Book III

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,
Embayed 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, in
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 Senones 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:
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 spended 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 overwhelmed
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.
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.

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,
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,
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 Senones 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,
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 dis-mount:
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, Senones 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,
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 Senones 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,
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 Tar an,
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,
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 war-horns,
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 Senones 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.

Now say, and ye be Senones, 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 Senones were much part
Of our warfaring host, which from Seine marched.
In Gaul, are Senones Beiges seven tribes;
O'er whom to-day rules Briton Belinus,
My germain. Senones 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,
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 Vercellas, 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.

At Vercellae, 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,
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 Vercellas, 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
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 l two opposing hills divides.

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 Beiges Britons;
With whom, Dumnonian king, rides warlike Bran.
Comes stern duke Cadivor sith, of Pictones;
With whom, lord of Carnutes' sacred wood,
Young Centigern: bold Vara and Caturix, then,
With Brennus, wardukes of Ligurians.

Brennus and Heremod, in one Britain war-cart,
To Vercellae 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 Vercellae. 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
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,
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;
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.

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 Vercellae. 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,
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 Senones' 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;
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,
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,
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?

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
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 Iseon, priest of Mediolane.

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 Iseon, 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,
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 loved mortars hapless fate, she hears!
Then she the dank leaf-dropping russet groves,
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 l 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,
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,
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 loved 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
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:
But most he taught him to eschew all wrongs,
Which wrath draws daily on men, of the just gods,
Dn 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,
All 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.

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;
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,
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:
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 si then 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 nighlrsoon 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,
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 saiey 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.

One day, when was, on warfare, Cusmon went,
Hurt Phoebe, 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 limned on her tomb.
He groaned, and still sate fasting on the ground,
Three days; when he those signs beholding well,
Will of the gods; and parting it in staves,
Which V E R i c A 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 did, 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;
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,
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 aged 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
Of antique hymns. Then, lifted he his voice,
Quoth, Greet ye well Gauls' kings; and hence-forth 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,
I Had much cold dread, to look on and to hear,
The face and words of who immortal were.
I 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,
I 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,
I On the beast's head, betwixt his gilded horns,
I 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,
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 Tolosa 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 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.

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 war-horns!

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
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, i
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.

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 mail army.
The third day's dawn, that chosen power marci 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 th 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.

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. Moreover such, that time, was,
Mongst Senones' wives, the guise, to swaddle babes!
Erst seemed those chide then, in loud tongue, un-couth,
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;
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,
Rome,)
They send then parley with Transalpine Gauls.

From Trasimene, levied camps, the Gauls
Now approach Clusium, Gamers 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,
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 Por senna,
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,
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 Gamers' 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.