The Writings in Prose and Verse of Rudyard Kipling/Early Verse
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Contents
School-Boy Lyrics
1879–1882
| page | ||
The Dusky Crew . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
3 | |
Two Sides of the Medal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
5 | |
This Side the Styx . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
6 | |
Reading the Will . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
8 | |
An Echo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
10 | |
Caret . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
11 | |
Roses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
12 | |
The Lesson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
13 | |
The Song of the Sufferer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
14 | |
The Front Door . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
15 | |
Argument of a Projected Poem to be called "The Seven Nights of Creation" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
17 | |
Conventionality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
19 | |
"Donec Gratus Eram" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
21 | |
The Boar of the Year . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
23 | |
The Battle of Assye . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
27 | |
On Fort-Duty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
32 | |
Inscribed in a Presentation Copy of "Echoes" to the Common-Room . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
34 | |
The Song of the Exiles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
36 | |
Envy, Hatred, and Malice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
39 | |
A Legend of Devonshire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
41 | |
Illusion, Disillusion, Allusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
43 | |
Overheard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
44 | |
The Jam-Pot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
47 | |
From the Wings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
48 | |
Credat Judæus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
51 | |
Solus cum Sola . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
53 | |
Missed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
54 | |
Requiescat in Pace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
55 | |
Ave Imperatrix . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
58 | |
Echoes
1882–1884
A Vision of India . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
63 | |
The City of the Heart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
65 | |
The Indian Farmer at Home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
66 | |
The Flight of the Bucket . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
67 | |
Laocoon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
71 | |
Nursery Rhymes for Little Anglo-Indians . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
73 | |
Tobacco . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
76 | |
Appropriate Verses on an Elegant Landscape . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
77 | |
His Consolation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
78 | |
The Cursing of Stephen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
79 | |
Jane Smith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
85 | |
Nursery Idyls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
87 | |
School-Boy Lyrics
1879–1882
Lo! as a little child
Looks from its window on a mighty town,
And sees the roofs as far as eye can reach,
But thinks not, knows not—nay, will not believe—
That there are Fathers, Mothers, Sisters, Homes
All like his own, a thousand homely talks,
Manners, and customs—so I saw the world
With millions of my brethren. Then I wrote;
And all my verse sprang fire-new from a brain
That loved it and believed it. But the world
Coldly, in silence, passed my numbers by.
Therefore I sang in fury! When the years
Brought with them coolness, all too late I found
There were ten thousand, thousand thoughts like mine!
The Dusky Crew
Our heads were rough and our hands were black
With the ink-stain's midnight hue;
We scouted all, both great and small—
We were a dusky crew;
And each boy's hand was against us raised
'Gainst me and the Other Two.
We chased the hare from her secret lair,
We roamed the woodlands through;
In parks and grounds far out of bounds
Wandered our dusky crew;
And the keepers swore to see us pass—
Me and the Other Two.
And one there was who was light of limb,
Nimble and wary too.
A spirit grim we made of him
Unto our dusky crew;
He fetched and carried for all us three—
For me and the Other Two.
Our secret caves in the cold, dark earth
The luscious lettuce grew;
We ate the cress in merriness—
We were a dusky crew;
The radish red gave sweet repast
To me and the Other Two.
Our lettuces are dead and gone,
Our plans have fallen through;
We wander free in misery—
We are a wretched crew;
For a master's wrath has fallen on us—
On me and the Other Two.
He found our cave in the cold, dark earth,
He crept the branches through;
He caught us all in our Council-Hall—
Caught us, a dusky crew;
To punishment he led us all—
Me and the Other Two.
Our lettuces are dead and gone,
Our plans have fallen through;
We wander free in misery—
We are a wretched crew.
Will happiness no more return
To me and the Other Two?
Two Sides of the Medal
"I will into the world, I will make me a name,
I will fight for truth, I will fight for fame,
I will win pure love, and when I die
The world shall praise me, worthily."
He entered the world—he fought for fame;
They twined him the thorny wreath of shame.
I met him once more full suddenly;
His face was seamed with misery.
"Have you fought for truth? have you worked in vain?
Have you gained pure love without a stain?
Is your name yet great? Will it ever be?
