All the talk we ever have heard
Uttered by bat or beast or bird—­
Hide or fin or scale or feather—­
Jabber it quickly and all together! 
Excellent!  Wonderful!  Once again! 
Now we are talking just like men. 
  Let’s pretend we are ... never mind,
  Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
  This is the way of the Monkey-kind!

Then join our leaping lines that scumfish through the pines, That rocket by where, light and high, the wild-grape swings.  By the rubbish in our wake, and the noble noise we make, Be sure, be sure, we’re going to do some splendid things.

‘OUR FATHERS ALSO’

Thrones, Powers, Dominions, Peoples, Kings,
Are changing ’neath our hand;
Our fathers also see these things
But they do not understand.

By—­they are by with mirth and tears,
Wit or the works of Desire—­
Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire.

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—­
Cushioned 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 Gods 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 pass on—­that is all,
  And we gather behind them in hordes,
And plot to reconquer the Wall,
  With only our tongues for our swords.