Rudyard Kipling's Verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market-Place;
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch.
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings.
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

794

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “Stick to the Devil you know.”

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “The Wages of Sin is Death.”

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “If you don't work you die.”

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four—
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man—
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began:—
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

795

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

THE SCHOLARS

1919

“Some hundreds of the younger naval officers whose education was interrupted by the War are now to be sent to various colleges at Cambridge to continue their studies. The experiment will be watched with great interest.” —Daily Papers.

“ Oh, show me how a rose can shut and be a bud again!”
Nay, watch my Lords of the Admiralty, for they have the work in train.
They have taken the men that were careless lads at Dart-mouth in 'Fourteen
And entered them at the landward schools as though no war had been.
They have piped the children off all the seas from the Falklands to the Bight,
And quartered them on the Colleges to learn to read and write!

Their books were rain and sleet and fog—the dry gale and the snow,
Their teachers were the hornèd mines and the hump-backed Death below.
Their schools were walled by the walking mist and roofed by the waiting skies,
When they conned their task in a new-sown field with the Moonlight Sacrifice.

796

They were not rated too young to teach, nor reckoned unfit to guide
When they formed their class on Helles' beach at the bows of the “River Clyde.”

Their eyes are sunk by endless watch, their faces roughed by the spray,
Their feet are drawn by the wet sea-boots they changed not night or day
When they guarded the six-knot convoy's flank on the road to Norroway.
Their ears are stuffed with the week-long roar of the West-Atlantic gale
When the sloops were watching the Irish Shore from Galway to Kinsale.
Their hands are scored where the life-lines cut or the dripping funnel-stays
When they followed their leader at thirty knot between the Skaw and the Naze.
Their mouths are filled with the magic words they learned at the collier's hatch
When they coaled in the foul December dawns and sailed in the forenoon-watch;
Or measured the weight of a Pentland tide and the wind off Ronaldshay,
Till the target mastered the breathless tug and the hawser carried away.

They know the price to be paid for a fault—for a gauge-clock wrongly read,
Or a picket-boat to the gangway brought bows-on and full-ahead,
Or the drowsy second's lack of thought that costs a dozen dead.
They have touched a knowledge outreaching speech—as when the cutters were sent
To harvest the dreadful mile of beach after the Vanguard went.
They have learned great faith and little fear and a high heart in distress,
And how to suffer each sodden year of heaped-up weariness.
They have borne the bridle upon their lips and the yoke upon their neck,

797

Since they went down to the sea in ships to save the world from wreck—
Since the chests were slung down the College stair at Dart-mouth in 'Fourteen,
And now they are quit of the sea-affair as though no war had been.
Far have they steamed and much have they known, and most would they fain forget;
But now they are come to their joyous own with all the world in their debt.

Soft—blow soft on them, little East Wind! Be smooth for them, mighty stream!
Though the cams they use are not of your kind, and they bump, for choice, by steam.
Lightly dance with them, Newnham maid—but none too lightly believe.
They are hot from the fifty-month blockade, and they carry their hearts on their sleeve.
Tenderly, Proctor, let them down, if they do not walk as they should:
For, by God, if they owe you half a crown, you owe 'em your four years' food!
Hallowed River, most gracious Trees, Chapel beyond compare,
Here be gentlemen sick of the seas—take them into your care.
Far have they come, much have they braved. Give them their hour of play,
While the hidden things their hands have saved work for them day by day:
Till the grateful Past their youth redeemed return them their youth once more,
And the Soul of the Child at last lets fall the unjust load that it bore!

798

THE CLERKS AND THE BELLS

(OXFORD IN 1920)

The merry clerks of Oxenford they stretch themselves at ease
Unhelmeted on unbleached sward beneath unshrivelled trees.
For the leaves, the leaves, are on the bough, the bark is on the bole,
And East and West men's housen stand all even-roofed and whole . . .
(Men's housen doored and glazed and floored and whole at every turn!)
And so the Bells of Oxenford ring:—“Time it is to learn!”

The merry clerks of Oxenford they read and they are told
Of famous men who drew the sword in furious fights of old.
They heark and mark it faithfully, but never clerk will write
What vision rides 'twixt book and eye from any nearer fight.
(Whose supplication rends the soul? Whose night-long cries repeat?)
And so the Bells of Oxenford ring:—“Time it is to eat!”

The merry clerks of Oxenford they sit them down anon
At tables fair with silver-ware and naperies thereon,
Free to refuse or dainty choose what dish shall seem them good;
For they have done with single meats, and waters streaked with blood . . .
(That three days' fast is overpast when all those guns said “Nay”!)
And so the Bells of Oxenford ring:—“Time it is to play!”

