Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated)

by Rudyard Kipling

  Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser decreed,

  To ease the strong of their burden, to help the weak in their need,

  He sent a word to the peoples, who struggle, and pant, and sweat,

  That the straw might be counted fairly and the tally of bricks be set.

  The Lords of Their Hands assembled; from the East and the West they drew —

  Baltimore, Lille, and Essen, Brummagem, Clyde, and Crewe.

  And some were black from the furnace, and some were brown from the soil,

  And some were blue from the dye-vat; but all were wearied of toil.

  And the young King said: — “I have found it, the road to the rest ye seek:

  The strong shall wait for the weary, the hale shall halt for the weak:

  With the even tramp of an army where no man breaks from the line,

  Ye shall march to peace and plenty in the bond of brotherhood — sign!”

  The paper lay on the table, the strong heads bowed thereby,

  And a wail went up from the peoples: — “Ay, sign — give rest, for we die!”

  A hand was stretched to the goose-quill, a fist was cramped to scrawl,

  When — the laugh of a blue-eyed maiden ran clear through the Council-hall.

  And each one heard Her laughing as each one saw Her plain —

  Saidie, Mimi, or Olga, Gretchen, or Mary Jane.

  And the Spirit of Man that is in Him to the light of the vision woke;

  And the men drew back from the paper, as a Yankee delegate spoke: —

  “There’s a girl in Jersey City who works on the telephone;

  We’re going to hitch our horses and dig for a house of our own,

  With gas and water connections, and steam-heat through to the top;

  And, W. Hohenzollern, I guess I shall work till I drop.”

  And an English delegate thundered: — “The weak an’ the lame be blowed!

  I’ve a berth in the Sou’-West workshops, a home in the Wandsworth Road;

  And till the ‘sociation has footed my buryin’ bill,

  I work for the kids an’ the missus. Pull up? I be damned if I will!”

  And over the German benches the bearded whisper ran: —

  “Lager, der girls und der dollars, dey makes or dey breaks a man.

  If Schmitt haf collared der dollars, he collars der girl deremit;

  But if Schmitt bust in der pizness, we collars der girl from Schmitt.”

  They passed one resolution: — “Your sub-committee believe

  You can lighten the curse of Adam when you’ve lifted the curse of Eve.

  But till we are built like angels — with hammer and chisel and pen,

  We will work for ourself and a woman, for ever and ever, amen.”

  Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser held —

  The day that they razored the Grindstone, the day that the Cat was belled,

  The day of the Figs from Thistles, the day of the Twisted Sands,

  The day that the laugh of a maiden made light of the Lords of Their Hands.

  In the Matter of One Compass

  1892

  When, foot to wheel and back to wind,

  The helmsman dare not look behind,

  But hears beyond his compass-light,

  The blind bow thunder through the night,

  And, like a harpstring ere it snaps,

  The rigging sing beneath the caps;

  Above the shriek of storm in sail

  Or rattle of the blocks blown free,

  Set for the peace beyond the gale,

  This song the Needle sings the Sea;

  Oh, drunken Wave! Oh, driving Cloud!

  Rage of the Deep and sterile Rain,

  By Love upheld, by God allowed,

  We go, but we return again!

  When leagued about the ‘wildered boat

  The rainbow Jellies fill and float,

  And, lilting where the laver lingers,

  The Starfish trips on all her fingers;

  Where, ‘neath his myriad spines ashock,

  The Sea-egg ripples down the rock,

  An orange wonder dimly guessed

  From darkness where the Cuttles rest,

  Moored o’er the darker deeps that hide

  The blind white Sea-snake and his bride,

  Who, drowsing, nose the long-lost Ships

  Let down through darkness to their lips —

  Safe-swung above the glassy death,

  Hear what the constant Needle saith:

  Oh, lisping Reef! Oh, listless Cloud,

  In slumber on a pulseless main!

  By Love upheld, by God allowed,

  We go, but we return again!

  E’en so through Tropic and through Trade,

  Awed by the shadow of new skies,

  As we shall watch old planets fade

  And mark the stranger stars arise,

  So, surely, back through Sun and Cloud,

  So, surely, from the outward main

  By Love recalled, by God allowed,

  Shall we return — return again!

  Yea, we return — return again!

