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The grapes are pressed, the corn is shocked-- Standeth no more to glean; For the Gates of Love and Learning locked When they went out between.
All lore our Lady Venus bares, Signalled it was or told By the dear lips long given to theirs And longer to the mould.
All Profit, all Device, all Truth Written it was or said By the mighty men of their mighty youth, Which is mighty being dead.
The film that floats before their eyes The Temple's Veil they call; And the dust that on the Shewbread lies Is holy over all.
Warn them of seas that slip our yoke Of slow-conspiring stars-- The ancient Front of Things unbroke But heavy with new wars?
By--they are by with mirth and tears, Wit or the waste of Desire-- Cus.h.i.+oned about on the kindly years Between the wall and the fire.
A BRITISH-ROMAN SONG
(A.D. 406)
My father's father saw it not, And I, belike, shall never come, To look on that so-holy spot-- The very Rome--
Crowned by all Time, all Art, all Might, The equal work of G.o.ds and Man, City beneath whose oldest height-- The Race began!
Soon to send forth again a brood, Unshakeable, we pray, that clings, To Rome's thrice-hammered hardihood-- In arduous things.
Strong heart with triple armour bound, Beat strongly, for thy life-blood runs, Age after Age, the Empire round-- In us thy Sons.
Who, distant from the Seven Hills, Loving and serving much, require Thee--_thee_ to guard 'gainst home-born ills, The Imperial Fire!
A PICT SONG
Rome never looks where she treads.
Always her heavy hooves fall, On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads; And Rome never heeds when we bawl.
Her sentries pa.s.s on--that is all, And we gather behind them in hordes, And plot to reconquer the Wall, With only our tongues for our swords.
We are the Little Folk--we!
Too little to love or to hate.
Leave us alone and you'll see How we can drag down the State!
We are the worm in the wood!
We are the rot at the root!
We are the germ in the blood!
We are the thorn in the foot!
Mistletoe killing an oak-- Rats gnawing cables in two-- Moths making holes in a cloak-- How they must love what they do!
Yes--and we Little Folk too, We are busy as they-- Working our works out of view-- Watch, and you'll see it some day!
No indeed! We are not strong, But we know Peoples that are.
Yes, and we'll guide them along, To smash and destroy you in War!
We shall be slaves just the same?
Yes, we have always been slaves, But you--you will die of the shame, And then we shall dance on your graves!
_We are the Little Folk, we, etc._
THE STRANGER
The Stranger within my gate, He may be true or kind.
But he does not talk my talk-- I cannot feel his mind.
I see the face and the eyes and the mouth, But not the soul behind.
The men of my own stock They may do ill or well, But they tell the lies I am wonted to, They are used to the lies I tell.
We do not need interpreters When we go to buy and sell.
The Stranger within my gates, He may be evil or good, But I cannot tell what powers control-- What reasons sway his mood; Nor when the G.o.ds of his far-off land May repossess his blood.
The men of my own stock, Bitter bad they may be, But, at least, they hear the things I hear, And see the things I see; And whatever I think of them and their likes They think of the likes of me.
This was my father's belief And this is also mine: Let the corn be all one sheaf-- And the grapes be all one vine, Ere our children's teeth are set on edge By bitter bread and wine.
'RIMINI'
(Marching Song of a Roman Legion of the Later Empire)
When I left home for Lalage's sake By the Legions' road to Rimini, She vowed her heart was mine to take With me and my s.h.i.+eld to Rimini-- (Till the Eagles flew from Rimini!) And I've tramped Britain, and I've tramped Gaul, And the Pontic sh.o.r.e where the snow-flakes fall As white as the neck of Lalage-- (As cold as the heart of Lalage!) And I've lost Britain, and I've lost Gaul, And I've lost Rome, and worst of all, I've lost Lalage!
When you go by the Via Aurelia, As thousands have travelled before, Remember the Luck of the Soldier Who never saw Rome any more!
Oh dear was the sweetheart that kissed him And dear was the mother that bore, But his s.h.i.+eld was picked up in the heather, And he never saw Rome any more!
And _he_ left Rome, etc.
When you go by the Via Aurelia That runs from the City to Gaul, Remember the Luck of the Soldier Who rose to be master of all!
He carried the sword and the buckler, He mounted his guard on the Wall, Till the Legions elected him Caesar, And he rose to be master of all!
And _he_ left Rome, etc.
It's twenty-five marches to Narbo, It's forty-five more up the Rhone, And the end may be death in the heather Or life on an Emperor's throne.