The merry clerks of Oxenford they hasten one by one
Or band in companies abroad to ride, or row, or run
By waters level with fair meads all goldenly bespread,
Where flash June's clashing dragon-flies—but no man bows his head,
(Though bullet-wise June's dragon-flies deride the fearless air!)
And so the Bells of Oxenford ring:—“Time it is for prayer!”

799

The pious clerks of Oxenford they kneel at twilight-tide
For to receive and well believe the Word of Him Who died.
And, though no present wings of Death hawk hungry round that place,
Their brows are bent upon their hands that none may see their face—
(Who set aside the world and died? What life shall please Him best?)
And so the Bells of Oxenford ring:—“Time it is to rest!”

The merry clerks of Oxenford lie under bolt and bar
Lest they should rake the midnight clouds or chase a sliding star.
In fear of fine and dread rebuke, they round their full-night sleep,
And leave that world which once they took for older men to keep.
(Who walks by dreams what ghostly wood in search of playmate slain?)
Until the Bells of Oxenford ring in the light again.

Unburdened breeze, unstricken trees, and all God's works restored—
In this way live the merry clerks,—the clerks of Oxenford!

A RECTOR'S MEMORY

(ST. ANDREWS, 1923)

The Gods that are wiser than Learning
But kinder than Life have made sure
No mortal may boast in the morning
That even will find him secure.
With naught for fresh faith or new trial,
With little unsoiled or unsold,
Can the shadow go back on the dial,
Or a new world be given for the old?
But he knows not what time shall awaken,
As he knows not what tide shall lay bare,
The heart of a man to be taken—
Taken and changed unaware.

He shall see as he tenders his vows
The far, guarded City arise—

800

The power of the North 'twixt Her brows—
The steel of the North in Her eyes;
The sheer hosts of Heaven above—
The grey warlock Ocean beside;
And shall feel the full centuries move
To Her purpose and pride.
Though a stranger shall he understand,
As though it were old in his blood,
The lives that caught fire 'neath Her hand—
The fires that were tamed to Her mood.
And the roar of the wind shall refashion,
And the wind-driven torches recall,
The passing of Time and the passion
Of Youth over all!
And, by virtue of magic unspoken
(What need She should utter Her power?)
The frost at his heart shall be broken
And his spirit be changed in that hour—
Changed and renewed in that hour!

LOLLIUS

HORACE, Bk. V. Ode 13

1920

Why gird at Lollius if he care
To purchase in the city's sight,
With nard and roses for his hair,
The name of Knight?

Son of unmitigated sires
Enriched by trade in Afric corn,
His wealth allows, his wife requires,
Him to be born.

Him slaves shall serve with zeal renewed
At lesser wage for longer whiles,
And school- and station-masters rude
Receive with smiles.

His bowels shall be sought in charge
By learned doctors; all his sons
And nubile daughters shall enlarge
Their horizons.

801

For fierce she-Britons, apt to smite
Their upward-climbing sisters down,
Shall smooth their plumes and oft invite
The brood to town.

For these delights will he disgorge
The State enormous benefice,
But—by the head of either George—
He pays not twice!

Whom neither lust for public pelf,
Nor itch to make orations, vex—
Content to honour his own self
With his own cheques—

That man is clean. At least, his house
Springs cleanly from untainted gold—
Not from a conscience or a spouse
Sold and resold.

Time was, you say, before men knew
Such arts, and rose by Virtue guided?
The tables rock with laughter—you
Not least derided.

A SONG OF FRENCH ROADS

1923

“The National Roads of France are numbered throughout, and carry their numbers upon each kilometre stone. By following these indications, comprehensible even to strangers, the tourist can see at a glance if he is on the correct road. For example, Route Nationale No. 20 conducts from Paris to the Spanish frontier at Bourg-Madame, in the Eastern Pyrenees; and No. 10 to the same frontier at Hendaye, on the Bay of Biscay.” —Guide Book.

Now praise the Gods of Time and Chance
That bring a heart's desire,
And lay the joyous roads of France
Once more beneath the tyre—
So numbered by Napoleon,
The veriest ass can spy
How Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame
And Ten is for Hendaye.

802

Sixteen hath fed our fighting-line
From Dunkirk to Péronne,
And Thirty-nine and Twenty-nine
Can show where it has gone,
Which slant through Arras and Bapaume,
And join outside Cambrai,
While Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye.

The crops and houses spring once more
Where Thirty-seven ran,
And even ghostly Forty-four
Is all restored to man.
Oh, swift as shell-hole poppies pass
The blurring years go by,
And Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye!

