a Summer-dawn's refreshing breath!
He feels his harms assuage, when he him hears:
Whose heart doth fail, for sorrows of these wars;
Wherein he hath forlorn five valiant sons.

Yet lives, but exile, great Caratacus;
Whom he, the sire, counts as his sons. Sings Cuan,
That golden Branch, which berries bears, as pearls,
With healing leaves, the very misselden,
Which found, these last days, is, in forest-World!

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Even Christ, our druid; which grafféd, in our souls,
Though die our flesh, shall they not taste of death.

A land there is, beyond blue vast West flood,
Of God; from whence came faithful men, which made,
(An angel entered with them, in the ship!)
With beavers, in the meres, their crated bowers;
And healed therein a people of fugitives;
Power of their God! whereby, (sings Christ's sweet bard,)
Is brought again the paradise unto Alban!

Then Cuan chants, The Great Forgotten God,
Above all gods, Alfather of the world;
Whose waget weed, (yond, broidered all with stars,)
The infinite heavens. He is that Power which wields,
Above earth-field and seas, those trembling signs,
Which beckon to us, earthling wights, by night.

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Chief bard, in Moelmabon's court, Talaith,
At Venta dwells. Had king Caratacus
And Maglos loved his passing high device:
And him they likened, to a fat of gold;
Whereof, in silver cups, is daily poured
Ambrosial mead. Of heroes and high gods,
He each day made, in those Silures' ears:
And of earth-ruins, which we men call the World,
Could sing the Prime, and smiling Summer-gladness.
And he endowed is, with so noble voice;
That, to his words, consent all hearers' hearts.
Then he contends with Cuan, sweet bard of Christ.

His warbeling strings, the illustrious vates touched,
In heroes' hall; and weaved them in his hand!
To trembling crowth, he chants, Song of the earth.
Whose ground-walls laid the everliving gods,
And reared above clear firmament, of frost,
And fire: whose remnant, broken in old war
Of gods and giants, now heaven's clear stars be seen.

And was, when floods flowed backward, on the land;
Forsook wide valley of the World, all gods.

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They thence withdrew them, unto mountain tops,
Of misty Eryr; whereas, in murk grove,
Of pines, had gods a cold star-glittering house.

Bewept, long-age, then, spouses of high gods,
Earth-world, beneath, forlorn, deformed, and drowned,
Was erst so fair. But sith their straitened mood
Began appease, singing the golden-haired
Belin, an heavenly melody, among the gods.
Lord of the sun; when he his ivory harp
Strook, parfumed seemed the light of day, the air
Golden in heaven. Then issuing all the gods,
They looked down-forth again, towárds waste world!

Bright handmaid of the spouses of the gods,
The iris-wingéd Spring, their messenger,
They send then view earth's empty field, so wide.
Joyous, on her bright wings, that heavenly maid
Leapt forth. She stooped, soon, from her aery voyage,
Runs-on, like partridge, in earth's green hill-sides.

Much marvels gentle Spring, to view, how shines,
The World, beneath her feet, in weed arrayed,
Like spouses of the gods; what days they deckt,
And shining all, with precious carcanets;
Dwelled yet on mould, or ever grew those wars.

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They, to 'scape immane giants, which them pursued,
Erst gem-stones cast, to them, from their bright necks;
They cast then, from their heavenly brows, clear frets,
As stars, of pearls; sith chains and bracelets.
In that they up-róse, forth, in swift-teamed cloud-chariots!
Fell scattered, on wide bosom of the mould,
Sheen, diverse hewed, their divine ornaments.

Was war, twixt strong earth giants, and the high gods!
Earth-spirits those, which had burst their former bonds,
(Seven towers, seven brazen walls, seven cloudy floods;)
Wherewith great Dagda, father of the gods,
Had bound them; and thereon whelmed stony mounts.

Those crept forth, as from tomb, under far coast,
Of heaven, and night-time, turned to ground; oppressed
Erst Hæsus, drowsy porter of the gods;
Who sate in porch of their gold-glittering house;
Wherein, drinking a dulcet mead, then gods
Kept monthly feast. Had Hæsus there, in hold,
All arms and furnitures of the weaponed gods;
Bolts, helms, spears, maces, budgets, tools, workbags!

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But not bright Belin's golden harp, (which hanged
Down from his divine neck, within, at feast.)

Those, stolen Red Taran's lightning, and the rain,
And the twelve winds of heaven, and divine arms;
Huge, suddenly, with vast torment, raging, (wind
And wild-fire; and eftsoon of immane flood!)
O'erthrew gods' hall. Then turned were, (without arms,)
To shameful flight, ere careless dwelling gods;
And in their own immortal power, secure.
Giants sithence, kindling lustful heat, pursued,
From hill to hill, in vain, swift goddesses.

But Titans slumbering, after wicked wrack,
Drunken of mead; high gods, sending great birds,
Of eagle kind, recovered their lost arms;
Which lay around those strewed! Marched gods then armed,
To dreadful battle. Belin went before,
Chanting and playing, on his heavenly wires;
(Whose sound those Titans cast in deeper slumber!)

Reeled earth's wide mould, sunk, neath gods' mighty tread!
They Titans smote: and had of them just gods,

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Full vengeance. Giants, gods, in the meres, thus made,
To the everlasting ground-rocks, left then, chained!

Sweet Spring danced gleeful forth, with maiden foot;
Yet oft she stays, behold those living gems,
That shine like dew-born thing. Of stars, she deems,
Begot; or some celestial influence!

How all, with blissful hews, unfold their heads!
More than in changeful gorget of the dove.
Her-seem these tottering clusters, in smooth wind;
(And whereon wild bees light, from the sunbeams,)
Some silent wonderous music of the field!

Great store, all in her lap, the heavenly maid,
Gathers then of those daughters of sweet mead.
And erst, of daisies pied, a lace she made;
Sith chapelet fair entwined, for her bright head;
Much like that galaxie, which girds-in and crowns
The starry heavens. The flowery golden knops,
Like amber beads, she tressed, with jacinth, ment;
And nodding windflowers, pale, for her white neck.
With violets sweet, she broidered her bright locks;
And gauds, of coral cups, hanged in her ears.

With dainty flowers then, her dear bosom, deckt.
She storied sith, with blossom of the thorn,
The heavenly kirtle, to her crystal feet.

