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.

Foreseeing Time’s imperilled hopes
  Of Glory, Grace, and Love—­
All singers, Caesars, 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!

CHAPTER HEADINGS

THE JUNGLE BOOKS

Now Chil the Kite brings home the night
    That Mang the Bat sets free—­
The herds are shut in byre and hut
    For loosed till dawn are we. 
This is the hour of pride and power,
    Talon and tush and claw. 
Oh hear the call!—­Good hunting all
    That keep the Jungle Law!

    Mowgli’s Brothers.

* * * * *

His spots are the joy of the Leopard:  his horns are the Buffalo’s pride. 
Be clean, for the strength of the hunter is known by the gloss of his hide. 
If ye find that the bullock can toss you, or the heavy-browed Sambhur can gore;
Ye need not stop work to inform us.  We knew it ten seasons before. 
Oppress not the cubs of the stranger, but hail them as Sister and Brother,
For though they are little and fubsy, it may be the Bear is their mother. 
‘There is none like to me!’ says the Cub in the pride of his earliest kill;
But the Jungle is large and the Cub he is small.  Let him think and be still.

    Kaa’s Hunting.

* * * * *

The stream is shrunk—­the pool is dry,
And we be comrades, thou and I;
With fevered jowl and dusty flank
Each jostling each along the bank;
And, by one drouthy fear made still,
Foregoing thought of quest or kill. 
Now ’neath his dam the fawn may see,
The lean Pack-wolf as cowed as he,
And the tall buck, unflinching, note
The fangs that tore his father’s throat.
The pools are shrunk—­the streams are dry,
And we be playmates, thou and I,
Till yonder cloud—­Good Hunting!—­loose
The rain that breaks our Water Truce.

    How Fear Came.

* * * * *

What of the hunting, hunter bold?
  Brother, the watch was long and cold.
What of the quarry ye went to kill?
  Brother, he crops in the jungle still.
Where is the power that made your pride?
  Brother, it ebbs from my flank and side.
Where is the haste that ye hurry by?
  Brother, I go to my lair to die!