And you desire that sheeted snow
Where chill Mont Louis stands?
And we the rounder gales that blow
Full-lunged across the Landes—
So you will use the Orleans Gate,
While we slip through Versailles;
Since Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye.

Sou'-West by South—and South by West—
On every vine appear
Those four first cautious leaves that test
The temper of the year;
The dust is white at Angoulême,
The sun is warm at Blaye;
And Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye.

Broad and unbridled, mile on mile,
The highway drops her line
Past Langon down that grey-walled aisle
Of resin-scented pine;

803

And ninety to the lawless hour
The kilometres fly—
What was your pace to Bourg-Madame?
We sauntered to Hendaye.

Now Fontarabia marks our goal,
And Bidassoa shows,
At issue with each whispering shoal
In violet, pearl and rose,
Ere crimson over ocean's edge
The sunset banners die . . .
Yes—Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
But Ten is for Hendaye!

Oh, praise the Gods of Time and Chance
That ease the long control,
And bring the glorious soul of France
Once more to cheer our soul
With beauty, change and valiancy
Of sun and soil and sky,
Where Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye!

CHARTRES WINDOWS

1925

Colour fulfils where Music has no power:
By each man's light the unjudging glass betrays
All men's surrender, each man's holiest hour
And all the lit confusion of our days—
Purfled with iron, traced in dusk and fire,
Challenging ordered Time who, at the last,
Shall bring it, grozed and leaded and wedged fast,
To the cold stone that curbs or crowns desire.
Yet on the pavement that all feet have trod—
Even as the Spirit, in her deeps and heights,
Turns only, and that voiceless, to her God—
There falls no tincture from those anguished lights.
And Heaven's one light, behind them, striking through
Blazons what each man dreamed no other knew.

804

LONDON STONE

NOV. 11, 1923

When you come to London Town,
(Grieving—grieving!)
Bring your flowers and lay them down
At the place of grieving.

When you come to London Town,
(Grieving—grieving!)
Bow your head and mourn your own,
With the others grieving.

For those minutes, let it wake
(Grieving—grieving!)
All the empty-heart and ache
That is not cured by grieving.

For those minutes, tell no lie:
(Grieving—grieving!)
“Grave, this is thy victory;
And the sting of death is grieving.”

Where's our help, from Earth or Heaven.
(Grieving—grieving!)
To comfort us for what we've given,
And only gained the grieving?

Heaven's too far and Earth too near,
(Grieving—grieving!)
But our neighbour's standing here,
Grieving as we're grieving.

What's his burden every day?
(Grieving—grieving!)
Nothing man can count or weigh,
But loss and love's own grieving.

What is the tie betwixt us two
(Grieving—grieving!)
That must last our whole lives through?
“As I suffer, so do you.”
That may ease the grieving.

805

THE KING'S PILGRIMAGE

King George V's Visit to War Cemeteries in France

1922

Our King went forth on pilgrimage
His prayers and vows to pay
To them that saved our heritage
And cast their own away.

And there was little show of pride,
Or prows of belted steel,
For the clean-swept oceans every side
Lay free to every keel.

And the first land he found, it was shoal and banky ground—
Where the broader seas begin,
And a pale tide grieving at the broken harbour-mouth
Where they worked the death-ships in.

And there was neither gull on the wing,
Nor wave that could not tell
Of the bodies that were buckled in the life-buoy's ring
That slid from swell to swell.

All that they had they gave—they gave; and they shall not return,
For these are those that have no grave where any heart may mourn.

And the next land he found, it was low and hollow ground—
Where once the cities stood,
But the man-high thistle had been master of it all,
Or the bulrush by the flood.

And there was neither blade of grass,
Nor lone star in the sky,
But shook to see some spirit pass
And took its agony.

806

And the next land he found, it was bare and hilly ground—
Where once the bread-corn grew,
But the fields were cankered and the water was defiled,
And the trees were riven through.

And there was neither paved highway,
Nor secret path in the wood,
But had borne its weight of the broken clay
And darkened 'neath the blood.

Father and mother they put aside, and the nearer love also—
An hundred thousand men that died whose graves shall no man know.

And the last land he found, it was fair and level ground
About a carven stone,
And a stark Sword brooding on the bosom of the Cross
Where high and low are one.

And there was grass and the living trees,
And the flowers of the spring,
And there lay gentlemen from out of all the seas
That ever called him King.

'Twixt Nieuport sands and the eastward lands where the Four Red Rivers spring,
Five hundred thousand gentlemen of those that served their King.

All that they had they gave—they gave—
In sure and single faith.
There can no knowledge reach the grave
To make them grudge their death
Save only if they understood
That, after all was done,
We they redeemed denied their blood
And mocked the gains it won.