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Last girdled, with an honey-suckle twine;
And with sweet-smelling bough of eglantine,
Filled her right hand, she joyous Spring upmounts,
From Earth's low field. Returned, with violets crowned,
Lo, Virgin Spring, to the divine abodes,
Glad-smiling, enters to those heavenly ones;
That sit on shining thrones; (and hold their hands
Those golden cups; whereof, heard Belin's chant,
Drink the gods, each to other, with great looks.)
And seemed new parfume fill their starry house!

Rose-up then, marvelling, spouses of the gods;
So mantled seeing her, of living gems;
Dight, as with living gold! All ask of this,
Take by the hand; they kiss her divine cheeks!

And she to them, in order, all rehearsed;
How, as bride bed, bedeckt with needle-work,
Lies the whole earth! and all admire the gods!
That smell her raiment, and behold those flowers.

The all-seeing god tóok his sweet-tongued harp, which made
In form and likeness of a maiden's breast;
The face of virgin goddess, with bright locks:
And cried, That I forget my grief! He toucht,
Soul-ravishing, the speaking sister-wires;

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Like those gilt rays which darts his bow abroad;
That send forth blissful mingled arcane sounds;
Which pierce the divine ears. In the herb, he quoth,
Those gem-stones were upsprungen of the gods!

Voice answered him, of all those heavenly ones:
Let us, again, descend into the World!
And it possess. But when beheld the gods,
How sheen world's mould, they lighted down, from chariots.
Then, in low earth's plain field, and green hill-brinks,
Each goddess, hand-in-hand, goes, with her spouse,
Gathering bright flowers; and her, as bride, adorned:
Nor had they ere so fair seemed to the gods!

Sith, to their former seats, returned, high gods
Did dwell therein; where travail they beheld,
Of earthling kind of men, on living ground;
Which yet were, without malice, without jars.

He ceased: Silures loud the chant applaud,
In king's high hall, of that renownéd bard!

But toucht, of new, Talaith his crowth, and quoth;
Nor stayed the gentle vates, to take breath,
For swells his breast with song: how hoved, above,
(Ere yet Night's cloud was risen, from Hell,) the Sun,
Continually, the former world: but paused,

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As hovering bird, when mortals should partake
The day's refreshment of their kindly food;
Which the odorous bosom of the foster mould,
Of ever-ripe and pleasant fruits, brought forth:
Then it was eve, and men did timely rest.
Sith wheeling his fire-wheeled, swift-teamed, gilt chariot,
He heavens remounted, in new morning-red.

An hell-wolf, with those giants, his ancient bands
Had burst. He ran forth in the hollow earth;
Nor might be brought again to hand, and chained,
Even of the gods; (and yet this runs world's paths,
From the sun's setting till the morning light!)
All wights he met withal, he, madding, bit:
Whence filled was the whole world, with violence.

But when earth's field saw Belin stained with blood;
Repenting him show his ambrosial ray,
To men's misdeeds, which wretched dwell on ground,
He left to shine: all dimmed was then and dark;
Nor sovereign gods had light in their abodes.
Gods set, in firmament, their temple-fires!

Sith measured radiant courses of the moon,
And silent watches of the starry hours,
An hundred years; till last, in all the world,

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Was found uneath a mortal remanent.
Whence, lest, deprived of light and mind, should perish
Man's kin; and left none worshippers were on ground;
Being, also, long entreated of all gods;
Vouchsafed, for their sakes, half the day, to shine,
The god: and gave, to comfort their cold hearts,
Twilight, what time men teeth of evil beasts
Most dread. She, virgin, born, twixt day and night,
At eve and morrow pale, still looks askance;
And hewed oft red, as blushing, she appears:
The cause men's guilt, which her pure gaze discerns.

Cuan the vates lauds, and calls to Christ;
Saying, Thou árt, Master of song, Talaith,
Not far from us. As flowrets, towards the Sun
Draw we nigh, also, to the Living God!

But he, the royal bard, provokes Christ's bard;
(As bird, which sings with bird, in Summer-grove,)
Chant thing him breathes in heart, his stranger God.
Erst, Daughter of the air, me only taught,
Quoth Cuan; whose hid voice heard, in every coast:
But sith the Spirit of heaven-descended Christ!
Then Cuan toucht his dulcet perplexed wires;

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Whilst pants his teeming chest. He looked towards heaven;
And came into his heart, an holy vision.

He weaved again his dreaming instrument:
And quoth, The grave-mounds sitting of my sires,
Beside; I sing, The hope of Christ: went forth
(Like little wandering bird, into vast night,)
Our soul, to a new Dawn, from death, shall pass.

Sounded his Erinn strings then deeper note;
Like living murmur of wind-driven waves,
That fret the timbered frame of the cranog.
He chants, in numbers grave, hymn of Christ's death.

Dead on the tree, Jesua's soul descends,
Like voice, with that His divine increate part.
It passed, by the steep rocks, beneath the earth;
To a land of shadow, and immane valley of death:
Whereas, (of whom none memory more remains,
Save in Almighty breast of infinite love!)
Sleep earthborn seed of thousand ages, souls,
For multitude, like unto leafy grass;
Which must earth's stony womb again bring forth.

Lies World's vast Tomb, in deep heart of the earth;
Gulf of eternal death, where day breaks not;
Great alabaster treasury of my God!
There souls, in their eternal rest, uplaid,

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Do sleep, as were a garden in the night.
Passed through iron clodded darkness, rusty mist;
The radious Spirit of the Holy Christ,
Enters, like light, which casts clear adamant stone;
With heavenly parfume, as of springing lilies:
And, in His blissful beams, divine, rejoice
Huge antique pillars of that craggéd place;
Under blind silent stony firmament.

The Sun, amongst them went, of Righteousness;
(So now Christ shines!) And spake, to all those souls,
Each comfortably the Lord's voice; and was
As on dry herb, when dew of morning falls:
And was there whisper, as of forest leaves.
Christ, upon each one, as He goeth-by, breathes;
And those, of Everlasting Life, His Spirit
Receive. He bade those souls, yet patient rest;
Till last resounding trump split the tombed earth.
Not one of them, in that hour, should be lost!

Christ spake; and springs now third day on the earth.
Then He, our Life; Who blessed them, as He rose,
(And seemed like beacon, on some mountain top;

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And sith bright star!) to Joseph's garden-tomb,
Returns, to take, anew, His virgin flesh.

Life-of-the-Dead, sing angels, at the cave;
Their Light, awaken! Rise and shine: come forth!
To World, return; redeemed, Lord, through Thy death!
Death cannot hold Thee, Thou hast conquered Death!
Rise in Thy manhood, Jesu, Son of God:
Lift up Thy Light, Thy Glory, from the grave.