Are you praised of all men, worthily?"
He did not answer—he did not speak,
But waited awhile with a reddened cheek,
Then, trembling, faltering, and looking down—
Good heavens, he asked me for half a crown!
This Side the Styx
Naked and shivering, how the oozy tide
Affrights me, waiting! Yonder boatman there
Is dull and moveless as the very stones
That fringe the infernal river. Woe is me!
All that I had, departed, and this state
Of aimless wandering on the farther shore
Is scarcely better than the life of forms
I see around me. Huge, deformèd toads,
Yellow and dripping monsters, loathsome plants
Dropping their blotched leaves in the reeking slime.
This is the land of Death in very truth.
The imprisoned air bears not my trembling voice
To shapes, my comrades in the upper life,
To those that sate and laughed with me of old,
Alas, how altered! Tullius Quæstor there
Stands solitary, he that lovèd mirth,
And drank the unmixed wine till morning came
With me, how often! Is that Poetus,
Mine ancient enemy? O Gods! he comes
Beating the dead air with his outstretched palms
In silent supplication. Now his mouth
Is shaping words, and yet there comes no sound;
And now he passes in the drifting mist,
A shadow amid shadows. I alone
Retain a lasting form, or seem to do.
Claudius Herminius, once a trusty friend,
Is fleeting like the others. Is there none
To stay and give me peace? Ixion now
Had eased me, for he beareth greater pain;
But all alone upon these crumbling banks,
False as the world I left, how shall I be,
Or rather cease from being? Could I lose
My soul, sensation, all that makes me, I,
Oblivion were thrice blessèd. Lo! the boat
Is moving toward me—now at least is change.
Slowly, oh! slowly parts the stagnant flood,
And slow as is repentance, Charon rows!
Reading the Will
Here we have it, scratched and scored
By the tides of an impotent human soul;
He that wrote it died abhorred,
And scarcely the bell had ceased to toll
Ere they crowded together over the cake,
Ferret-eyed women and keen-faced men,
In the putrid well of his life to slake
Their viperous throats, and wonder when
The lawyer was coming to give their share—
Waiting like beasts behind the bars
For the meat apportioned,—and all the air
Thick with the hissing whisper that mars
Fame of the living and fame of the dead.
See that woman, her yellow teeth
Pressing the lip's thin line of red;
Mark the struggle that lies beneath
The outer surface of weepers and veils!
She was his housekeeper, people muttered
Hints, half-hinting, and half-heard tales,
Poison tipping each syllable uttered.
Charity, this! And the dead man lies
Still? Impossible! He must stir,
Slip the bandages, turn and rise,
Speak, refuting the blot on her!
There is no sign. Does he hear them say
She has it all, and "We know how
She wiled it from him, but let us stay
To hear the reading—it's coming now"?
Slowly, slowly, the red seals break.
Watch them, marking his ev'ry word—
How in life he had willed to make
This one wretched, and that preferred.
"I will and I choose that such an one
Should have my all!" O woe, O woe!
Human potency, what has it done
To help men's souls in the shades below?
Does he remember his power past,
How that he made men smile or weep,—
Helpless to hold his riches fast,
Fighting with blows men strike in sleep?
An Echo
Let the fruit ripen one by one
On the sunny wall;
If it fall
Who is it suffers? What harm is done?
None at all.
An Eve in the garden am I;
Behold, this one
In the sun
Falls with a touch, and I let it lie,
My first one.
One fresh from the bough; I break it;
The red juice flies
Into my eyes.
Shall I swallow, leave, or take it,
Or despise?
Sweet to my taste was that second
And I hold it meet
That I eat;
But ah me! Are the bruised ones reckoned
At my feet?
Caret
Something wanting in this world—
What is it? To each and all,
Different desires come,
Tides of longing rise and fall.
Hopes of youth still unfulfilled,
Homes that have an empty chair,
Gulfs that gape and pits that balk;
Something wanting everywhere.
Can we fill the gap with love,
Forge the missing link with gold?
Let the heart be ne'er so warm,
Still one portion blank and cold.
Broken chords are but our share;
Harmony with discord blends.
Fate's dull web but coarsest cloth,
Patched with finer odds and ends.
