POETRY.
THE ROMAN ROAD. I LOVE the grass-grown Roman Road Crossing the bosom of the downs, To conjure up the life that flowed From all the busy bygone towns. Beneath the sward, the sullen ground Once echoed to the rhythmic tread Of marching legions, northward bound, Marking the highway with their dead.
I love to stand where Caesar stood (lazing across the smiling shires, The same clean wind that cooled his blood Tempers the sun's enlivening fires.
The dappled fields stretch far and aide A gentler land than Caesar trod, When ruthless Saxon hordes defied The maker of the Roman Road.
The ramparts that hid fighting men Are carpeted with green and gold, The cave that was a wild beast's den Now serves a ploughman's gear to hold.
The road that echoed to the tread Of marching legions, northward bound, Is but a highway of the dead, Dear Nature's happy hunting ground.
E. LE BRETON' 1111RTIR.
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