All suddenly then, the gracious Lord arose!
Towards Heaven, He spread His man-pierced holy palms!
He, o'er Earth's face looked, East and West; and Christ,
(Great Morning of the World!) to save, went forth.
(Eternal, for Thine Infinite Fatherhood!
Save all men! World's all ages, through Christ's blood!)

He ceased; and many souls desired the Christ,
Whose heathen bowels wax weary in the war.
Christ sounds some sweet new tiding, in men's ears!
But Moelmabon, king of warlike men;
Howbe, Him Cuan sing, above all gods,

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Who, God-of-war, to earth, sent down, His Peace,
Might little savour the meek things of Christ.
Yet Chuchid gladly hears, (who to his sire,
Moelmabon, in the stead of many sons,
Last of five brethren rests,) that bard of Alban.

Hardy and free, in Maglos' seat, he sits;
And his young heart is old, with care of wars.
That prince gives Cuan mantle of a bard;
Broidered the blue-fringed frieze, with silver stars;
And brooch which fastened his own royal weed:
That no man, whereso he should singing pass,
Molest the Avalon bard, in Deheubarth.

Thence Cuan parted, came to Kynan's court;
Where, a great company, already, is assembled,
Of druids; that wáyfare, to some great assize,
In Mona. Part, without, on green hill-bent,
Cloud-gazers, sit. Other watch flight of birds:
Certain, in rotchets white, in king's hall, make
Their incantations, with ascending voice.

Asked those, of Kynan, man, in sacrifice!
Responded Hammeraxe, Were fallen, past count,
Oak-leaf-crowned warriors, to all saviour gods:
But little it availed had, in the wars!

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Some then, in antique speech, gin darkly chant,
Of earth's vast Night, which was before the gods;
And strife, with heaven's fire, of earthy frost:
How sea-mews wild, of living kinds, should last;
Scream, o'er dead, drowned world-ruins', white frozen rocks!

One, hark, entreat, among them, with thick voice;
Touching that long-aged being of the gods.
But their red eyes be guileful as the snake;
Sith, on their ways, those lowering all part forth.

Calls Cuan's company then, the royal steward,
To the king's herberge, in mead-hall, and meat.
Kynan, yet feeble, of late pestilence,
Leans, in king's stool; and friendly his high right hand
Beckons, to Avalon's bard. When all have supped;
Cuan, at the Lord's bidding, his clear chords
Tempered; and chants Christ's Peace, with piercing note!

The king, to Cuan, parting, a bard's fee,
Would give; but naught would he at all receive:
Christ freely gave, and that above all worth.
So passed, upon his way, the vates forth.
He, from lord's hall to hall, chants, in West March;
Of whom some, heard Christ's inner voice, and touched
Their warlike hearts; would know more of this path:

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But, Who should teach them? they of Cuan ask.
That bard of Alban tiding sends to Joseph!

Few now and old, the brethren which there rest:
Was the Lord's day, when came that word of Cuan.
Then fell God's spirit on Phelles; and he spake,
Send me! The saints, long having prayed, they laid
Then on that brother all their faithful hands.
With them that turn to Cuan, lo, he parts forth.

They journey; and certain with them, Eryr's druids,
Which run in those hill-coasts; (that lighting-places,
They deem of heavenly spirits;) whereas they seek
Cleanness of heart, and paths of Light and peace.

One morrow, amidst their voyage, came to pass
A robber band met with them, men unarmed;
(Were felon Belges, from the Romans' Province!)
Which threatened them, with death. Yet let those go,
As many as were druids. The rest they bind.

They have, though old and stranger wight, bound Phelles;
To sell, to thraldom, or for sacrifice.
He joys, as counted worthy to partake
In sufferings of the Christ, before his death.

Now last, lo, mart-place, by that windy lake,
Whence sacred Dee outflows; where the green hill,

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Tomb of old hero, who thereunder lies,
Couched in his helm and corselet of pure gold,
(Howbe his glorious name is quite forgot.)
There certain day, in every month, wont stand
Men thralls, mongst sheep and oxen, to be sold!

This morn is mart of merchants; and exposed,
Lo, Phelles, girt in blanket weed of Alban!
Chaffers him, for three rams, then some old Briton,
And certain poise of bronze. Is vow this made,
To his vain gods, for safety in the wars;
One offering, for his soul, of even years.
He hales then bounden Phelles forth, with cords,
To Dee's broad oaks; whereunder, which enclose,
In compass round, twelve mighty unhewed stones,
An altar is. (An hireling druid shall there,
Him slay, at set of sun!) Phelles, lo, drawn
On this wise forth. One meets them, in the path,
From upland, coming on, with spear and targe;
Who seems a champion, of some prince's house,
Tall glast-stained wight: And he a lord's badge wears,
On his stout upper arm; where pourtraied ship,
With silver sail and helms and oars, embossed.

Of truculent gait, and casting fierce blue eyes,
This stedfastly regards the stranger's face;

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And knew him, (though him Phelles knoweth not,) stays;
And from his left arm, suddenly, on agéd Phelles,
Cast the man his brave cloak; his other hand,
Upon that trembling wretch, he sternly laid,
Who Phelles hales! and hoarsely, he, of this thrall,
Requires his emption, as then custom was;
(Who shall his owner's charge pay, ere day's end,
May redeem new-bought thrall. Thus many an one
His sire hath saved, his brother or his son.)

Not daring that old wight, him to gainsay;
The scornful warrior gives him gage, till eve;
His gay broad glittering belt, of hammered bronze,
Two oxen worth; wherein, of cunning smith,
Lo, antique battle wrought of Gauls and Romans:
(Be blue-emailléd these; are Romans gilt.)
He will redeem it, where they go to lodge,
In house of certain trader of Manannan.
That champion smites his cords, with warlike glaive,
Atwo: then taking Phelles, by the hand,
Long gazeth kindly on the Phœnician's face.
Phelles, him-seems, record that champion's voice:
Erewhile, him, mongst some captives, hath he seen;

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Squalid then, shorn, who bears now long sheen locks:
Daubed then, with clay, whose weed is this fair lawn!

He one of them was, whom had sent lord Amathon,
(Prince Kowain's captives,) unto king Duneda;
What day the shipwrecked brethren fared to Isca:
When Phelles kindness also to him showed,
And led to Joseph; who healed his war-wounds.
His name Cathmor. He Phelles' ransom hath
Now borrowed, from that trader of Manannan,
(Was all his yearly wage.) To the old wight,
He it numbered then, redeemed his warlike belt.

