There is a cave beneath the throne of grace
Where these have honoured and remembered place;
Strong hairy men, huge-jawed, with wiry limbs,
Half hid in mist, the heroes of old times.
They lie among the pots and flints and beads
Their friends once buried with them as the needs
Of the after-life, to hunt with and to slay with,
And flay and cook, or in repose to play with.
Here he who shaped the flint and bound to axe
And arrow first; who made the thread of flax
And hemp to weave; and he who to the plough
Harnessed and tamed the bull and milked the cow;
Who taught to bake and grind and till the seed
Of corn sufficient for the future's need;
And he who said: "These are my children, these;
My blood between them and their enemies;
For when I age and cannot win my meat,
They shall become new head and hands and feet";
And he who said: "Let none of our tribe die
Slain by ourselves with violence. For why,
Our foes are plentiful, our friends are few,
Our living scarce. All may have work to do,
As hunting, warring, digging for the strong,
Or potting, cooking, weaving for the young,
The old, the weak, yet for adornment skilled"--
Too early born and by his brethren killed.
Here he who dreamed a strange dream in the night,
And from his rushes springing swat with fright,
But thought and said with opened eyes, "'Tis beauty,"
And terror left him. Those who spoke of duty,
Mercy and truth, and taught the undying soul,
And many more. And many a grunt and growl
They give in friendly dreams; when haunches quiver
And nostrils widen, and hands do twitch and shiver.
And often one awakes, and blinks, half speaks,
And yawns and licks and blows upon his cheeks:
Pure spirits laugh, and with a kindly eye
The father views their rough-haired majesty.