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163
THE ROMAN CAMP.
AT CAWTHORNE, NEAR PICKERING.
We rested on a green escarpment high,Where heather in luxuriant beauty crowned
A Roman Camp—its deep-trenched foss and mound
Left sixteen centuries since beneath the sky.
From this steep hill the conqueror's eagle eye
Swept the horizon—hourly glanced around
The subject dales, the while he paced the ground
With armèd steps where carelessly we lie.
He holds possession in a foreign soil
And needs—to keep his restless foe at bay—
A vigilant outlook and unceasing toil:
Thus Grace, in sinful hearts, through life's short day
Must watch and work the native powers to foil,
And her deep prints no time will wear away.
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