Upon the morrow, ended, in these parts,
His business; at new springing dawn, they twain
Part forth, impatient Cathmor, to come home.
Much forest, faring on their feet, they pass,
In many days: but nightly find, to lodge,
In friendly cabans; and be there refreshed,
With meat; for servant, unto sire Manannan,
Is Cathmor knowen wide. Last, at salt flood,
Staying that tall champion, on his ash spear-staff,
And Phelles, feeble, aiding, (at low ebb;)
To Mona, the sea-strait they overwade:
So wend up to Manannan; who, through age,
Unapt to menage shield, or stand in chariot;

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Hundred stout men of war maintains, in arms;
Whom he, to Chuchid, sends, each Summer-season,
Moelmabon's son; to strive with harnessed Romans.

Bounteous Manannan, who receives all strangers,
Beareth himself what charge his man hath paid;
For that Phœnician shipwrecked mariner.
Then oft with him communes the waywont sire;
(Whose mind is as the illimitable deep!)
Of ships, lands far-off, tongues, men, merchandise;
But Phelles preacheth Christ, to sire Manannan;
Who heard, where dwelled that heaven-descended One,
Him bowed, in his high settle, towards the East;
Gate of the Sun, from whence flows all our good.

Romans, to Mona's sound, of new, approach;
Cohorts of legions, archers, Gaulish horse.
Last power of all the youth of Deheubarth,
Gainst them upmarch, in warwont thick caterfs:
(For by Moelmabon's counsel, since ere-year,
Were Winter-sieges laid to soldiers' castra.
And were, by bloody assault, some also won;
And death of all within them, stranger Romans!)
Their duke is Chuchid: in the Samhain-month,
Deceased Moelmabon. It decreed high gods;

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That should the sire not see, of all South Britain,
Last overthrow. Lo, joined to him, king Kynan
Leads all the remnant of his martial nation.

Manannan made then whole-burned sacrifice,
Of sheep and beves, to Britons' battle-gods.
Dark was the night, when, from Manannan's court,
Tall Cathmor hundred spears leads forth, with shout!

November.

When legions passed sea-sound, Manannan hears;
With only few in company and stranger Phelles,
He mounts mule, to the Isle's West waves to ride:
Where, (sent before him messenger,) ready lies
His ship now, the Red Mare, with sail and oars.
They journeyed forth, lodge, by dim light of stars,
That sea beside; and pass, with troubled hearts,
The hours, till afternoon; when tiding brought,
Of battle joined, twixt Chuchid and the Romans!

Came further word, at even, by long land-shout!
Is Chuchid hurt; king Kynan fell from chariot;
Blue Britons fled. Have Romans taken the dune:
Soldiers burn the sire's hall! Sighed then Manannan,
That little now is left, in his great age,

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To maintain guests. Then heard was strange vast voice,
Calling, by name, Manannan Son of Lîr!
(Voice of the Oracle!) and, Unto the Deep,
Commanding, launch forth now the Red Mare ship!

His swains her heave, o'er wide sea-bent, to strand.
Manannan, mounted on her board, quoth loud,
He would forsake the World! Rumbles salt flood,
Whose bosom Lîr's steed-necked prow doth receive.
Manannan bade his swains then row, for life;
Else should swift currents steal them, from their course;
Nor might sustain their sail-yard weight of wind.

But last of them, which, on the shore, remained;
Was heard, from waves, rebellowing to fast land,
A more than mortal shout! wind-spurned, the wing-
Sailed Red Mare, towards far sea-rim, swiftly flies!
So that did cast her rowers, in board, their oars.
And wrought the sea: beat then great billow reared,
O'er them, that snow-drift seemed! Fallen the young men

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In tideway now were seen: whereas, being changed,
To swans, in tumbling watery heaps, they ride.

But, sitting on his keel, the sire remained;
That, under him, as whale-fish seemed. Sang then
Manannan chant divine; whose words arcane,
(But hid the sense,) raught hardly unto men's ears.
Beyond wan circuit of sea-waves, which seemed
Then molten wall, from ken, he shortly passed,
Of mortals, looking from hoar craigs: but sith,
Bards sing, unheard-of tiding, to their harps,
In the mead-halls, of lords, in wide West March;
How, being of nature with the deathless gods,
The Son of Lîr, in form of a white mist,
Unto the evening skies, exalted was!

God's Spirit had parted from that fellowship,
Phelles, who wandered, through wood-shaw, all night;
So bade the blesséd Christ, which is our Peace;
Fleeing the cruel face of Mona's druids:
Till weary; and when begins now day to break,
He sate him down; and saw, from thence, unfar,
A remote cliff, and breaking wave beneath;
Whereas some bay and solitary shore.

Grey deep, how wholesome, to a shipman's eye!
And who is 'scaped, from ape-faced world, not joys

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Look forth, o'er thy vast wandering breast, abroad,
From some lone cliff, and snuff-up thy salt breath?
Eternal flood! how thy waves' sullen sound,
Doth seem, as mother's voice, to wakening child!
(And art thou Infinite Deep, the antique Womb
Of all!) He gazed wide out, and wished for God!

Then looking through the fingers of his palms,
Wherein his agéd face is fallen; he gives
God thanks, for his soul saved. Unto that strand,
Descending, will he wait the will of Christ.
Phelles bethinks him, of that swart-blue deep,
(Hewed as the jacinth flower,) of far Phœnice,
Whose glassy waves dance to a Summer-strand;
And his fair Tyrian shore, whence wont he look
Forth, to those laurel hills of Nazareth.

Now, after prayer, (how sweet of a lone soul,
Which sealed to heavenly life, and cleaves to Christ!)
He, son to poor Phœnician fisher-folk,
Returns, in happy musing of his spirit;
To Accho strand, and days past of his youth.
Again, he, by clear-fleeting Belus' brook,
That caban sees, and little garden-close;
The hedge, with gourds o'errun, of glistering reeds;
And that pitched bark, was their poor livelihood.

Tyre's large sand shore, like sickle, lies beyond;

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That strewed is, after Winter's stormy wrath,
With shells and shining wealth of salt sea-deep:
Whose world of billows, like to watery light,
Melodious, had lulled his cradle-sleep.

He mused, in busy thought, how fares his house;
And yearning fervent prays, might they be Christ's!
And as, (for so loved God the World,) died Christ;
He also, for his brethren, would taste death.
They, as their father, (being then grown young men,)
His childhood loved; and what time they came home,
From all-night fishing, in their bark; each one,
Lifting him, in his manly arms, kissed oft.

