Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated)

by Rudyard Kipling

  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?”

  “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.

  “Greater the deed, greater the need

  Lightly to laugh it away,

  Shall be the mark of the English breed

  Until the Judgment Day!”

  Et Dona Ferentes

  1896

  In extended observation of the ways and works of man,

  From the Four-mile Radius roughly to the Plains of Hindustan:

  I have drunk with mixed assemblies, seen the racial ruction rise,

  And the men of half Creation damning half Creation’s eyes.

  I have watched them in their tantrums, all that Pentecostal crew,

  French, Italian, Arab, Spaniard, Dutch and Greek, and Russ and Jew,

  Celt and savage, buff and ochre, cream and yellow, mauve and white,

  But it never really mattered till the English grew polite;

  Till the men with polished toppers, till the men in long frock-coats,

  Till the men who do not duel, till the men who war with votes,

  Till the breed that take their pleasures as Saint Lawrence took his grid,

  Began to “beg your pardon” and-the knowing croupier hid.

  Then the bandsmen with their fiddles, and the girls that bring the beer,

  Felt the psychological moment, left the lit Casino clear;

  But the uninstructed alien, from the Teuton to the Gaul,

  Was entrapped, once more, my country, by that suave, deceptive drawl.

  As it was in ancient Suez or ‘neath wilder, milder skies,

  I “observe with apprehension” how the racial ructions rise;

  And with keener apprehension, if I read the times aright,

  Hear the old Casino order: “Watch your man, but be polite.

  “Keep your temper. Never answer (that was why they spat and swore).

  Don’t hit first, but move together (there’s no hurry) to the door.

  Back to back, and facing outward while the linguist tells ‘em how -

  `Nous sommes allong ar notre batteau, nous ne voulong pas un row.’”

  So the hard, pent rage ate inward, till some idiot went too far...

  “Let ‘em have it!” and they had it, and the same was merry war -

  Fist, umbrella, cane, decanter, lamp and beer-mug, chair and boot -

  Till behind the fleeing legions rose the long, hoarse yell for loot.

  Then the oil-cloth with its numbers, like a banner fluttered free;

  Then the grand piano cantered, on three castors, down the quay;

  White, and breathing through their nostrils, silent, systematic, swift -

  They removed, effaced, abolished all that man could heave or lift.

  Oh, my country, bless the training that from cot to castle runs -

  The pitfall of the stranger but the bulwark of thy sons -

  Measured speech and ordered action, sluggish soul and un - perturbed,

  Till we wake our Island-Devil-nowise cool for being curbed!

  When the heir of all the ages “has the honour to remain,”

  When he will not hear an insult, though men make it ne’er so plain,

  When his lips are schooled to meekness, when his back is bowed to blows -

  Well the keen aas-vogels know it-well the waiting jackal knows.

  Build on the flanks of Etna where the sullen smoke-puffs float -

  Or bathe in tropic waters where the lean fin dogs the boat -

  Cock the gun that is not loaded, cook the frozen dynamite -

  But oh, beware my Country, when my Country grows polite!

  Evarra And His Gods

  Read here:

  This is the story of Evarra — man —

  Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.

  Because the city gave him of her gold,

  Because the caravans brought turquoises,

  Because his life was sheltered by the King,

  So that no man should maim him, none should steal,

  Or break his rest with babble in the streets

  When he was weary after toil, he made

  An image of his God in gold and pearl,

  With turquoise diadem and human eyes,

  A wonder in the sunshine, known afar,

  And worshipped by the King; but, drunk with pride,

  Because the city bowed to him for God,

  He wrote above the shrine: “Thus Gods are made,

  And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.”

  And all the city praised him. . . . Then he died.

  Read here the story of Evarra — man —

  Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.

  Because the city had no wealth to give,

  Because the caravans were spoiled afar,

  Because his life was threatened by the King,

  So that all men despised him in the streets,

  He hewed the living rock, with sweat and tears,

  And reared a God against the morning-gold,

  A terror in the sunshine, seen afar,

  And worshipped by the King; but, drunk with pride,

  Because the city fawned to bring him back,

  He carved upon the plinth: “Thus Gods are made,

&n
bsp; And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.”

