1901
“. . . and will supply details to guard the Blood River Bridge.”
District Orders-Lines of Communication, South African War.
Sudden the desert changes,
The raw glare softens and clings,
Till the aching Oudtshoorn ranges
Stand up like the thrones of Kings —
Ramparts of slaughter and peril —
Blazing, amazing, aglow —
‘Twixt the sky-line’s belting beryl
And the wine-dark flats below.
Royal the pageant closes,
Lit by the last of the sun —
Opal and ash-of-roses,
Cinnamon, umber, and dun.
The twilight swallows the thicket,
The starlight reveals the ridge.
The whistle shrills to the picket —
We are changing guard on the bridge.
(Few, forgotten and lonely,
Where the empty metals shine —
No, not combatants-only
Details guarding the line.)
We slip through the broken panel
Of fence by the ganger’s shed;
We drop to the waterless channel
And the lean track overhead;
We stumble on refuse of rations,
The beef and the biscuit-tins;
We take our appointed stations,
And the endless night begins.
We hear the Hottentot herders
As the sheep click past to the fold —
And the click of the restless girders
As the steel contracts in the cold —
Voices of jackals calling
And, loud in the hush between,
A morsel of dry earth falling
From the flanks of the scarred ravine.
And the solemn firmament marches,
And the hosts of heaven rise
Framed through the iron arches —
Banded and barred by the ties,
Till we feel the far track humming,
And we see her headlight plain,
And we gather and wait her coming —
The wonderful north-bound train.
(Few, forgotten and lonely,
Where the white car-windows shine —
No, not combatants-only
Details guarding the line.)
Quick, ere the gift escape us!
Out of the darkness we reach
For a handful of week-old papers
And a mouthful of human speech.
And the monstrous heaven rejoices,
And the earth allows again,
Meetings, greetings, and voices
Of women talking with men.
So we return to our places,
As out on the bridge she rolls;
And the darkness covers our faces,
And the darkness re-enters our souls.
More than a little lonely
Where the lessening tail-lights shine.
No - not combatants - only
Details guarding the line!
A British-Roman Song
(A. D. 406)
“A Centurion of the Thirtieth” — Puck of Pook’s Hill
My father’s father saw it not,
And I, belike, shall never come
To look on that so-holy spot —
That very Rome —
Crowned by all Time, all Art, all Might,
The equal work of Gods and Man,
City beneath whose oldest height —
The Race began!
Soon to send forth again a brood,
Unshakable, we pray, that clings
To Rome’s thrice-hammered hardihood —
In arduous things.
Strong heart with triple armour bound,
Beat strongly, for thy life-blood runs,
Age after Age, the Empire round —
In us thy Sons
Who, distant from the Seven Hills,
Loving and serving much, require
Thee — thee to guard ‘gainst home-born ills
The Imperial Fire!
The Broken Men
1902
For things we never mention,
For Art misunderstood —
For excellent intention
That did not turn to good;
From ancient tales’ renewing,
From clouds we would not clear —
Beyond the Law’s pursuing
We fled, and settled here.
We took no tearful leaving,
We bade no long good-byes.
Men talked of crime and thieving,
Men wrote of fraud and lies.
To save our injured feelings
‘Twas time and time to go —
Behind was dock and Dartmoor,
Ahead lay Callao!
The widow and the orphan
That pray for ten per cent,
They clapped their trailers on us
To spy the road we went.
They watched the foreign sailings
(They scan the shipping still),
And that’s your Christian people
Returning good for ill!
God bless the thoughtful islands
Where never warrants come;
God bless the just Republics
That give a man a home,
That ask no foolish questions,
But set him on his feet;
And save his wife and daughters
From the workhouse and the street!
On church and square and market
The noonday silence falls;
You’ll hear the drowsy mutter
Of the fountain in our halls.
Asleep amid the yuccas
The city takes her ease —
Till twilight brings the land-wind
To the clicking jalousies.
Day long the diamond weather,
The high, unaltered blue —
The smell of goats and incense
And the mule-bells tinkling through.
Day long the warder ocean
That keeps us from our kin,
And once a month our levee
When the English mail comes in.