Five days, lodged Phelles at those wild waves' brinks;
Sea-eggs, with limpets of the craig, his meat;
And, warped there, certain kind of salt sea-wrack,
(Red dulse, or water-leaf; and the green sloke;)
Which might be eaten, on that forlorn strand;
Nor he alone, for in him dwelleth Christ.

Phelles, the stranger, find there enemies druids.
Now midnight, slumbering on a pebble-bank,
He dreams Christ's advent, with the heavenly stars!
Those come up, then in moon-shine, from their bark.
He sleeper, wakened, meekly rose: him stand,

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His foes around; that prick him, with their spears.
Those Phelles bind: they hale him then, down-forth;
And headlong, cast in, with them, to their bark.
The druids' boat servants thrust then, from the land!

Till dawn, those row: and where they now take shore,
Those cast-out patient Phelles, from their board.
Some buffet him; pluck other down, alas!
His hoar head mocking, in the bitter billow;
Making as would they drench him, in salt flood.
Him, whom they smote; they goad, still threatening death,
On, with their spears: then having, on his neck,
Laid all their burdens, journey forth afoot.
Thus dies he many sithes, before his death;
Who ever liveth, in God's life-giving Christ.

Now afternoon, they halt, by half-burned croft;
Whence fetor blown! Hath murder-war filled Mona,
With Britons' blue unburied carcases.
Julius Agricola, lo, the twelfth great captain,
Whom Cæsars sent, their legates, unto Britain;
(And noblest he, of all those heathen Romans!)

In Britain warring, under duke Suetonius,
Gone eighteen years, he Mona's fields had wasted:
And now returned, with the same Roman legions;
He all utterly spoiléd hath, and her villages burned;

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And, taken their cattle, blue Britons' standing corn
Destroyed. Sith, as had chanced then, to Suetonius,
Are tidings brought him of new warlike stirs,
Mongst Britons: from North March, descends Venutios.
Wherefore, repassed Agricola Mona's strait;
He marched, in haste, to meet his enemies.

Those journeying druids, which Phelles aye torment,
Kindled now fire beside some blackened brook;
Sit down, of such meat, as they have, to dine.
Yet, whilst they eat, gives no man to the saint,
Though he their budgets bare; saying, with mocks,
Victim, which hallowed to the gods, behoves
Fast, that he were more pure. But Phelles prays,
And bowing down the head, hath inward feast.
Bound to a stem, he leans; and sleeps at once.
Till wakens him chill morrow, Phelles slumbers.

Yet is that twilight, which before the sun;
When driven, lo, Phelles forth, of cruel druids.
They journey, in beaten-path on, till high noon;
Whereas much war-stained folk, of Britons, pass:
Of whom not few have bounden battle-wounds.

And Phelles, every one which meets them, threatens;

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With that, or spear or glaive, is in his hand.
All him revile as Roman; but to druids,
Which bring him bound, they bow down their proud faces!

They issue soon, to some fire-blackened glade;
Where round about, lo, wretches hanged in trees!
That groan to deaf high ear of heaven; and howl
To men; in abhorred Roman strangers' tongue.
(Were soldiers, which left hurt, in slaughter-field;
Bare too faint hearts, to fall on their own glaives.)

Have those, as public robbers, punishment;
Which to augment, their feet beneath, are kindled
Fires of green boughs! Be now, ah, horrid sight!
Some partly in flames consumed, and bitter smoke.
(Much like is, unto angry swarming bees,
Murmur of Britons thronging in that place!)

And there amidst, ringed-round of cords and rods;
Is certain space, which keep fierce men in arms.
Within, lo, sits, on marches of green sods,
With lords of tribes, some great assize of druids.
Mongst these, behold war-wounded lords be laid;
And certain are there also newly dead;
O'er whom their royal mantles are displayed!

A duke, upon his elbow, faintly leans:
Unto whom, those all, as aught of weight he said,

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Give heed. It is, who Storm-of-war was named,
Venutios, of North March: whose godlike looks
Seem clay already. Ah, ceased is now his breath!
All hearts grow cold, which that king's mortal part
See sink, in iron sleep, of endless death:
Whose glory is only a memory now henceforth!

With few, of further Britons, which forepassed,
In swift-teamed carts, their thick-speared blue caterfs;
Amongst Agricola's journeying expedite cohorts,
By night-time, fell, unwares, great king Venutios.
Violent hurled javelin, in the starless murk,
Pierced the sire's loins: whom hardly Ebroc's champions
Then saved, in glast-stained arms, and hid in grove;
Whence had they brought Brigantes' lord, Venutios,
To die, in Mona, sacred isle of druids.

But who, mongst many kneeling, their fronts bound,
With holy oak-leaves; (shine on whose proud necks,
Wreathed collars, of red gold, all great lords' sons;)
Is that tall young man laid, already dead?
On fairer flower looked not the sun all-seeing,
Of Britain's youth! Cover, ah, long gilt locks,

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Of those his peers, from head to foot, the corse;
Which have they polled, for grief of his young death!
Is glorious Chuchid, last son of Moelmabon,
Silures' king; with whom, fighting gainst legions,
Fell last resistance of stern Deheubarth.
For valorous Kynan, Hammeraxe, was pierced,
Nigh him, of shaft; and died, in field, anon.
He lies not here, who buried Briton dukes;
Him bear his men, to their tribe's royal tomb!

Priests stand, at bloody altar-stones, beyond:
With dreary knives of flint, ben armed their hands.
Lie shambles, at whose feet, ah, impious heaps,
Of murdered wights, disbowelled carcases!
(Men say, were some chief captives those, of Romans.)

To doom-ring, they arriving which hale Phelles;
Wherefore, that council ask, bring they this man,
Some merchant seems, to die before the gods?
For sacrilege, them denying to be gods!
(Thereto, make all then answer, with one mouth,)

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Which Britons save, hath this the death deserved;
Who is some stranger, subject unto Romans.

When such they heard, lifting their sceptre-rods,
Did druids and lords consent, to Phelles' death!
On whom, (disciple he of Him, Who is
Our Peace,) condemned to bloody Teutates,
(Blue Britons' god of war,) mad druids seizing!
The council erst, by mouth of Camlorix, ask,
As custom is, (is this now prince in Mona,
Uncle of Ergund, man of giant stature;)
And he have aught request, towards his death?

To be, he answered, nailed on Roman cross;
(And stretch, like Christ's, his hands, from East to West.)