  And all the people praised him. . . . Then he died.

  Read here the story of Evarra — man —

  Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.

  Because he lived among a simple folk,

  Because his village was between the hills,

  Because he smeared his cheeks with blood of ewes,

  He cut an idol from a fallen pine,

  Smeared blood upon its cheeks, and wedged a shell

  Above its brows for eyes, and gave it hair

  Of trailing moss, and plaited straw for crown.

  And all the village praised him for this craft,

  And brought him butter, honey, milk, and curds.

  Wherefore, because the shoutings drove him mad,

  He scratched upon that log: “Thus Gods are made,

  And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.”

  And all the people praised him. . . . Then he died.

  Read here the story of Evarra — man —

  Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.

  Because his God decreed one clot of blood

  Should swerve one hair’s-breadth from the pulse’s path,

  And chafe his brain, Evarra mowed alone,

  Rag-wrapped, among the cattle in the fields,

  Counting his fingers, jesting with the trees,

  And mocking at the mist, until his God

  Drove him to labour. Out of dung and horns

  Dropped in the mire he made a monstrous God,

  Abhorrent, shapeless, crowned with plantain tufts,

  And when the cattle lowed at twilight-time,

  He dreamed it was the clamour of lost crowds,

  And howled among the beasts: “Thus Gods are made,

  And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.”

  Thereat the cattle bellowed. . . . Then he died.

  Yet at the last he came to Paradise,

  And found his own four Gods, and that he wrote;

  And marvelled, being very near to God,

  What oaf on earth had made his toil God’s law,

  Till God said mocking: “Mock not. These be thine.”

  Then cried Evarra: “I have sinned!” — “Not so.

  If thou hadst written otherwise, thy Gods

  Had rested in the mountain and the mine,

  And I were poorer by four wondrous Gods,

  And thy more wondrous law, Evarra. Thine,

  Servant of shouting crowds and lowing kine.”

  Thereat, with laughing mouth, but tear-wet eyes,

  Evarra cast his Gods from Paradise.

  This is the story of Evarra — man —

  Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.

  The Expert

  “Beauty Sports”

  From “Limits and Renewals” (1932)

  Youth that trafficked long with Death,

  And to second life returns,

  Squanders little time or breath

  On his fellow — man’s concerns.

  Earned peace is all he asks

  To fulfill his broken tasks.

  Yet, if he find war at home

  (Waspish and importunate),

  He hath means to overcome

  Any warrior at his gate;

  For the past he buried brings

  Back unburiable things —

  Nights that he lay out to spy,

  Whence and when the raid might start;

  Or prepared in secrecy

  Sudden blows to break its heart —

  All the lore of No-Man’s Land

  Steels his soul and arms his hand.

  So, if conflict vex his life

  Where he thought all conflict done,

  He, resuming ancient strife,

  Springs his mine or trains his gun;

  And, in mirth more dread than wrath,

  Wipes the nuisance from his path!

  The Explanation

  Love and Death once ceased their strife

  At the Tavern of Man’s Life.

  Called for wine, and threw — alas! —

  Each his quiver on the grass.

  When the bout was o’er they found

  Mingled arrows strewed the ground.

  Hastily they gathered then

  Each the loves and lives of men.

  Ah, the fateful dawn deceived!

  Mingled arrows each one sheaved;

  Death’s dread armoury was stored

  With the shafts he most abhorred;

  Love’s light quiver groaned beneath

  Venom-headed darts of Death.

  Thus it was they wrought our woe

  At the Tavern long ago.

  Tell me, do our masters know,

  Loosing blindly as they fly,

  Old men love while young men die?