Roses
Roses by babies' rosier fingers pressed
In wondering amazement. Later, youth,
Attired in knickerbockers, flings them by
Contemptuously. Lovers' offerings then,
Much kissed and withered. Staid and sober age
In snug, suburban villas rears them last:
The world at large is dowered with their thorns!
The Lesson
We two learned the lesson together,
The oldest of all, yet so new
To myself, and I'm wondering whether
It was utterly novel to you?
The pages—you seemed to have known them,
The pictures that changed 'neath our eyes;
Alas! by what hand were you shown them,
That I find you so womanly wise?
Is it strange that my hand on your shoulder
In the dusk of the day should be placed?
Did you say to yourself, "Were he older
His arm had encircled my waist?"
If it be so, so be it, fair teacher;
I sit at your feet and am wise,
For each page of the book is a feature,
And the light of the reading, your eyes.
We have met, and the meeting is over;
We must part, and the parting is now;
We have played out the game—I, boy-lover,
In earnest, and you, dearest, how?
The Song of the Sufferer
Written when ill with fever and sore throat.
His drink it is Saline Pyretic,
He longs, but he shall not eat,
His soul is convulsed with emetic,
His stomach is empty of meat.
His bowels are stirred by blind motions,
His form in the flannel is bound,
He has gargles, and powders, and potions,
And walks as not feeling the ground.
For the doctor has harrowed his being,
And of medicine wondrous the might is;
He suffers in agony, seeing
He is prey to acute tonsilitis.
The Front Door
I stand and guard—such ones as say
In matter lives no spirit, lie;
The household through me throbs and beats,
The meaning of the crowded streets
Is plain, and once a year I may
Admit the beings of the sky.
Lost souls revisiting the earth
To see old loves that they be well,
And find their hold upon the heart
In life so strong, in death depart;
Wherefore with peals of soundless mirth
Goes each one to his place in hell.
The curtain on a winter's night
Struggles and beats as if it fought
In every fold a power of air;
The unseen fills each vacant chair;
The living lavish not a thought
On those that are not in their sight.
Life and death go hand in hand,—
Believe or disbelieve my tale,—
How Death is Life, how Life is Death,
How that the spirit wandereth,
How bolts and bars may not prevail
To guard us from the Other Land.
Argument of a Projected Poem to be called "The Seven Nights of Creation"
The Devil each night of the seven days of creation works in emulation of the Creator and produces baneful things—fogs, poisonous plants, venomous creatures, etc.—and at last tries to make a man in imitation of Adam. He fails, recognizes his failure, and is obliged to own that his power cannot rival that of the Creator, and that evil is less powerful than good.
Lo! what is this I make! Are these his limbs,
Bent inward, tottering 'neath the body's weight?
The body crutched by hairy spider-arms,
Surmounted by a face as who should say,
Why has thou made me? wherefore hast thou breathed
Spirit in this foul body? Let me be!
The piteous visage puckers with its woe,
The strange black lips are working with a cry—
A cry and protest. Lo! the wrinkled palms
Are stretched forth helplessly and beat the dark.
So did not my great foe when he was made.
I saw his eye glow with the sense of power,
I saw all wild things crouch beneath that eye;
God gave him great dominion over all
And blessed him. Shall I bless my handiwork?
After thy kind be fruitful, lust, and eat;
All things I give thee in the earth and air—
Only depart and hide thee in the trees.
He rises from the ground to do my will
And seek a shelter. Can the being speak?
Stay, thing, and thank me for thy quickening.
The great eyes roll—my meaning is not there
Reflected as God's word was in the man's.
I, maker, bid thee speak, if speak thou canst!
Lo! what is this? My labour is in vain.
He plucks the grass-tufts aimlessly, and works
Palm within palm, then for a moment's space
Breaks off rough bark and throws it on the ground.
He hears me not. Oh! would the dawn delay,
So I might rise and perfect that I make,
Or rise and build again. Alas! the light
Is flaming forth to mock me. See, he sits
Helpless, uprooting grass. While all the world
Is thick with life renewed that fills my ears,
My last and greatest work is mockery.
Depart, O Ape! Depart and leave me foiled.
Conventionality
Passion and Fire—bah! are they ever linked with beauty?