This they deny him; but, and would he speak,
It is permitted to each dying wight.

Looking to heaven; and all men him beholding,
He spread his palms, (as Jesu on the rood!)
And was, in that he prayed, his countenance changed;
And seemed exalted, their blue throngs above,
His stature. Hear him all ears, in their tongue,
Yearning to Christ, pray for his adversaries!

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And, whilst he spake, their anguish seemed appease;
Which hanged round, dying, on those gallow-trees.

Thenceforth, estranged his eyes, from this dark world,
On heaven, be fixt; where seems him see the Christ!

Then, as he, child, was joyous wont outrun,
What time was seen his father's bark turn home;
And hold, with infant hands, the pitchy stem;
So goes he, all jocund, to that bloody stone.
Where no dry place, he goes, in gory ground;
And it, which seemed to him the Christ, embraced;
With loving sighs, and happy cries, embraced!

And as, in Spring, the thorny eglantine
Doth blissful blos'm; so now that wintered face,
Of the old Phœnician mariner, whom saved Christ,
By water, twice. More his, than that dear joy,
Of earthly love, which, in youth of our flesh;
After long harms and sundered souls' distress;
In what hour, crowned with spotless marriage,
Each spouse, of the belovéd spouse, possessed,
Lip unto lip, and faithful breast to breast;
Are they last made, in bliss of heaven, one being,
To parted be no mo. Hath agéd Phelles
Such creeping lovely flames, such quick desires,
To die soon, and be ever with the Christ!

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Weary begone, in that the agéd saint
Kisseth the stone, slide back his feeble feet;
And fainting, through long passion of the way,
He, in that spilth of blood, fell down, alas!
And all his raiment white, of Alban lawn,
And reverend locks, abominable gore,
Distains; nor rue, on him, his enemies.

Risen on his knees; chief priest, with sceptre-rod,
Smote on his nape; which hath so numbed the sense,
That druids bear, on the stone, him, swooning man:
Where, whilst they enforce them, break the victim's chine;
One rives, with knife of flint, the mariner's chest!
He, ah, thrust then bloody hands, in the saint's bowels,
Pluckt forth his quivering heart-root, prophecies;
With muttering strange, and dark confuséd voice!
But certain, like white dove, saw Phelles' spirit
Flit unto heaven, where now he rests, with Christ.

Tidings, of Phelles' passion, came to Alban,
In the New Year. Then magnify, with prayer,
The saints, and praise and melody in their hearts,
The Lord; for their dear brethrens' faithful deaths;
Phelles and Alexander. Midst the Church,
Standing, on the Lord's day, then Joseph spake:

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Belovéd, we ourselves, as dead, should reckon,
Already, and as buried in Christ's death.
Also, for all which have received the crown,
For the testimóny of Christ; whose innocent flesh,
The teeth of beasts have rent, in their lewd shows,
In impious Rome; those yield, to God, high thanks!

Then Cuan vates, toucht his harp, and quoth;
Those feared not, (fearing die, after their deaths,)
Die, in this life, that might they live, with Christ.
The memory of them, within our hearts, is like
Unto sweet smell, in Summer field, of lilies.

Letters, from Babylon, from his daughter Claudia,
Belovéd in the Lord, show in how great
Afflictions liveth daily the Lord's Church,
In caves and ruinous sepulchres, holy life,
Under the earth. And aye hath Pudens' house,
(He hears of certain proselytes,) good report:
Wherein, like image in frail womankind,
Of the dear Master, Claudia, in much almesdeed,
And works of love, is handmaid of the Christ.

After these days, being published Nero's death,
And how Rome's capitolium was burned,

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In civil flames; lift everywhere their heads,
The oppressed nations. Tumults then, in Gaul;
And blood doth flow, in every land, of Romans.

Then noised was death, of king Caratacus,
In Britain; where now are established Romans,
In builded camps, conjoined of long paved ways:
Nor, till their youth be grown, may aught attempt,
Of new, her wasted tribes, gainst strength of legions.

The hero, glorious king Caratacus,
In Senogallia dwells, old city of Brennus;
Passing his days, to sit beside the sea;
And tell the idle waves, unto the strand.
(Is Idhig with the sire and king Volisios;
But deceased Hiradoc in the former year.)

Tomb, in that town, of Heremod, yet is seen;
And Caradoc offers to his divine spirit,
And Fridia and Brennus yearly sacrifices.
And who, of Britons' lords, for any cause,
Journey, at diverse times, to Sovereign Rome;
Their wont, by Senogallia, is to pass;
To reverence great bewrayed Caratacus;
Whose soul, (his body here pent,) dwells in Isle Britain!

Howbeit Verturia, named The-maid-of-Kent,
King Caradoc's daughter, sojourns now, in Rome;

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Spouse to a noble kinsman of his house;
(Son to his sister Toga and slain Bodvocos,)
Lugetorix; one who, taken great Verulam,
Unto Italy, had been sent, by Cæsar Claudius;
Where fostered, mongst the imperial hostages,
He, and the World's sad exiles, was in Roma.

There oft her mother, Embla, visits her;
But seld, who Roma abhors, her glorious sire.
Yet, felt his great heart swell, when Roma burned;
He shook himself, from rust of sorrow, and rode
With Gorran; (hoar now, as two fathers old,
Be both their heads!) to view her cindered streets,
Arcs, desolate palaces, temples, ruinous heaps;
Scorched crazy walls, which lately perjured Rome:
Destroyed, without an enemy, by the gods!

Passed abhorred Nero's last nefarious days;
Is come again, to City of Romulus,
The glory of Britain, great Caratacus:
And lodged the hero, in his daughter's house,
Which wide, from Esquiline's hill-height, surviews
The dedale infinite roofs of marble Rome.

One morn, from housetop, when the king salutes
Day's rising god; his eyes Caratacus
Cast, towards the quadrate mount Capitoline;

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Whereon shines, threefold, that Saturnian fane,
Above Rome's City, of her three greatest gods;
With gates of bronze, and golden tiles and frieze;
Glistering aloft, as hauberk were of brass.
Comes thence now battle-noise, to the king's ears!
On thousand helms, this dancing sunlight plays.
Behold the temple, seized of legionaries!

Watcheth the sire, as from some marble bank,
Wont gaze men, in a Roman theatre,
Down, on some fray, which toucheth nigh their hearts.
Eftsoon, with fearful hubbub, roar the streets.
Vast ferment, hark, of dwellers in great Rome;
That mouthing servile bloody multitude!
Like the foul shadows of their marble streets,
Disdains them his great soul: of whom not ten
Were matchable, in like arms, with one tall Briton!