  The Explorer

  1898

  There’s no sense in going further — it’s the edge of cultivation,”

  So they said, and I believed it — broke my land and sowed my crop —

  Built my barns and strung my fences in the little border station

  Tucked away below the foothills where the trails run out and stop:

  Till a voice, as bad as Conscience, rang interminable changes

  On one everlasting Whisper day and night repeated — so:

  “Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges —

  “Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and wating for you. Go!”

  So I went, worn out of patience; never told my nearest neighbours —

  Stole away with pack and ponies — left ‘em drinking in the town;

  And the faith that moveth mountains didn’t seem to help my labours

  As I faced the sheer main-ranges, whipping up and leading down.

  March by march I puzzled through ‘em, turning flanks and dodging shoulders,

  Hurried on in hope of water, headed back for lack of grass;

  Till I camped above the tree-line — drifted snow and naked boulders —

  Felt free air astir to windward — knew I’d stumbled on the Pass.

  ‘Thought to name it for the finder: but that night the Norther found me —

  Froze and killed the plains-bred ponies; so I called the camp Despair

  (It’s the Railway Gap to-day, though). Then my Whisper waked to hound me: —

  “Something lost behind the Ranges. Over yonder! Go you there!”

  Then I knew, the while I doubted — knew His Hand was certain o’er me.

  Still — it might be self-delusion — scores of better men had died —

  I could reach the township living, but....e knows what terror tore me...

  But I didn’t... but I didn’t. I went down the other side.

  Till the snow ran out in flowers, and the flowers turned to aloes,

  And the aloes sprung to thickets and a brimming stream ran by;

  But the thickets dwined to thorn-scrub, and the water drained to shallows,

  And I dropped again on desert — blasted earth, and blasting sky....

  I remember lighting fires; I remember sitting by ‘em;

  I remember seeing faces, hearing voices, through the smoke;

  I remember they were fancy — for I threw a stone to try ‘em.

  “Something lost behind the Ranges” was the only word they spoke.

  I remember going crazy. I remember that I knew it

  When I heard myself hallooing to the funny folk I saw.

  ‘Very full of dreams that desert, but my two legs took me through it...

  And I used to watch ‘em moving with the toes all black and raw.

  But at last the country altered — White Man’s country past disputing —

  Rolling grass and open timber, with a hint of hills behind —

  There I found me food and water, and I lay a week recruiting.

  Got my strength and lost my nightmares. Then I entered on my find.

  Thence I ran my first rough survey — ch
ose my trees and blazed and ringed ‘em —

  Week by week I pried and sampled — week by week my findings grew.

  Saul he went to look for donkeys, and by God he found a kingdom!

  But by God, who sent His Whisper, I had struck the worth of two!

  Up along the hostile mountains, where the hair-poised snowslide shivers —

  Down and through the big fat marshes that the virgin ore-bed stains,

  Till I heard the mile-wide mutterings of unimagined rivers,

  And beyond the nameless timber saw illimitable plains!

  ‘Plotted sites of future cities, traced the easy grades between ‘em;

  Watched unharnessed rapids wasting fifty thousand head an hour;

  Counted leagues of water-frontage through the axe-ripe woods that screen ‘em —

  Saw the plant to feed a people — up and waiting for the power!

  Well, I know who’ll take the credit — all the clever chaps that followed —

  Came, a dozen men together — never knew my desert-fears;

  Tracked me by the camps I’d quitted, used the water-holes I hollowed.

  They’ll go back and do the talking. They’ll be called the Pioneers!

  They will find my sites of townships — not the cities that I set there.

  They will rediscover rivers — not my rivers heard at night.

  By my own old marks and bearings they will show me how to get there,

  By the lonely cairns I builded they will guide my feet aright.

  Have I named one single river? Have I claimed one single acre?

  Have I kept one single nugget — (barring samples)? No, not I!

  Because my price was paid me ten times over by my Maker.

  But you wouldn’t understand it. You go up and occupy.

  Ores you’ll find there; wood and cattle; water-transit sure and steady

  (That should keep the railway rates down), coal and iron at your doors.