And stores of fire-compelling things By which men dominate and pierce The iron-imprisoned universe, Where angels lie with banded wings. XVIII. THE FRONTIER. COTTA. LUCIUS. THEIR CHIEF. COTTA. Would God the route would come for home! My God! this place, day after day, A month of heavy march from Rome! This camp, the troopers' huts of clay, The horses tugging at their pins, The roaring brook and then the whins, And nothing new to do or say! LUCIUS. They say the tribes are up. COTTA. Who knows! LUCIUS. Our scouts say that they saw their fires. COTTA. Well, if we fight it's only blows And bogging horses in the mires. LUCIUS. Their raiders crossed the line last night, Eastward from this, to raid the stud; They stole our old chief's stallion, Kite. He's in pursuit. COTTA. That looks like blood. LUCIUS. Well, better that than dicing here Beside this everlasting stream. COTTA. My God! I was in Rome last year, Under the sun; it seems a dream. LUCIUS. Things are not going well in Rome; This frontier war is wasting men Like water, and the Tartars come In hordes. COTTA. We beat them back agen. LUCIUS. So far we have, and yet I feel The empire is too wide a bow For one land's strength. COTTA. The stuff's good steel. LUCIUS. Too great a strain may snap it, though. If we were ordered home... COTTA. Good Lord! ... LUCIUS. If ... then our friends, the tribesmen there, Would have glad days. COTTA. This town would flare To warm old Foxfoot and his horde. LUCIUS. We have not been forethoughtful here, Pressing the men to fill the ranks; Centurions sweep the province clear. COTTA. Rightly. LUCIUS. Perhaps. COTTA. We get no thanks. LUCIUS. We strip the men for troops abroad, And leave the women and the slaves For merchants and their kind. The graves Of half each province line the road; These people could not stand a day Against the tribes, with us away. COTTA. Rightly. LUCIUS. Perhaps. COTTA. Here comes the Chief. LUCIUS. Sir, did your riders catch the thief? CHIEF. No; he got clear and keeps the horse. But bad news always comes with worse: The frontier's fallen, we're recalled, Our army's broken, Rome's appalled! My God! the whole world's in a blaze. So now we've done with idle days, Fooling on frontiers. Boot and start. It gives a strange feel in the heart To think that this, that Rome has made, Is done with. Yes, the stock's decayed. We march at once. You mark my words: We're done, we're crumbled into sherds; We shall not see this place again When once we go. LUCIUS. Do none remain? CHIEF. No, none; all march. Here ends the play. March, and burn camp. The order's gone; Your men have sent your baggage on.