Beauty and fairness of face? The devils below can tell
The upper-world folk, if they will,
How it's not the lovely alone that enter the gates of hell.
Heroes and dames of fiction, so wicked, so fair, so accurst,
How we praise their faults and applaud each claptrap speech on the stage!
But red hands may be raised to kill—
The white-mouse eye can sparkle as well as the eagle's with rage.
I knew two people so. Romance! She was nothing at all—
Weak-mouthed and chalky-white, limping, and stuttering too.
He was as dull as ever lead,
Dumb; and we wondered how he had found him words to woo.
Then—God knows how it happened!—there came the crime, and we saw
The two, how they held together through the trial and all the rest
Of the dragging chain of the law;
But alas for Romance! we cut them as though they had been the pest.
"Donec Gratus Eram"
(Devonshire dialect)
He
So long as 'twuz me alone
An' there wasn't no other chaps,
I was praoud as a King on 'is throne—
Happier tu, per'aps.
She
So long as 'twuz only I
An' there wasn't no other she
Yeou cared for so much—surely
I was as glad as glad could be.
He
But now I'm in lovv with Jane Pritt—
She can play the piano, she can;
An' if dyin' 'u'd 'elp 'er a bit
I'd die laike a man.
She
Yeou'm like me. I'm in lovv with young Frye—
Him as lives out tu Appledore Quay;
An' if dyin' u'd 'elp 'im I'd die—
Twice ovver for he.
He
But 'sposin' I threwed up Jane
An' niver went walkin' with she—
And come back to you again—
How 'u'd that be?
She
Frye's sover. Yeou've allus done badly—
An' yeou shifts like cut net-floats, yeou du:
But—I'd throw that young Frye ovver gladly
An' lovv 'ee right thru!
The Boar of the Year
In the shade of the trees by the lunch-tent the old Haileyburian sat,—
A full fourteen-stone in the saddle, and the best of hard riders at that,—
And he shouted aloud as we passed him: "I'll wait till the claret-cup cools.
There's a sounder broke loose in the open! Ride, boys, for the love of your Schools!"
Bull huge in the mists of the morn at the head of his sounder he stood—
Our quarry—and watched us awhile, and we thirsted aloud for his blood;
Then over the brawn of his shoulder looked back as we galloped more near—
Then fled for the far-away cover; and we followed the Boar of the Year!
There was Cheltenham perched on an Arab—so rich are these thrice-born R.E.'s;
And Rugby—his mount was a Waler; and a couple of O.U.S.C.'s;
And the rest of the field followed after. They were old and wiser, perhaps—
For we flew over tats at the nullahs,[1] but they scrambled through by the gaps.
Away like a bird went the Arab—head and tail in the air, which is wrong:
For a pig-sticker worthy his salt looks down as he gallops along;
And the Arab was new to the business. What wonder that Cheltenham fell
In the grip of a buffalo-wallow, and sat down to rest him a spell?
Then Rugby shot forward the first of us three, for to reason it stands
That a coachy Artillery charger has the legs of a mere fourteen-hands.
But he jinked, and the Waler went wide; but the country-breds wheeled and we flew
O'er the treacherous black-cotton furrows—spears up, riding all that we knew.
Now, a beast with a mouth like a brickbat can't turn to a turn of the wrist—
And the Waler took furlongs to turn in; and the rest of the run Rugby missed.
So we shed him and spread him and left him, after manifold jinkings and chouses,
And the issue was narrowed to this: "Ride, boys, for the love of your Houses!"
Dull-white on the slate of his hide ran a spear-scar from shoulder to chine:
And a pig that is marked by the spear is seldom the sweetest of swine.
When he stopped in the shade of the reh-grass that fringes the river-bed's marge,
The lift of his rust-red back-bristles had warned us: Look out for the charge!
And we got it! Right wheel, best foot foremost—with a quick sickle-sweep of the head
That missed the off-hock of my pony and tore through a tussock instead,
He made for the next horse's belly—the jungle-pig's deadliest trick—
And he caught the spear full in the shoulder, and the bamboo broke short at the nick:
Then the prettiest mare in the Province let out with her ever-quick heels,
And the sound of the Ancient his death-grunt was drowned in her feminine squeals!
