Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated)
Page 808
The Fifth Great River had birth,
Even as it was foretold —
The Secret River of Gold!
And Israel laid down
His sceptre and his crown,
To brood on that River bank
Where the waters flashed and sank
And burrowed in earth and fell
And bided a season below,
For reason that none might know,
Save only Israel
He is Lord of the Last —
The Fifth, most wonderful, Flood.
He hears Her thunder past
And Her Song is in his blood.
He can foresay: “She will fall,”
For he knows which fountain dries
Behind which desert-belt
A thousand leagues to the South.
He can foresay: “She will rise.”
He knows what far snows melt
Along what mountain-wall
A thousand leagues to the North,
He snuffs the coming drouth
As he snuffs the coming rain,
He knows what each will bring forth,
And turns it to his gain.
A Ruler without a Throne,
A Prince without a Sword,
Israel follows his quest.
In every land a guest,
Of many lands a lord,
In no land King is he.
But the Fifth Great River keeps
The secret of Her deeps
For Israel alone,
As it was ordered to be.
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.
Sixteen hath fed our fighting-line
From Dunkirk to Peronne,
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 Angouleme,
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;
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!
Song of the Galley-Slaves
“The Finest Story in the World”
— Many Inventions
We pulled for you when the wind was against us and the sails
were low.
Will you never let us go?
We ate bread and onions when you took towns, or ran aboard
quickly when you were beaten back by the foe.
The Captains walked up and down the deck in fair weather sing-
ing songs, but we were below.
We fainted with our chins on the oars and you did not see that
we were idle, for we still swung to and fro.
Will you never let us go?
The solt made the oar-hands like shark-skin; our knees were
cut to the bone with salt-cracks; our hair was stuck to
our foreheads; and our lips were cut to the gums, and you
whipped us because we could not row.
Will you never let us go?
But, in a little time, we shall run out of the port-holes as the water
runs along the oar-blade, and though you tell the others
to row after us you will never catch us till you catch the
oar-thresh and tie up the winds in the belly of the sail.
Aho!
Will you never let us go?
A Song of Kabir
Oh, light was the world that he weighed in his hands!
Oh, heavy the tale of his fiefs and his lands!
He has gone from the guddee and put on the shroud,
And departed in guise of bairagi avowed!
Now the white road to Delhi is mat for his feet.
The sal and the kikar must guard him from heat.
His home is the camp, and waste, and the crowd —
He is seeking the Way as bairagi avowed!
He has looked upon Man, and his eyeballs are clear —
(There was One; there is One, and but One, saith Kabir);
The Red Mist of Doing has thinned to a cloud —
He has taken the Path for bairagi avowed!
To learn and discern of his brother the clod,
Of his brother the brute, and his brother the God,
He has gone from the council and put on the shroud
(“Can ye hear?” saith Kabir), a bairagi avowed!
bairagi
— Wandering holy man.
kikar — Wayside trees.
The Song of the Little Hunter
“The King Ankus” — The Second Jungle Book
Ere Mor the Peacock flutters, ere the Monkey People cry,
Ere Chil the Kite swoops down a furlong sheer,
Through the Jungle very softly flits a shadow and a sigh —
He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!
Very softly down the glade runs a waiting, watching shade,
And the whisper spreads and widens far and near.
And the sweat is on thy brow, for he passes even now —
He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!
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Ere the moon has climbed the mountain, ere the rocks are ribbed with light,
When the downward-dipping trails are dank and drear,
Comes a breathing hard behind thee — snuffle-snuffle through the night —
It is Fear, O Little Hunter it is Fear,
On thy knees and draw the bow; bid the shrilling arrow go;
In the empty, mocking thicket plunge the spear!
But thy hands are loosed and weak, and the blood has left thy cheek —
It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
When the heat-cloud sucks the tempest, when the slivered pine-trees fall,
When the blinding, blaring rain-squalls lash and veer,
Through the war-gongs of the thunder rings a voice more loud than all —
It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
Now the spates are banked and deep; now the footless boulders leap —
Now the lightning shows each littlest leaf — rib clear —
But thy throat is shut and dried, and thy heart against thy side
Hammers: Fear, O Little Hunter — this is Fear!
Song of the Men’s Side
Neolithic
“The Knife and the Naked Chalk”
— Rewards and Fairies
Once we feared The Beast — when he followed us we ran,
Ran very fast though we knew
It was not right that The Beast should master Man;
But what could we Flint-workers do?
The Beast only grinned at our spears round his ears —
Grinned at the hammers that we made;
But now we will hunt him for the life with the Knife —
And this is the Buyer of the Blade!
Room for his shadow on the grass — let it pass!
To left and right-stand clear!
This is the Buyer of the Blade — be afraid!
This is the great god Tyr!
