Book XXI

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 praetorian 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,) yourhands! 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 imftrator,
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,
Fore wit ting, 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 Caer-went,
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; This 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 brickie 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 casfrum-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 sea-cliff
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 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 teamed 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 Haelion, 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 full 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 this 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,
hence 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 fester'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, s
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.

L, 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;
Fow 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, hears 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:
Jut 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 Ko wain, 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 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 Mauretania, 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'er-wade.

Romans behold; how stand, on further shore,
(Whence druids wont cast 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 altar-hearths;
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, Sue-tonius;
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!

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 quaestor 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! more cursed case, remediless!
Maugre their shrieks, which to high heaven, re-sounded;
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 quaestor'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 cursed 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.

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 multitude; 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 blessed 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-cursed 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 sol-diers,
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 quaestor.

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 Prasu-tagos!

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 accursed 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 star-gods,
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 colonia, 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 towred 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 arxy 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.