807

A SONG IN THE DESERT

(P. L. Ob. Jan. 1927)

Friend , thou beholdest the lightning? Who has the charge of it—
To decree which rock-ridge shall receive—shall be chosen for targe of it?
Which crown among palms shall go down, by the thunderbolt broken;
While the floods drown the sere wadis where no bud is token?

First for my eyes, above all, he made show of his treasure.
First in his ear, before all, I made sure of my measure.
If it were good—what acclaim! None other so moved me.
If it were faulty—what shame? While he mocked me he loved me.

Friend, thou hast seen in Rida'ar, the low moon descending,
One silent, swart, swift-striding camel, oceanward wending?
Browbound and jawbound the rider, his shadow in front of him,
Ceaselessly eating the distances? That was the wont of him.

Whether the cliff-walled defiles, the ambush prepared for him;
Whether the wave-crested dunes—a single sword bared for him—
Whether cold danger fore-weighed, or quick peril that took him
Alone, out of comfort or aid, no breath of it shook him.

Whether he feasted or fasted, sweated or shivered,
There was no proof of the matter—no sign was delivered.
Whatever this dust or that heat, or those fools that he laboured with,
He forgot and forbore no observance towards any he neighboured with.

Friend, thou hast known at Rida'ar, when the Council was bidden,
One face among faces that leaped to the light and were hidden?
One voice among night-wasting voices of boasting and shouting?
And that face and that voice abide with thee? His beyond doubting!

808

Never again in Rida'ar, my watch-fire burning,
That he might see from afar, shall I wait his returning;
Or the roar of his beast as she knelt and he leaped to unlade her,
Two-handedly tossing me jewels. He was no trader!

Gems and wrought gold, never sold—brought for me to behold them;
Tales of far magic unrolled—to me only he told them,
With the light, easy laugh of dismissal 'twixt story and story—
As a man brushes sand from his hand, or the great dismiss glory.

Never again in Rida'ar! My ways are made black to me!
Whether I sing or am silent, he shall not come back to me!
There is no measure for trial, nor treasure for bringing.
Allah divides the Companions. (Yet he said—yet he said:—“Cease not from singing.”)

BRAZILIAN VERSES

1927

THE FRIENDS

I had some friends—but I dreamed that they were dead—
Who used to dance with lanterns round a little boy in bed;
Green and white lanterns that waved to and fro:
But I haven't seen a Firefly since ever so long ago!

I had some friends—their crowns were in the sky—
Who used to nod and whisper when a little boy went by,
As the nuts began to tumble and the breeze began to blow:
And I haven't seen a Cocoa-palm since ever so long ago!

I had a friend—he came up from Cape Horn,
With a Coal-sack on his shoulder when a little boy was born.
He heard me learn to talk, and he helped me thrive and grow:
But I haven't seen the Southern Cross since ever so long ago!

I had a boat—I out and let her drive,
Till I found my dream was foolish, for my friends were all alive.
The Cocoa-palms were real, and the Southern Cross was true:
And the Fireflies were dancing—so I danced too!

809

A SONG OF BANANAS

Have you no Bananas, simple townsmen all?
“Nay, but we have them certainly.
“We buy them off the barrows, with the vegetable-marrows
“And the cabbage of our own country,
“(From the costers of our own country.)”

Those are not Bananas, simple townsmen all.
(Plantains from Canaryward maybe!)
For the true are red and gold, and they fill no steamer's hold,
But flourish in a rare country,
(That men go far to see.)

Their stiff fronds point the nooning down, simple townsmen all,
Or rear against the breezes off the sea;
Or duck and loom again, through the curtains of the rain
That the loaded hills let free—
(Bellying 'twixt the uplands and the sea.)

Little birds inhabit there, simple townsmen all—
Jewelled things no bigger than a bee;
And the opal butterflies plane and settle, flare and rise,
Through the low-arched greenery,
(That is malachite and jade of the sea.)

The red earth works and whispers there, simple townsmen all,
Day and night in rank fecundity,
That the Blossom and the Snake lie open and awake,
As it was by Eden Tree,
(When the First Moon silvered through the Tree) . . .

But you must go to business, simple townsmen all,
By 'bus and train and tram and tube must flee!
For your Pharpars and Abanas do not include Bananas
(And Jordan is a distant stream to drink of, simple townsmen),
Which leaves the more for me!

810

SONG OF THE DYNAMO

How do I know what Order brings
Me into being?
I only know, if you do certain things,
I must become your Hearing and your Seeing;
Also your Strength, to make great wheels go round,
And save your sons from toil, while I am bound!