And which of the Houses got first-spear? With sorrow unfeigned be it said,
I jabbed at his quarters and missed, and—I rode for the Black and the Red;
And he for the Black and the Yellow, and his was the first and last spear
That ended the hunt by the river, and won you the Boar of the Year.
So we drank in the shade of the lunch-tent to the Barrack that stands by the Sea—
We drank to the health of its fellows—to all who have been and may be.
And Cheltenham joined in the chorus and Rugby re-echoed the cheer
On the day that we rode for the College, and won you the Boar of the Year!
The Battle of Assye
(From the United Services College "Chronicle," July 2, 1886.)
Save where our huge sea-castles from afar,
Beat down, in scorn, some weak Egyptian wall,
We are too slothful to give heed to war.
As a gorged Lion will not stir at all,
Although the hunter mock him openly,
So we are moveless when the trumpets call.
A soldier's letter, written long ago
(The ink lies yellow on the tattered page),
Telling of war, with rugged overflow
Of epithet, and bursts of uncouth rage;
And as I find the letter—so I write
My record of brave deeds in a dead age.
"The man was a man you could follow to death,
And dying, thank with your latest breath
For the honour granted—and he had led
From the sea to the scorching plains inland,
Where the soil would flay the skin from your hand
If you let it rest for a moment there;
And the sun at noonday strikes you dead,
And the breeze is a blast of furnace air;
Where the Jungle stands in an inland sea,
When the hills send down their floods to the plain,
And the waters drown the coiled tree-snake,
And the reed-thatched hamlets by jhîl and lake
Are swamped and demolished utterly.
"How can I tell of the months of fight?—
The whole thing slid like an evil dream,
With the same tired halt at camping-time,
When the hot day sank into hotter night,
A broken sleep and a dream of home;
Then grain for each lowing bullock-team;
And then the sun in the parched blue dome—
And the weary, broken sleep again.
"But one thing stays in my mind, and will stay
Stamped in fire till the day I die:—
How the wild Mahratta ranks gave way
From a poor four thousand of Englishmen,
By the little village they call Assye—
For we were one where they numbered ten;
How we fought through the hot September day
In the face of their cannon, and how we slew;
How the horsemen galloped down on us,
And we broke their ranks and fought anew,
In the midst of a fire so murderous
That it seems a wonder that I am alife;
And, last of all, how we chased the crew,
Drove them like bullocks our peasants drive,
Footsore and bleeding. It happened thus:
"Three armies were met together to crush
The whole of our little force—and we
(Thanks to the tale of a lying scout)
Had come on their camp so suddenly,
Where the Kaitua River curves about
In the steep clay reaches of Bokerdun,
That we knew we must either fight or die,
Since no succour could come by land or sea,
And we knew that retreat was worse than defeat;
And we thought this over, there in the bush,
As we faced their masses of cavalry,
And counted each point-blank, grinning gun,
While the turbid river rolled between;
And far away from the plains' burnt green
The still ghats watched us against the sky.
"We found a ford, and the word was given,
And over we went as glad as might be—
Seeing, for months past, we had striven
With a foe who fled like a dusky cloud,
And we thirsted to meet them in open field,
With no quarter asked or grace allowed,
And fight till one of us two should yield.
So, a splash through the stream with arms held high,
A rattle of stones when the horses passed,
And we found ourselves on the farther side,
And we only feared lest the foe should fly—
Cheating us out of our fight at last.
For we saw their ranks fall back and divide,
And we watched their faces horrified
That our handful should dare to strive with them.
And then the view was hid from us wholly—
Like a fleecy fringe on a garment's hem,
The whole of the front of their line outbroke
In a dense, white bank of blinding smoke,
That rose against the blue sky slowly,
While the red death flickered in spirts of fire
As each cannon opened its lips and spoke
A deep-mouthed warning to bid us retire.
"On the left the Kaitua hemmed us in,
On the right a rushing watercourse;
In front their masses of infantry,
Their surging waves of Mahratta horse,
Came down on us like a winter sea;
And we fought as they fought who fight for life—
Each one as though the army's fate
Hung on the strength of his own right wrist
When he warded away the cold curved knife,
And the wiry devil that wielded it
Recoiled from the bayonet—just too late—
And the steel came out with a wrench and a twist.
