“But what has become of Caesar’s gold, Brother, big brother?” “The times are bad and the world is old-- Who knows the where of the Caesars’ gold? Night comes black on the Caesars’ hill; The wells are deep and the tales are ill. Fire-flies gleam in the damp and mould,-- All that is left of the Caesars’ gold. Back to your play, little brother.” “What has become of the Caesars’ men, Brother, big brother?” “Dogs in the kennel and wolf in the den Howl for the fate of the Caesars’ men. Slain in Asia, slain in Gaul, By Dacian border and Persian wall; Rhineland orchard and Danube fen Fatten their roots on Caesar’s men.” “Why is the world so sad and wide, Brother, big brother?” “Saxon boys by their fields that bide Need not know if the world is wide. Climb no mountain but Shire-end Hill, Cross no water but goes to mill; Ox in the stable and cow in the byre, Smell of the wood smoke and sleep by the fire; Sun-up in seed-time--a likely lad Hurts not his head that the world is sad. Back to your play, little brother.” THE GAUL IN THE CAPITOL The murmur of old, old water, The yellow of old, old stone, The fountain that sings through the silence, The river-god, dreaming alone; The Antonine booted and mounted In his sun-lit, hill-top place, The Julians, gigantic in armour, The low-browed Claudian race. The wolf and the twin boys she suckled, And the powerful breed they bred; Caesars of duplicate empires, All under one roof-stead. Fronting these fronts triumphant, Conquest on conquest pressed By these marching, arrogant masters, Who could have hoped for the West? At the feet of his multiple victors, Beaten and dazed and dumb, One, from the wild new races, Clay of the kings to come. Hail, in the halls of the Caesars! Hail, from the thrones oversea! Sheath of the sword-like vigour, Sap of the kings to be! A LIKENESS (PORTRAIT BUST OF AN UNKNOWN, CAPITOL, ROME) In every line a supple beauty-- The restless head a little bent-- Disgust of pleasure, scorn of duty, The unseeing eyes of discontent. I often come to sit beside him, This youth who passed and left no trace Of good or ill that did betide him, Save the disdain upon his face. The hope of all his House, the brother Adored, the golden-hearted son, Whom Fortune pampered like a mother; And then--a shadow on the sun. Whether he followed Caesar’s trumpet, Or chanced the riskier game at home To find how favour played the strumpet In fickle politics at Rome;