What do I care how you dispose
The Powers that move me?
I only know that I am one with those
True Powers which rend the firmament above me,
And, harrying earth, would save me at the last—
But that your coward foresight holds me fast!

“SUCH AS IN SHIPS”

Such as in Ships and brittle Barks
Into the Seas descend
Shall learn how wholly on those Arks
Our Victuals do depend.
For, when a Man would bite or sup,
Or buy him Goods or Gear,
He needs must call the Oceans up,
And move an Hemisphere.

Consider, now, that Indian Weed
Which groweth o'er the Main,
With Teas and Cottons for our Need,
And Sugar of the Cane—
Their Comings We no more regard
Than daily Corn or Oil:
Yet, when Men waft Them Englandward,
How infinite the Toil!

Nation and People harvesteth
The tropique Lands among,
And Engines of tumultuous Breath
Do draw the Yield along—
Yea, even as by Hecatombs
Which, presently struck down
Into our Navies' labouring Wombs
Make Pennyworths in Town.

811

“POISON OF ASPS”

(A Brazilian Snake-Farm)

“Poison of asps is under our lips”?
Why do you seek us, then?
Breaking our knotted fellowships
With your noisy-footed men?

Time and time over we let them go;
Hearing and slipping aside;
Until they followed and troubled us—so
We struck back, and they died.

“Poison of asps is under our lips”?
Why do you wrench them apart?
To learn how the venom makes and drips
And works its way to the heart?

It is unjust that when we have done
All that a serpent should,
You gather our poisons, one by one,
And thin them out to your good.

“Poison of asps is under our lips.”
That is your answer? No!
Because we hissed at Adam's eclipse
Is the reason you hate us so.

THE OPEN DOOR

England is a cosy little country,
Excepting for the draughts along the floor.
And that is why you're told,
When the passages are cold:
“Darling, you've forgot to shut the Door!”

The Awful East Wind blows it—
Pussy on the Hearthrug shows it,
Aunty at the Writing-table knows it—
“Darling, you've forgot to shut the Door!”

Shut—shut—shut the Door, my darling!
Always shut the Door behind you, but
You can go when you are old
Where there isn't any cold—

812

So there isn't any Door that need be shut! And—
The deep Verandah shows it—
The pale Magnolia knows it—
And the bold, white Trumpet-flower blows it:—
There isn't any Door that need be shut!

The piping Tree-toad knows it—
The midnight Firefly shows it—
And the Beams of the Moon disclose it:—
There isn't any Door that need be shut!

The milky Beaches know it—
The silky Breezes blow it—
And the Shafts of the Sunrise show it:—
There isn't any Door that need be shut!

TWO RACES

I seek not what his soul desires.
He dreads not what my spirit fears.
Our Heavens have shown us separate fires.
Our dooms have dealt us differing years.

Our daysprings and our timeless dead
Ordained for us and still control
Lives sundered at the fountain-head,
And distant, now, as Pole from Pole.

Yet, dwelling thus, these worlds apart,
When we encounter each is free
To bare that larger, liberal heart
Our kin and neighbours seldom see.

(Custom and code compared in jest—
Weakness delivered without shame—
And certain common sins confessed
Which all men know, and none dare blame.)

E'en so it is, and well content
It should be so a moment's space,
Each finds the other excellent,
And—runs to follow his own race!

813

THE GLORIES

1925

In Faiths and Food and Books and Friends
Give every soul her choice.
For such as follow divers ends
In divers lights rejoice.

There is a glory of the Sun
('Pity it passeth soon!)
But those whose work is nearer done
Look, rather, towards the Moon.

There is a glory of the Moon
When the hot hours have run;
But such as have not touched their noon
Give worship to the Sun.

There is a glory of the Stars,
Perfect on stilly ways;
But such as follow present wars
Pursue the Comet's blaze.

There is a glory in all things;
But each must find his own,
Sufficient for his reckonings,
Which is to him alone.

“VERY MANY PEOPLE”

1926

On the Downs, in the Weald, on the Marshes,
I heard the Old Gods say:
“Here come Very Many People:
“We must go away.

“They take our land to delight in,
“But their delight destroys.
“They flay the turf from the sheep-walk.
“They load the Denes with noise.

814

“They burn coal in the woodland.
“They seize the oast and the mill.
“They camp beside Our dew-ponds.
“They mar the clean-flanked hill.

“They string a clamorous Magic
“To fence their souls from thought,
“Till Our deep-breathed Oaks are silent,
“And Our muttering Downs tell nought.

“They comfort themselves with neighbours.
“They cannot bide alone.
“It shall be best for their doings
“When We Old Gods are gone.”

Farewell to the Downs and the Marshes,
And the Weald and the Forest known
Before there were Very Many People,
And the Old Gods had gone!

