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. 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.