Oh, little did the Wolf-Child care—
When first he planned his home,
What city should arise and bear
The weight and state of Rome.
A shiftless, westward-wandering tramp,
Checked by the Tiber flood,
He reared a wall around his camp
Of uninspired mud.
But when his brother leaped the Wall
And mocked its height and make,
He guessed the future of it all
And slew him for its sake.
Swift was the blow—swift as the thought
Which showed him in that hour
How unbelief may bring to naught
The early steps of Power.
Forseeing Time’s imperilled hopes
Of Glory, Grace, and Love—
All singers, Cæsars, artists, Popes—
Would fail if Remus throve,
He sent his brother to the Gods,
And, when the fit was o’er,
Went on collecting turves and clods
To build the Wall once more!
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