SUPPLICATION OF THE BLACK ABERDEEN

1928

I pray! My little body and whole span
Of years is Thine, my Owner and my Man.
For Thou hast made me—unto Thee I owe
This dim, distressed half-soul that hurts me so,
Compact of every crime, but, none the less,
Broken by knowledge of its naughtiness.
Put me not from Thy Life—'tis all I know.
If Thou forsake me, whither shall I go?

Thine is the Voice with which my Day begins:
Thy Foot my refuge, even in my sins.
Thine Honour hurls me forth to testify
Against the Unclean and Wicked passing by.
(But when Thou callest they are of Thy Friends,
Who readier than I to make amends?)
I was Thy Deputy with high and low—
If Thou dismiss me, whither shall I go?

815

I have been driven forth on gross offence
That took no reckoning of my penitence.
And, in my desolation—faithless me!—
Have crept for comfort to a woman's knee!
Now I return, self-drawn, to meet the just
Reward of Riot, Theft and Breach of Trust.
Put me not from Thy Life—though this is so.
If Thou forsake me, whither shall I go?

Into The Presence, flattening while I crawl—
From head to tail, I do confess it all.
Mine was the fault—deal me the stripes—but spare
The Pointed Finger which I cannot bear!
The Dreadful Tone in which my Name is named.
That sends me 'neath the sofa-frill ashamed!
(Yet, to be near Thee, I would face that woe.)
If Thou reject me, whither shall I go?

Can a gift turn Thee? I will bring mine all—
My Secret Bone, my Throwing-Stick, my Ball.
Or wouldst Thou sport? Then watch me hunt awhile,
Chasing, not after conies, but Thy Smile,
Content, as breathless on the turf I sit,
Thou shouldst deride my little legs and wit—
Ah! Keep me in Thy Life for a fool's show!
If Thou deny me, whither shall I go? . . .

Is the Dark gone? The Light of Eyes restored?
The Countenance turned meward, O my Lord?
The Paw accepted, and—for all to see—
The Abject Sinner throned upon the Knee?
The Ears bewrung, and Muzzle scratched because
He is forgiven, and All is as It was? . . .
Now am I in Thy Life, and since 'tis so—
That Cat awaits the Judgment. May I go?

816

“HIS APOLOGIES”

1932

Master, this is Thy Servant. He is rising eight weeks old.
He is mainly Head and Tummy. His legs are uncontrolled.
But Thou hast forgiven his ugliness, and settled him on Thy knee . . .
Art Thou content with Thy Servant? He is very comfy with Thee.

Master, behold a Sinner! He hath committed a wrong.
He hath defiled Thy Premises through being kept in too long.
Wherefore his nose has been rubbed in the dirt, and his self-respect has been bruisèd.
Master, pardon Thy Sinner, and see he is properly loosèd.

Master—again Thy Sinner! This that was once Thy Shoe,
He has found and taken and carried aside, as fitting matter to chew.
Now there is neither blacking nor tongue, and the Housemaid has us in tow.
Master, remember Thy Servant is young, and tell her to let him go!

Master, extol Thy Servant, he has met a most Worthy Foe!
There has been fighting all over the Shop—and into the Shop also!
Till cruel umbrellas parted the strife (or I might have been choking him yet),
But Thy Servant has had the Time of his Life—and now shall we call on the vet?

Master, behold Thy Servant! Strange children came to play,
And because they fought to caress him, Thy Servant wentedst away.
But now that the Little Beasts have gone, he has returned to see
(Brushed—with his Sunday collar on) what they left over from tea.

817

Master, pity Thy Servant! He is deaf and three parts blind.
He cannot catch Thy Commandments. He cannot read Thy Mind.
Oh, leave him not to his loneliness; nor make him that kitten's scorn.
He hath had none other God than Thee since the year that he was born.

Lord, look down on Thy Servant! Bad things have come to pass.
There is no heat in the midday sun, nor health in the wayside grass.
His bones are full of an old disease—his torments run and increase.
Lord, make haste with Thy Lightnings and grant him a quick release!

HYMN OF THE TRIUMPHANT AIRMAN

(FLYING EAST TO WEST AT 1000 M.P.H.)

1929

Oh, long had we paltered
With bridle and girth
Ere those horses were haltered
That gave us the Earth—

Ere the Flame and the Fountain,
The Spark and the Wheel,
Sank Ocean and Mountain
Alike 'neath our keel.

But the Wind in her blowing,
The bird on the wind,
Made naught of our going,
And left us behind.

Till the gale was outdriven,
The gull overflown,
And there matched us in Heaven
The Sun-God alone.