  In the Neolithic Age

  1895

  In the Neolithic Age savage warfare did I wage For food and fame and woolly horses’ pelt. I was singer to my clan in that dim, red Dawn of Man, And I sang of all we fought and feared and felt. Yea, I sang as now I sing, when the Prehistoric spring Made the piled Biscayan ice-pack split and shove; And the troll and gnome and dwerg, and the Gods of Cliff and Berg Were about me and beneath me and above. But a rival, of Solutre, told the tribe my style was outre — ‘Neath a tomahawk, of diorite, he fell And I left my views on Art, barbed and tanged, below the heart Of a mammothistic etcher at Grenelle. Then I stripped them, scalp from skull, and my hunting-dogs fed full, And their teeth I threaded neatly on a thong; And I wiped my mouth and said, “It is well that they are dead, For I know my work is right and theirs was wrong.” But my Totem saw the shame; from his ridgepole-shrine he came, And he told me in a vision of the night: — “There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays, “And every single one of them is right!” . . . . . . . Then the silence closed upon me till They put new clothing on me Of whiter, weaker flesh and bone more frail; . And I stepped beneath Time’s finger, once again a tribal singer, And a minor poet certified by Traill! Still they skirmish to and fro, men my messmates on the snow When we headed off the aurochs turn for turn; When the rich Allobrogenses never kept amanuenses, And our only plots were piled in lakes at Berne. Still a cultured Christian age sees us scuffle, squeak, and rage, Still we pinch and slap and jabber, scratch and dirk; Still we let our business slide — as we dropped the half-dressed hide — To show a fellow-savage how to work. Still the world is wondrous large, — seven seas from marge to marge — And it holds a vast of various kinds of man; And the wildest dreams of Kew are the facts of Khatmandhu And the crimes of Clapham chaste in Martaban. Here’s my wisdom for your use, as I learned it when the moose And the reindeer roamed where Paris roars to-night: — “There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays, “And — every — single — one — of — them — is — right!”

  In Springtime

  My garden blazes brightly with the rose-bush and the peach,

  And the koil sings above it, in the siris by the well,

  From the creeper-covered trellis comes the squirrel’s chattering speech,

  And the blue jay screams and flutters where the cheery sat-bhai dwell.

  But the rose has lost its fragrance, and the koil’s note is strange;

  I am sick of endless sunshine, sick of blossom-burdened bough.

  Give me back the leafless woodlands where the winds of Springtime range —

  Give me back one day in England, for it’s Spring in England now!

  Through the pines the gusts are booming, o’er the brown fields blowing chill,

  From the furrow of the ploughshare streams the
fragrance of the loam,

  And the hawk nests on the cliffside and the jackdaw in the hill,

  And my heart is back in England ‘mid the sights and sounds of Home.

  But the garland of the sacrifice this wealth of rose and peach is,

  Ah! koil, little koil, singing on the siris bough,

  In my ears the knell of exile your ceaseless bell like speech is —

  Can you tell me aught of England or of Spring in England now?

  *

  koil — Then Indian bell-bird.

  sat-bhai — Indian starlings.

  The Instructor

  (Non-commissioned Officers of the Line)

  At times when under cover I ‘ave said,

  To keep my spirits up an’ raise a laugh,

  ‘Earin ‘im pass so busy over-’ead —

  Old Nickel-Neck, ‘oo isn’t on the Staff —

  “There’s one above is greater than us all”

  Before ‘im I ‘ave seen my Colonel fall,

  An ‘watched ‘im write my Captain’s epitaph,

  So that a long way off it could be read —

  He ‘as the knack o’ makin’ men feel small —

  Old Whistle Tip, ‘oo isn’t on the Staff.

  There is no sense in fleein’ (I ‘ave fled),

  Better go on an’ do the belly-crawl,

  An’ ‘ope’ ‘e’1l ‘it some other man instead

  Of you ‘e seems to ‘unt so speshual —

  Fitzy van Spitz, ‘oo isn’t on the Staff.

  An’ thus in mem’ry’s cinematograph,

  Now that the show is over, I recall

  The peevish voice an’ ‘oary mushroom ‘ead

  Of ‘im we owned was greater than us all,

  ‘Oo give instruction to the quick an’ the dead —

  The Shudderin’ Beggar — not upon the Staff!

  The Inventor

  R. W. Emerson

  — The Muse Among the Motors (1900-1930)

  Time and Space decreed his lot,

  But little Man was quick to note:

  When Time and Space said Man might not,

  Bravely he answered, “Nay! I mote.”

  I looked on old New England.

  Time and Space stood fast.

  Men built altars to Distance

  At every mile they passed.

  Yet sleek with oil, a Force was hid

  Making mock of all they did,

  Ready at the appointed hour

  To yield up to Prometheus

  The secular and well-drilled Power

  The Gods secreted thus.

  And over high Wantastiquet

  Emulous my lightnings ran,

  Unregarded but afret,

  To fall in with my plan.

  I beheld two ministries,

  One of air and one of earth —

  At a thought I married these,

  And my New Age came to birth!

  For rarely my purpose errs

  Though oft it seems to pause,

  And rods and cylinders

  Obey my planets’ laws.

  Oil I drew from the well,

  And Franklin’s spark from its blue;

  Time and Distance fell,

  And Man went forth anew.

  On the prairie and in the street

  So long as my chariots roll

  I bind wings to Adam’s feet,

  And, presently, to his soul!