That furious strife, Flavians against Vitellians,
Romans gainst Romans, midst of Sovereign Rome,
Dures forth till afternoon; when noble Sabine,
(Who præfect of the City Sovereign was,)
Fell, in the cella of Jupiter; which the middest
Is of those fanes. Is he the same, (gone nigh
Now thirty years,) who, brother of Vespasian,
Leading, in the Britannic war, Gauls' horse,

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Gainst the blue power of martial Togodumnos;
By that king's javelin, also wounded was.

Yet when now he beheld the innocent corse,
Borne forth, pierced by rash spears of barbare soldiers;
Mourned, generous, for his death Caratacus!
Who walks, on pillared terrace of his house.

Though gone-by tale of years, which a man's age;
Aye, with the buried bones of Togodumnos,
His brother twin, is the king's mourning thought;
Betwixt two oaks, in glade of far-off Britain;
Buried, in haste, with the eagle of a legion.
He hopes, when last should victory, over Romans,
Have given their saviour gods, to the blue Britons,
To mound, translate them, of great king Cunobelin,
And Tasciovant, and, (Rome's-bane,) Cassiobellan,
Their glorious sires; at royal gate of Verulam:
Which should, stained with the blood of hundred bulls,
Be wet with tears of all the island tribes.
For aye, hopes he, at length, (as hopeth each man,)
His heart's ease and desire, should grant high heaven!

He would again poll, for dead Togodumnos,
His now hoar locks. Should, in vast burning-place;
Of wnole felled groves, be timbered royal pyre;
Hanged all with precious veils and thousand shields

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Caradoc, in thought, sees Britons' kings, with brands;
And bringing funeral gifts their other hands;
Leading blue tribes, run three-times round, in arms;
And parfumes cast in, of the tears of pines,
Gathered from holy groves: and noble wives,
And maids, should, wailing, smite their breasts to blood.
In thought, he famous bards hears praises chant,
Of Togodumnos; and loud Britons shout,
All crowned with yew, the turning of each verse.
How should seem bowering darkness of night heavens,
Vast tomb; that gíant flame, Togodumnos' spirit!

Hark, shout! In Rome's great city, is new effray.
King Caradoc, lifting up his agéd eyes;
Now issuing, from the Capitolium, sees
Smoke, surging flames, that leap from porch to roof!
Soon all, in immane fiery womb, enfold;
Temples and colonnade, and glittering eaves!

Upon a pillar, leans Caratacus;
In pictured soler of his house, in Rome;
Where, gone all forth, the king is left alone.
He murmurs, gazing-on, some chant of druids!
And Roman walls resound great Briton voice.

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Then ended he; and weary in his great spirit,
The king sate down. His chin falls on his breast;
Like as yond sun, now going down to his rest,
Seems lean yet, on low border of this World!
Seems Caradoc sleep; and so remained long while.

Hark, footstep on the stair! is agéd Embla;
Who, lo, from marble sill, looks in, at door;
(In Embla's eyes, how shines yet living light,
As beauty of clear stars!) She Caradoc calls,
Supper is dight; Belovéd come to meat!
But the hero, from his settle, answers naught;
Nor may wake, any more, great Caradoc.
The king, lo, where he sitteth, is cold and dead!

Come the sixth morrow; (as decreed Rome's Senate,)
For Britons' king, is, at the public cost,
Made funeral pomp. Great dead Caratacus,
Now have the city's magistrates followed forth,
To burning place. The royal cinders sith,
Being gathered in an alabaster urn;
It, crowned with bays, and graven with his name,
(Renowned in Rome!) and age and dignities;
They send, with flamen of the ferale goddess,
Libitina, and lictors and shrill flutes,
(For the more honour,) to Verturia's house:

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Where come, and standing silent, at her port,
With covered heads; those it, in Embla's hands,
(Who weeping issues forth!) reverent, deposed.
Then they declare; she hath the consuls' licence,
This send, to be entombed, in far-off Britain.

She, widow, noble lady, in Rome, dwells still;
Which nurtured her young years. Sith, with her daughter,
Verturia, joys; being called, both, to Christ's fold!
Through Briton voice of Claudia Rufina,
(Wife to that noble Pudens, senator.)
Of Claudia's fellowship, also, which believe,
Be now even ladies of the imperial palace!

Last, deceased white-haired Embla, in the faith
And hope of Christ; and in His holy path:
What year Silures were, in fine, subdued;
Month when, nigh Parthenopé, mount, that burned,
Fell in the deep, which seethed, and died all fish.

And now Vespasian, (who ere warred in Britain,)
Ruling the hundred nations of proud Rome;
The Holy City is compassed-in of armies;
Leading them Titus: till, (when Ariel ceased,
The Lion of God, fight for Christ-slaying Jews!)

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Brake Romans her towered walls of goodly stones,
With mighty engines. Then await His saints,
In all the world, that coming of the Christ!
And great Day of the Lord, in a New Earth!

Now Naples.

When now, in Avalon, Joseph understood,
How broken-down was the most holy place;
And made Jews daily sacrifice to cease;
(Which things he heard foresay the Master Christ,)
He lifts, each hour, towards heaven his yearning looks!
But the same night, God's Spirit revealed to Joseph,
How is the end not yet: the days approach,
Wherein he should be gathered to his rest.

Then thrice, with tears, His saint the Lord besought;
To Daughter, now, of Sion, ah, burned and wasted,
He might return; and in the desolate cave,
Wherein the Lord of Life he shrouded laid,
Whence Christ arose, that might he lie, deceased.
But spake God's Spirit; The ransom-blood of Christ,
Hath, as one altar, hallowed the whole Earth!

He saw, in an excess of spirit, the heavens
Rolled away, like a curtain; and God's footstool,
Beheld, in an ineffable radiance.
Yet Joseph, whilst he looked, beheld that beam,

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Of a wild olive, (whereon the Lord's flesh
Was nailed,) grown green, o'erspread, like vine, Isle Britain!
He saw, with glaive, then standing angel Albion;
With whom a chief One, of the Sons of Heaven;
In shining robe, of lofty countenance:
And likeness of an hand this lifted up,
(The Spirit of Supplication,) raught to Throne;
And touched the knees of Him, Who sate thereon.
And Joseph heard Christ's voice saying, in his trance;
Speak patience, to My people on the earth:
A little, and shall be established Righteousness;
And sin and these calamities shall cease!