818

He only the master
We leagued to o'erthrow,
He only the faster
And, therefore, our foe!

Light steals to uncurtain
The dim-shaping skies
That arch and make certain
Where he shall arise.

We lift to the onset.
We challenge anew.
From sunrise to sunset,
Apollo, pursue!

What ails thee, O Golden?
Thy Chariot is still?
What Power has withholden
The Way from the Will?

Lo, Hesper hath paled not,
Nor darkness withdrawn.
The Hours have availed not
To lead forth the Dawn!

Do they flinch from full trial,
The Coursers of Day?
The shade on our dial
Moves swifter than they!

We fleet, but thou stayest
A God unreleased;
And still thou delayest
Low down in the East—

A beacon faint-burning,
A glare that decays
As the blasts of our spurning
Blow backward its blaze.

819

The mid-noon grows colder,
Night rushes to meet,
And the curve of Earth's shoulder
Heaves up thy defeat.

Storm on at that portal,
We have thee in prison!
Apollo, immortal,
Thou hast not arisen!

FOX-HUNTING

(The Fox Meditates)

1933

When Samson set my brush afire
To spoil the Timnites' barley,
I made my point for Leicestershire
And left Philistia early.
Through Gath and Rankesborough Gorse I fled,
And took the Coplow Road, sir!
And was a Gentleman in Red
When all the Quorn wore woad, sir!

When Rome lay massed on Hadrian's Wall,
And nothing much was doing,
Her bored Centurions heard my call
O' nights when I went wooing.
They raised a pack—they ran it well
(For I was there to run 'em)
From Aesica to Carter Fell,
And down North Tyne to Hunnum.

When William landed hot for blood,
And Harold's hosts were smitten,
I lay at earth in Battle Wood
While Domesday Book was written.
Whatever harm he did to man,
I owe him pure affection;
For in his righteous reign began
The first of Game Protection.

820

When Charles, my namesake, lost his mask,
And Oliver dropped his'n,
I found those Northern Squires a task,
To keep 'em out of prison.
In boots as big as milking-pails,
With holsters on the pommel,
They chevied me across the Dales
Instead of fighting Cromwell.

When thrifty Walpole took the helm,
And hedging came in fashion,
The March of Progress gave my realm
Enclosure and Plantation.
'Twas then, to soothe their discontent,
I showed each pounded Master,
However fast the Commons went,
I went a little faster!

When Pigg and Jorrocks held the stage,
And Steam had linked the Shires,
I broke the staid Victorian age
To posts, and rails, and wires.
Then fifty mile was none too far
To go by train to cover,
Till some dam' sutler pupped a car,
And decent sport was over!

When men grew shy of hunting stag,
For fear the Law might try 'em,
The Car put up an average bag
Of twenty dead per diem.
Then every road was made a rink
For Coroners to sit on;
And so began, in skid and stink,
The real blood-sport of Britain!

821

MEMORIES

1930

“The eradication of memories of the Great War.” —Socialist Government Organ.

The Socialist Government speaks:

Though all the Dead were all forgot
And razed were every tomb,
The Worm—the Worm that dieth not
Compels Us to our doom.
Though all which once was England stands
Subservient to Our will,
The Dead of whom we washed Our hands,
They have observance still.

We laid no finger to Their load.
We multiplied Their woes.
We used Their dearly-opened road
To traffic with Their foes:
And yet to Them men turn their eyes,
To Them are vows renewed
Of Faith, Obedience, Sacrifice,
Honour and Fortitude!

Which things must perish. But Our hour
Comes not by staves or swords
So much as, subtly, through the power
Of small corroding words.
No need to make the plot more plain
By any open thrust;
But—see Their memory is slain
Long ere Their bones are dust!

Wisely, but yearly, filch some wreath—
Lay some proud rite aside—
And daily tarnish with Our breath
The ends for which They died.
Distract, deride, decry, confuse—
(Or—if it serve Us—pray!)
So presently We break the use
And meaning of Their day!

822

THE ENGLISH WAY

1929

After the fight at Otterburn,
Before the ravens came,
The Witch-wife rode across the fern
And spoke Earl Percy's name.

“Stand up—stand up, Northumberland!
I bid you answer true,
If England's King has under his hand
A Captain as good as you?”

Then up and spake the dead Percy—
Oh, but his wound was sore!
“Five hundred Captains as good,” said he,
“And I trow five hundred more.

“But I pray you by the lifting skies,
And the young wind over the grass,
That you take your eyes from off my eyes,
And let my spirit pass.”

“Stand up—stand, up Northumberland!
I charge you answer true,
If ever you dealt in steel and brand,
How went the fray with you?”

