We are the slaves of those that died
A thousand years ago;
We walk in all our little pride,
We walk and do not know.

Dead hands are still within our hands,
They lead us on and on;
And never nearer do they stand,
Than when we are alone.

They give us thoughts, they give us creeds,
Born of a distant day,
And highest gifts for highest needs,
We cannot fling away.

They build an unseen wall around,
And though we do not know,
We walk within its narrow bound,
That hems us as we go.

Some stronger spirits that burst out,
And seek another shade;
They come at times with half a doubt,
To see the wreck they made.

How strange it is, that, far and wide,
And wander as we will,
Dead men still stand on either side,
To grasp and mould us still!