Puck of Pook's Hill, by 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!