“Hither and yon,” the Percy said;
“As every fight must go;
For some they fought and some they fled,
And some struck ne'er a blow.

“But I pray you by the breaking skies,
And the first call from the nest,
That you turn your eyes away from my eyes,
And let me to my rest.”

“Stand up—stand up, Northumberland!
I will that you answer true,
If you and your men were quick again,
How would it be with you?”

823

“Oh, we would speak of hawk and hound,
And the red deer where they rove,
And the merry foxes the country round,
And the maidens that we love.

“We would not speak of steel or steed,
Except to grudge the cost;
And he that had done the doughtiest deed
Would mock himself the most.

“But I pray you by my keep and tower,
And the tables in my hall,
And I pray you by my lady's bower
(Ah, bitterest of all!)

“That you lift your eyes from outen my eyes,
Your hand from off my breast,
And cover my face from the red sun-rise,
And loose me to my rest!”

She has taken her eyes from out of his eyes—
Her palm from off his breast,
And covered his face from the red sun-rise,
And loosed him to his rest.

“Sleep you, or wake, Northumberland—
You shall not speak again,
And the word you have said 'twixt quick and dead
I lay on Englishmen.

“So long as Severn runs to West
Or Humber to the East,
That they who bore themselves the best
Shall count themselves the least.

“While there is fighting at the ford,
Or flood along the Tweed,
That they shall choose the lesser word
To cloke the greater deed.

“After the quarry and the kill—
The fair fight and the fame—
With an ill face and an ill grace
Shall they rehearse the same.

824

“'Greater the deed, greater the need
Lightly to laugh it away,
Shall be the mark of the English breed
Until the Judgment Day!”

THE STORM CONE

1932

This is the midnight—let no star
Delude us—dawn is very far.
This is the tempest long foretold—
Slow to make head but sure to hold.

Stand by! The lull 'twixt blast and blast
Signals the storm is near, not past;
And worse than present jeopardy
May our forlorn to-morrow be.

If we have cleared the expectant reef,
Let no man look for his relief.
Only the darkness hides the shape
Of further peril to escape.

It is decreed that we abide
The weight of gale against the tide
And those huge waves the outer main
Sends in to set us back again.

They fall and whelm. We strain to hear
The pulses of her labouring gear,
Till the deep throb beneath us proves,
After each shudder and check, she moves!

She moves, with all save purpose lost,
To make her offing from the coast;
But, till she fetches open sea,
Let no man deem that he is free!

825

THE KING AND THE SEA

(17th July 1935)

After His Realms and States were moved
To bare their hearts to the King they loved,
Tendering themselves in homage and devotion,
The Tide Wave up the Channel spoke
To all those eager, exultant folk:—
“Hear now what Man was given you by the Ocean!

“There was no thought of Orb or Crown
When the single wooden chest went down
To the steering-flat, and the careless Gunroom haled him
To learn by ancient and bitter use,
How neither Favour nor Excuse,
Nor aught save his sheer self henceforth availed him.

“There was no talk of birth or rank
By the slung hammock or scrubbed plank
In the steel-grated prisons where I cast him;
But niggard hours and a narrow space
For rest—and the naked light on his face—
While the ship's traffic flowed, unceasing, past him.

“Thus I schooled him to go and come—
To speak at the word—at a sign be dumb;
To stand to his task, not seeking others to aid him;
To share in honour what praise might fall
For the task accomplished, and—over all—
To swallow rebuke in silence. Thus I made him.

“I loosened every mood of the deep
On him, a child and sick for sleep,
Through the long watches that no time can measure,
When I drove him, deafened and choked and blind,
At the wave-tops cut and spun by the wind;
Lashing him, face and eyes, with my displeasure.

“I opened him all the guile of the seas—
Their sullen, swift-sprung treacheries,

826

To be fought, or forestalled, or dared, or dismissed with laughter.
I showed him Worth by Folly concealed,
And the flaw in the soul that a chance revealed
(Lessons remembered—to bear fruit thereafter).

“I dealt him Power beneath his hand,
For trial and proof, with his first Command—
Himself alone, and no man to gainsay him.
On him the End, the Means, and the Word,
And the harsher judgment if he erred,
And—outboard—Ocean waiting to betray him.

“Wherefore, when he came to be crowned,
Strength in Duty held him bound,
So that no Power misled nor ease ensnared him
Who had spared himself no more than his seas had spared him!”

After His Lieges, in all His Lands,
Had laid their hands between His hands,
And His ships thundered service and devotion,
The Tide Wave, ranging the Planet, spoke
On all Our foreshores as it broke:—
“Know now what Man I gave you—I, the Ocean!”