Puck of Pook’s Hill

A British-Roman Song

(A.D. 406)

Rudyard Kipling

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!

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