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!