You’ll find us up and waiting
To treat you at the bar;
You’ll find us less exclusive
Than the average English are.
We’ll meet you with a carriage,
Too glad to show you round,
But — we do not lunch on steamers,
For they are English ground.
We sail o’ nights to England
And join our smiling Boards —
Our wives go in with Viscounts
And our daughters dance with Lords,
But behind our princely doings,
And behind each coup we make,
We feel there’s Something Waiting,
And — we meet It when we wake.
Ah, God! One sniff of England —
To greet our flesh and blood —
To hear the traffic slurring
Once more through London mud!
Our towns of wasted honour —
Our streets of lost delight!
How stands the old Lord Warden?
Are Dover’s cliffs still white?
Brookland Road
I was very well pleased with what I knowed,
I reckoned myself no fool —
Till I met with a maid on the Brookland Road,
That turned me back to school.
Low down-low down!
Where the liddle green lanterns shine —
O maids, I’ve done with ‘ee all but one,
And she can never be mine!
‘Twas right in the middest of a hot June night,
With thunder duntin’ round,
And I see her face by the fairy-light
That beats from off the ground.
She only smiled and she never spoke,
She smiled and went awa
y;
But when she’d gone my heart was broke
And my wits was clean astray.
0, stop your ringing and let me be —
Let be, 0 Brookland bells!
You’ll ring Old Goodman out of the sea,
Before I wed one else!
Old Goodman’s Farm is rank sea-sand,
And was this thousand year;
But it shall turn to rich plough-land
Before I change my dear.
0, Fairfield Church is water-bound
From autumn to the spring;
But it shall turn to high hill-ground
Before my bells do ring.
0, leave me walk on Brookland Road,
In the thunder and warm rain —
0, leave me look where my love goed,
And p’raps I’ll see her again!
Low down — low down!
Where the liddle green lanterns shine —
0 maids, I’ve done with ‘ee all but one,
And she can never be mine!
Brown Bess
The Army Musket — 1700-1815
In the days of lace-ruffles, perukes and brocade
Brown Bess was a partner whom none could despise —
An out-spoken, flinty-lipped, brazen-faced jade,
With a habit of looking men straight in the eyes —
At Blenheim and Ramillies fops would confess
They were pierced to the heart by the charms of Brown Bess.
Though her sight was not long and her weight was not small,
Yet her actions were winning, her language was clear;
And everyone bowed as she opened the ball
On the arm of some high-gaitered, grim grenadier.
Half Europe admitted the striking success
Of the dances and routs that were given by Brown Bess.
When ruffles were turned into stiff leather stocks,
And people wore pigtails instead of perukes,
Brown Bess never altered her iron-grey locks.
She knew she was valued for more than her looks.
“Oh, powder and patches was always my dress,
And I think am killing enough,” said Brown Bess.
So she followed her red-coats, whatever they did,
From the heights of Quebec to the plains of Assaye,
From Gibraltar to Acre, Cape Town and Madrid,
And nothing about her was changed on the way;
(But most of the Empire which now we possess
Was won through those years by old-fashioned Brown Bess.)
In stubborn retreat or in stately advance,
From the Portugal coast to the cork-woods of Spain,
She had puzzled some excellent Marshals of France
Till none of them wanted to meet her again:
But later, near Brussels, Napoleon — no less —
Arranged for a Waterloo ball with Brown Bess.
She had danced till the dawn of that terrible day —
She danced till the dusk of more terrible night,
And before her linked squares his battalions gave way,
And her long fierce quadrilles put his lancers to flight:
And when his gilt carriage drove off in the press,
“I have danced my last dance for the world!” said Brown Bess.
If you go to Museums — there’s one in Whitehall —
Where old weapons are shown with their names writ beneath,
You will find her, upstanding, her back to the wall,
As stiff as a ramrod, the flint in her teeth.
And if ever we English had reason to bless
Any arm save our mothers’, that arm is Brown Bess!
Buddha at Kamakura
1892
“And there is a Japanese idol at Kamakura”
O ye who tread the Narrow Way
By Tophet-flare to Judgment Day,
Be gentle when “the heathen” pray
To Buddha at Kamakura!