So we fought and slew in the midst of the din
Till their line was broken—till man and horse—
Fled over the rushing watercourse,
And the greatest fight of the world was our own!
And now my face is scarred to the bone,
And I'm lame maybe from a musket-ball—
Yet I thank God always (and ever shall)
That I fought in a fight the world will applaud;
For the new generations by and bye
Shall be proud of that long September day,
When ten men fled from the face of one,
And the river ran red in its seaward way,
As it flowed through the village of Bokerdun—
Red with the blood that was spilt at Assye!"
On Fort-Duty
(March 28, 1884.)
There's tumult in the Khyber,
There's feud at Ali Kheyl;
For the Maliks[2] of the Khyber
Are at it tooth and nail—
With the stolen British carbine
And the long Kohat jezail.[3]
And I look across the ramparts
To the northward and the snow—
To the far Cherat cantonments;
But alas! I cannot go
From the dusty, dreary ramparts
Where the cannons grin arow!
There's fighting in the Khyber,
But it isn't meant for me,
Who am sent upon "Fort-duty"
By this pestilent Ravi,
With just one other subaltern,
And not a soul to see.
Oh! it's everlasting gun-drill
And eight-o'clock parades,
It's cleaning-up of mortars
(Likewise of carronades),
While the passes ring with rifles
And the noise of Afghan raids.
And I look across the ramparts
To the river broad and gray,
And I think of merry England
Where the festive Horse Guards play.
Oh! take the senior grades for this
And spare the young R.A.!
Inscribed in a Presentation Copy of "Echoes" to the Common-Room
(From the United States College "Chronicle," March 27, 1889.)
"My very noble and approved good masters."
Placetne, Domini?—in far Lahore
I wait your verdict, 'mid the palms and roses,
Much as I did those judgments writ of yore
Upon my "proses."
Blue-pencil X's when constructions queer
Ran riot down the inky, thumb-marked page;
And wondrous words that moved too oft, I fear,
Your righteous rage.
Red-pencil marks when half a dozen rules,
Smashed at one stroke, broke down your patience, too,
And left me, in the silence of the Schools,
With "lines to do."
These were your judgments—well deserved enough
By one who daily scorned his Latin Primer.
What is your verdict on the latest stuff
Sent by this rhymer?
Placetne, Domini?—'neath India's sky
I wait your answer, laymen and divines;
And, as of old, upon your table I
"Show up my lines."
The Song of the Exiles
(From the United Services College "Chronicle," October 15, 1883.)
That long white Barrack by the Sea
Stares blankly seaward still,
But other grimy paws make free
With pignuts on "The Hill."
Fresh faces in the Gym appear,
New knives cut other names;
Fresh sinners carry on, I fear,
Our very same old games.
Terms come and go, scenes shift and fade,
The young moustache progresses;
In place of call-over, "parade,"
Instead of dinner, "messes."
By some mysterious law of fate
I cannot understand,
Most College fledgelings gravitate
To "India's coral strand."
In steamy mists of moist Bombay,
Or dreary Dum-dum "lines,"
Or where Karachi dust-storms play,
An O.U.S.C. pines.
Some watch the tender tea-plant grow
In gardens of Cachar;
Some wait at Quetta for the slow
Sure-coming frontier war.
By Naga Hills our feet are set,
Or swamps of North Bengal;
Some spend their leave in far Thibet,
Some get no leave at all.
Some lead the R.A. guns afield
(At least upon parade),
Some watch lest Kutcha[4] dams may yield
To rifts the rains have made.
Some write voluminous reports
On "forest land increase,"
Some work at survey in the Ghats,
And some in the Police.
Some prance beside their gorah-log[5]
On bony beasts and strange,
Some test, at Murree or Jutogh,
The flashing signal's range.
A scattered brotherhood, in truth,
By mount, and stream, and sea,
We chase, with all the zeal of youth,
Her Majesty's Rupee.
Exiles are we—yet, through our dreams
Old scenes and faces glide,
So that the city's murmur seems
The voice of Northam tide.
Envy, Hatred, and Malice
Let us praise Such an One,
Give him commendation
Sincere for labour done—
As honour to the nation.