Joseph beheld; and saw, in Britain, rise,
(Leading Rome's armies, which Christ crucified,)
Cæsar, late nephew to his daughter Claudia;
Which bowed his helm-clad head down, as he went,
To lowly Christ; and worshipped God, the legions!

Whilst yet he looked, he Romans saw no more:
But Britons subject now, to kings; and made
Blue island nations, mongst them, confuse wars.
Then he beheld, against them rowed, long keels!

Is Britain's marriage, Daughter of the Main,

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With Thorolf's warlike seed, nephew of Brennus;
Howbe, for Britons' sins, those come with arms!
Why would'st thou, niece to Fridia and Heremod,
Clear daughter of a king, with Wes thu hale,
Giving the cup, ah, on thine honied tongue,
Embase thee to that wrong? He who forged heaven,
Nathless, of these twin nations, will make one;
(Whose name, in a late world, to be renowned;)
Shall, mighty hive, send forth sea and land swarms.
Bowing, being raised from sleep, his prayer-worn knees,
Joseph long prays; and thirsts his soul for God!

Sith to the Churches, many now in Britain,
New Verulam, Aquæ and Caerwent, New Londinium;
Lindum and Eboracum, in North parts;
Sent Joseph letters, bidding all men watch:
And, in the end, with loving words, he writ;
The Father of our dear Lord Jesus Christ,
Preserve and keep you, in soul's health! this pray
I, every hour, now ready to depart.

Be thou well!

Cuan, sweet bard of Christ, in Britons' tongue;
From Roman Britain, passed West seas, to Erinn;

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He went up, from Ergalia's pleasant shore;
Where lives yet, in great age, the sire Duneda,
Host of the saints: (when Romans came to Britain,
His head was white, as blossom of the thorn!)
That royal ancient, in New Isca hall,
Sits; and he blames, in heart, his nation's gods.

When Cuan harps, in those Dumnonians' ears,
Singing, of Christ, the everlasting words;
Seem bees his gold-beard lips, which blissful flowers
Have supped, in Summer field; and some believed:
And say; like bubbling well, from a white sand,
Is heavenly lay, which springs in this bard's breast.

Prudent Rhianna, daughter to Duneda,
And widow of noble Morag, sits beside
Her sire now, in king's stool; and, in mead-hall,
Sustain is, of his eld-bound, impotent, years.
(Is lame Duneda, and taken in all his limbs;
And Kamlan, stooped in age, is lately dead.)

Heard Cuan out, Rhianna his chant commendeth,
Unto her father. She herself rehearsed
Then lay, wise bard, from far North March; (who sate,
Journeying, in Venedot and in Deheubarth,
A three-days' guest, at Maglos' Winter-hearth;)
Quoth, to the warbles of his trembling crowth;

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How Truth, a little hoar-browed, age-bent, wight;
Whose dwelling, erewhile was, with antique dwarves,
One day, came, unto City-of-the-world.

Much Truth man-kin contemned, to them arrived,
Lapped in rent saie, to hele him from the cold.
Were none, which would so abject wearish thrall,
To guest, receive. Their high-born and rich men,
And every worldly wight; Truth, who loud cried,
But could not glozing speak, have much despised:
They him, where rest, and needful meat, denied.

Men loosed, on Truth, their hounds. Him children sith,
Have, fugitive, chaced long, up and down the street,
To their Town's end; where men the micher beat.

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Last, drew they him as dead; and at their gate,
Cast forth, to beasts of forest, wild and waste.
But Truth did flit away, as a bright bird,
To heavenly cloud! whose breast, with lightning wrath,
Was big: which hurled eftsoons gods on the earth!

Duneda, though his ears waxed dull, and gross
Now all his sense, gave praise to Cuan's crowth:
Saying, When this pláys, is parfume, in men's souls!
And sware by Abcan, god of music's skill,
Talargan, bard of name, made not so well,
Sitting, in his sire's days, in Isca's hall;
Mongst who then lords. The old sire sith propounds
His riddles, What is that lean hag, devours
The world; and still goes drunken of men's blood?
And that which men's war-multitudes cherisheth,
As woman's breast; but no man nourisheth?

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What leaner is, quoth Cuan, than sharp glaive,
And hath so great a mouth; or nurtures less
Than warrior's shield, before his panting chest!

Yet spake Duneda; What is, bard of Alban,
That incorruptible, which corrumpeth most?
Quoth Cuan, What thing, Duneda, doth less rust;
Or hireth more men, than wage of the bright gold!

And he; Yet say, what least vile thing that is,
Which, soon as born, is stronger than the gods;
And earth and heaven fills with his violence?
Hard is thine asking, king, (Christ's vates quoth:)
Can aught compare, with all-devouring flame?
Whose sparkle a thráll's hand smites forth, of field stone!

When Joseph knew the day nigh hand, wherein
He should depart to Christ; he called the Church,
Makes known, what things foreshows the Spirit of Truth:

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And they, which this last time, of Joseph's mouth,
Do hear the Lord's commandments, cannot choose
But weep. He gave them then the Lyber Bret.

The man of God records him sith, of cup;
Wherein, to memory of Christ's most precious blood,
We drink, through faith, life to our dying souls;
(That crystal cup, which lifted Jesus up;
What night He was betrayed, to sinners' death;)
That had in worship of some simple ones!

Wherefore, come night, instructed of God's Spirit;
Put Joseph out, with Pistos, on the lake.
Tegid, who sought be with him, in the bark;
He bade still tarry, at shore: and rowing Pistos;
Joseph let, from his bosom, in mid-course,
To slide, that cup of blessing, in the mere:
Unto all, even to this day, unknown the place.

Joseph returned, called certain, with the men
Of Canaan, yet with him remained alive,
Now agéd; Shalum, Barnaby and Aristobulus;
(Had Salema, already, from the body passed;)
And they him, feeble, halting on a staff,
And gazing into heaven, have followed forth,
With lifted hearts! When little now till day;
An angel parts them, at the going up

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Of hill, called the Wolf's Mount. By twilight path,
Joseph ascends alone. In that, o'er Alban,
Her holms and hamlets, he outstretched his palms;
Was voice, in the air, of everlasting ones;
Come good and faithful servant, to thy rest!

Praying, he kneels; and bowed down the hoar head,
Dieth his body; and passed his soul to God.

Pray angels o'er him, standing in that place;
Like twain young men. They, Open, then commanded,
God's creature, Earth! receive His servant's flesh;
Till day of that appearing of the Christ,
The Blessed!

Dear Foster Muse, fails now my breath.