To him the Way, the Law, apart,
Whom Maya held beneath her heart,
Ananda’s Lord, the Bodhisat,
The Buddha of Kamakura.
For though he neither burns nor sees,
Nor hears ye thank your Deities,
Ye have not sinned with such as these,
His children at Kamakura,
Yet spare us still the Western joke
When joss-sticks turn to scented smoke
The little sins of little folk
That worship at Kamakura —
The grey-robed, gay-sashed butterflies
That flit beneath the Master’s eyes.
He is beyond the Mysteries
But loves them at Kamakura.
And whoso will, from Pride released,
Contemning neither creed nor priest,
May feel the Soul of all the East
About him at Kamakura.
Yea, every tale Ananda heard,
Of birth as fish or beast or bird,
While yet in lives the Master stirred,
The warm wind brings Kamakura.
Till drowsy eyelids seem to see
A-flower ‘neath her golden htee
The Shwe-Dagon flare easterly
From Burmah to Kamakura,
And down the loaded air there comes
The thunder of Thibetan drums,
And droned — “Om mane padme hums” —
A world’s-width from Kamakura.
Yet Brahmans rule Benares still,
Buddh-Gaya’s ruins pit the hill,
And beef-fed zealots threaten ill
To Buddha and Kamakura.
A tourist-show, a legend told,
A rusting bulk of bronze and gold,
So much, and scarce so much, ye hold
The meaning of Kamakura?
But when the morning prayer is prayed,
Think, ere ye pass to strife and trade,
Is God in human image made
No nearer than Kamakura?
* * *
*
Om mane padme hums — The Buddhist invocation.
The Burden
“The Gardeners”
From “Debits and Credits” (1919-1923)
One grief on me is laid
Each day of every year,
Wherein no soul can aid,
Whereof no soul can hear:
Whereto no end is seen
Except to grieve again —
Ah, Mary Magdalene,
Where is there greater pain?
To dream on dear disgrace
Each hour of every day —
To bring no honest face
To aught I do or say:
To lie from morn till e’en —
To know my lies are vain —
Ah, Mary Magdalene,
Where can be greater pain?
To watch my steadfast fear
Attend mine every way
Each day of every year —
Each hour of every day:
To burn, and chill between —
To quake and rage again —
Ah, Mary Magdalene,
Where shall be greater pain:
One grave to me was given —
To guard till Judgment Day —
But God looked down from Heaven
And rolled the Stone away!
One day of all my years —
One hour of that one day —
His Angel saw my tears
And rolled the Stone away!
The Burial
1904
(C. F. Rhodes, buried in the Matoppos, April 10, 1902)
When that great Kings return to clay,
Or Emperors in their pride,
Grief of a day shall fill a day,
Because its creature died.
But we — we reckon not with those
Whom the mere Fates ordain,
This Power that wrought on us and goes
Back to the Power again.
Beyond our guess or reach,
The travail of his spirit bred
Cities in place of speech.
So huge the all-mastering thought that drove —
So brief the term allowed —
Nations, not words, he linked to prove
His faith before the crowd.
It is his will that he look forth
Across the world he won —
The granite of the ancient North —
Great spaces washed with sun.
There shall he patient take his seat
(As when the Death he dared),
And there await a people’s feet
In the paths that he prepared.
There, till the vision he foresaw
Splendid and whole arise,
And unimagined Empires draw
To council ‘neath his skies,
The immense and brooding Spirit still
Shall quicken and control.
Living he was the land, and dead,
His soul shall be her soul!
Butterflies
“Wireless” — Traffic and Discoveries
Eyes aloft, over dangerous places,
The children follow the butterflies,
And, in the sweat of their upturned faces,
Slash with a net at the empty skies.
So it goes they fall amid brambles,
And sting their toes on the nettle-tops,
Till, after a thousand scratches and scrambles,
They wipe their brows and the hunting stops.
Then to quiet them comes their father
And stills the riot of pain and grief,
Saying, “Little ones, go and gather
Out of my garden a cabbage-leaf.
“You will find on it whorls and clots of
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 757