Such elevation,
Such perfect taste, was never known before;
Our ranks admit one poet more,
'Mid universal acclamation.
Such an One is elevated
To the gods,
Even to the demi-gods.
Such an One is crownèd king,
Self and friends
Chew the cud of bitter feeling
Wondering
By what ends
These strange vermin come to stealing
Bay-leaves here and there to make
Forged false wreaths, for sure 'tis odd
How the world a man may take
For a god.
(Even for a demi-god!)
Such an One is gone—there rises
Such Another:
With old thoughts in newer guise
Born to smother
Such an One's productions.
Welcomed is he just as loudly,
Trails his mantle just as proudly.
Whence I draw
My deductions
That many and many a poet more,
Ere I lie beneath the sods,
I shall witness swell and soar,
To the gods,
Even to the demi-gods!
A Legend of Devonshire
There were three daughters long ago,
In a lonely house that faced the sea;
They sent their father forth to plough
The narrow meadow that skirts the sea.
The autumn fogs are drifting by,
The old man's wits are dull and numb;
He has opened the barn where the young colts lie
Safe from the biting frosts to come.
He has taken the plough-gear and harnessed three
Hot young bloods that no lash will bear;
The rain is falling—he cannot see
If young or old be harnessed there.
He is ploughing the meadow that skirts the sea—
Old hands a-quivering with the cold;
The furrows are running crookedly,
And the share is clogged with the clinging mould.
The crow and daw fly fast to seat
Their food, while afar the sea-gulls scream;
The rain has changed to a stinging sleet;
He is ploughing as one who ploughs in a dream.
They have swerved from the field; the shingles grate
Beneath their hooves and the jangling plough;
The day is dying, the hour is late:
But the salt sea-foam is light to plough.
Illusion, Disillusion, Allusion
i
In all the passion of youth,
In deed and in word and in truth;
For time and eternity
I woo her, so let it be.
ii
Padding and powder enough
To win a hundred hearts!
They are welcome. From me departs
Love for this woman of arts.
iii
Fairest of women was she.
Somewhere in eternity
We may play out the game again;
Here, Time has ended her reign,
Making her hateful to see.
Overheard
(Supposed to be after browning)
So the day dragged through,
And the afternoon brought the spangles,
The sawdust smell, the tights,
The flickering, flashing lights,
The smile to acknowledge the cheer
As the rider skips and jangles
The bells. Ye gods!—'twas queer
How the young equestriennes flew.
A programme redished, I lay
Back in my seat to gaze
On the faces around, to hear what folk say,
While the orchestra rattled and roared,
Murdering popular lays—
It was hot, too, and I felt bored.
Then a voice from behind, a rustling of dress,
The step of a man, a silence to settle,
A babble of children (how they push,
These little ones, making your coat in a mess),
A silence to settle, and after a gush
Of small talk, I sat and waited,
Shutting my eyes till the stream abated.
'Twas a tale of trouble, told in a rush.
Who was the speaker? I turned to see—
A sharp little saucy face,
No whit abashed, gazing at me
With bead-eyes, curiously,
With a petulant child's grimace,
As I shifted, moving her feet
From the chair where they'd taken root,
For the time at least; then again
I listened. Fast and fleet
She poured out the queer little words to her friend—
(A sort of overgrown brute).
I heard it out to the end—
A story of pain.
Here you have it, in fine
(Her words, not mine):
"Tried for luck in London—
Voilà tout!
Failed, lost money, undone;
Took to the streets for a life.
Entre nous,
It's a terrible uphill strife,
Like all professions—too filled.
And now I'm in lodgings hard by,
Au quatrième, up in the sky.
Visit me by and by,
They're furnished, but oh—so cold,
So cold!"
There the queer little voice was stilled;
She moved to a further chair
And left me sitting there
To think on the story told—
Not to me, but to her friend—
Of a life that had only one end,
And for burden, "Oh, so cold!"
Have you ever seen on the face
Of a child a sort of despair,
A comical, hopeless air,
When a toy won't work, or a doll won't cry,
Or a cart runs awkwardly?
Well, I saw it there
As she moved to a further chair.
She'd broken some toy she had—
Or, was it a life gone bad?