  The Irish Guards

  1918

  We’re not so old in the Army List, But we’re not so young at our trade, For we had the honour at Fontenoy Of meeting the Guards’Brigade. ‘Twas Lally, Dillon, Bulkeley, Clare, And Lee that led us then, And after a hundred and seventy years We’re fighting for France again! Old Days! The wild geese are flighting, Head to the storm as they faced if before ! For where there are Irish there’s bound to be fighting, And when there’s no fighting, it’s Ireland no more! Ireland no more! The fashion’s all for khaki now, But once through France we went Full-dressed in scarlet Army cloth, The English-left at Ghent. They’re fighting on our side to-day But, before they changed their clothes, The half of Europe knew our fame, As all of Ireland knows! Old Days! The wild geese are flying, Head to the sform as they faced it before! For where there are Irish there’s memory undying, And when we forget, it is Ireland no more! Ireland no more! From Barry Wood to Gouzeaucourt, From Boyne to Pilkem Ridge, The ancient days come back no more Than water under the bridge. But the bridge it stands and the water runs As red as yesterday, And the Irish move to the sound of the guns Like salmon to the sea. Old Days! The wild geese are ranging, Head to the storm as they faced it before! For where there are Irish their hearts are unchanging, And when they are changed, it is Ireland no more! Ireland no more! We’re not so old in the Army List, But we’re not so new in the ring, For we carried our packs with Marshal Saxe When Louis was our King. But Douglas Haig’s our Marshal now And we’re King George’s men, And after one hundred and seventy years We’re fighting for France again! Ah, France! And did we stand by you, When life was made splendid with gifts and rewards? Ah, France! And will we deny you In the hour of your agony, Mother of Swords? Old Days! The wild geese are flighing, Head to the storm as they faced it before! For where there are Irish there’s loving and fighting And when we stop either, it’s Ireland no more! Ireland no more!

  The Islanders

  1902

  NO DOUBT but ye are the People-your throne is above the King’s.

  Whoso speaks in your presence must say acceptable things:

  Bowing the head in worship, bending the knee in fear-

  Bringing the word well smoothen-such as a King should hear.

  Fenced by your careful fathers, ringed by your leaden seas,

  Long did ye wake in quiet and long lie down at ease;

  Till Ye said of Strife, “What is it?” of the Sword, “It is far from our ken”;

  Till ye made a sport of your shrunken hosts and a toy of your armed men.

  Ye stopped your ears to the warning-ye would neither look nor heed-

  Ye set your leisure before their toil and your lusts above their need.

  Because of your witless learning and your beasts of warren and chase,

  Ye grudged your sons to their service and your fields for their camping-place.

  Ye forced them glean in the highways the straw for the bricks they brought;

  Ye forced them follow in byways the craft that ye never taught.

  Ye hampered and hindered and crippled; ye thrust out of sight and away

  Those that would serve you for honour and those that served you for pay.

  Then were the judgments loosened; then was your shame revealed,

  At the hands of a little people, few but apt in the field.

  Yet ye were saved by a remnant (and your land’s long-suffering star),

  When your strong men cheered in their millions while your

  striplings went to the war.

  Sons of the sheltered city-unmade, unhandled, unmeet-

  Ye pushed them raw to the battle as ye picked them raw from the street.

  And what did ye look they should compass? Warcraft learned in a breath,

  Knowledge unto occasion at the first far view of Death?

  So? And ye train your horses and the dogs ye feed and prize?

  How are the beasts more worthy than the souls, your sacrifice?

  But ye said, “Their valour shall show them”; but ye said, “The end is close.”

  And ye sent them comfits and pictures to help them harry your foes:

  And ye vaunted your fathomless power, and ye flaunted your iron pride,

  Ere ye fawned on the Younger Nations for the men who could shoot and ride!

  Then ye returned to your trinkets; then ye contented your souls

  With the flannelled fools at the wicket or the muddied oafs at the goals.

  Given to strong delusion, wholly believing a lie,

  Ye saw that the land lay fenceles
s, and ye let the months go by

  Waiting some easy wonder, hoping some saving sign-

  Idle -openly idle-in the lee of the forespent Line.

  Idle -except for your boasting-and what is your boasting worth

  If ye grudge a year of service to the lordliest life on earth?

  Ancient, effortless, ordered, cycle on cycle set,

  Life so long untroubled, that ye who inherit forget

  It was not made with the mountains, it is not one with the deep.

  Men, not gods, devised it. Men, not gods, must keep.

  Men, not children, servants, or kinsfolk called from afar,

  But each man born in the Island broke to the matter of war.

  Soberly and by custom taken and trained for the same,

  Each man born in the Island entered at youth to the game-

  As it were almost cricket, not to be mastered in haste,

  But after trial and labour, by temperance, living chaste.

  As it were almost cricket-as it were even your play,

  Weighed and pondered and worshipped, and practised day and day.

  So ye shall bide sure-guarded when the restless lightnings wake

  In the womb of the blotting war-cloud, and the pallid nations quake.

  So, at the haggard trumpets, instant your soul shall leap

  Forthright, accoutred, accepting-alert from the wells of sleep.

  So, at the threat ye shall summon-so at the need ye shall send

  Men, not children or servants, tempered and taught to the end;

  Cleansed of servile panic, slow to dread or despise,

  Humble because of knowledge, mighty by sacrifice. . . .

  But ye say, “It will mar our comfort.” Ye say, “It will minish our trade.”

  Do ye wait for the spattered shrapnel ere ye learn how a gun is laid?

  For the low, red glare to southward when the raided coast- towns burn?