Tyr thought hard till he hammered our a plan,
For he knew it was not right
(And it is not right) that The Beast should master Man;
So he went to the Children of the Night.
He begged a Magic Knife of their make for our sake.
When he begged for the Knife they said:
“The price of the Knife you would buy is an eye!”
And that was the price he paid.
Tell it to the Barrows of the Dead — run ahead!
Shout it so the Women’s Side can hear!
This is the Buyer of the Blade — be afraid!
This is the great god Tyr!
Our women and our little ones may walk on the Chalk,
As far as we can see them and beyond,
We shall not be anxious for our sheep when we keep
Tally at the shearing-pond.
We can eat with both our elbows on our knees, if we please,
We can sleep after meals in the sun,
For Shepherd-of-the-Twilight is dismayed at the Blade,
Feet-in-the-Night have run!
Dog-without-a-Master goes away (Hai, Tyr, aie!),
Devil-in-the-Dusk has run!
Then:
Room for his shadow on the grass-let it pass!
To left and to right — stand clear!
This is the Buyer of the Blade — be afraid!
This is the great god Tyr!
The Song of the Old Guard
Army Reform-.After Boer war “The Army of a Dream”-Traffics and Discoveries.
Know this, my brethren, Heaven is clear
And all the clouds are gone —
The Proper Sort shall flourish now,
Good times are coming on” —
The evil that was threatened late
To all of our degree
Hath passed in discord and debate,
And,Hey then up go we!
A common people strove in vain
To shame us unto toil,
But they are spent and we remain,
And we shall share the spoil
According to our several needs
As Beauty shall decree,
As Age ordains or Birth concedes,
And, Hey then up go we!
And they that with accursed zeal
Our Service would amend,
Shall own the odds and come to heel
Ere worse befall their end:
For though no naked word be wrote
Yet plainly shall they see
What pinneth Orders on their coat,
And, Hey then up go we!
Our doorways that, in time of fear,
We opened overwide
Shall softly close from year to year
Till all be purified;
For though no fluttering fan be heard .
Nor chaff be seen to flee —
The Lord shall winnow the Lord’s Preferred —
And, Hey then up go we!
Our altars which the heathen brake
Shall rankly smoke anew,
And anise, mint and cummin take
Their dread and sovereign due,
Whereby the buttons of our trade
Shall soon restored be
With curious work in gilt and braid,
And, Hey then up go we!
Then come, my brethren, and prepare
The candlesticks and bells,
The scarlet, brass, and badger’s hair
Wherein our Honour dwells,
And straitly fence and strictly keep
The Ark’s integrity
Till Armageddon break our sleep . . .
And, Hey then go we!
Song of the Red War-Boat
(A.D. 683 )
“The Conversion of St. Wilfrid” — Rewards and Fairies
Shove off from the wharf-edge! Steady!
Watch for a smooth! Give way!
If she feels the lop already
She’ll stand on her head in the bay.
It’s ebb — it’s dusk — it’s blowing —
The shoals are a mile of white,
But ( snatch her along! ) we’re going
To find our master to-night.
For we hold that in all disaster
Of shipwreck, storm, or sword,
A Man must stand by his Master
When once he has pledged his word.
Raging seas have we rowed in
But we seldom saw them thus,
Our master is angry with Odin —
Odin is angry with us!
Heavy odds have we taken,
But never before such odds.
The Gods know they are forsaken.
We must risk the wrath of the Gods!
Over the crest she flies from,
Into its hollow she drops,
Cringes and clears her eyes from
The wind-torn breaker-tops,
Ere out on the shrieking shoulder
Of a hill-high surge she drives.
Meet her! Meet her and hold her!
Pull for your scoundrel lives!
The thunder below and clamor
The harm that they mean to do!
There goes Thor’s own Hammer
Cracking the dark in two!
Close! But the blow has missed her,
Here comes the wind of the blow!
Row or the squall’Il twist her
Broadside on to it! — Row!
Heark’ee, Thor of the Thunder!
We are not here for a jest —
For wager, warfare, or plunder,
Or to put your power to test.
This work is none of our wishing —
We would house at home if we might —
But our master is wrecked out fishing.
We go to find him to-night.
For we hold that in all disaster —
As the Gods Themselves have said —
A Man must stand by his Master
Till one of the two is dead.
That is our way of thinking,
Now you can do as you will,
While we try to save her from sinking
And hold her head to it still.
Bale her and keep her moving,
Or she’ll break her back in the trough. . . .
Who said the weather’s improving,
Or the swells are taking off?
Sodden, and chafed and aching,
Gone in the loins and knees —
No matter — the day is breaking,
And there’s far less weight to the seas!
Up mast, and finish baling —
In oar, and out with mead —
The rest will be two-reef sailing. . . .
That was a night indeed!
But we hold it in all disaster
(And faith, we have found it true!)
If only you stand by your Master,
The Gods will stand by you!
The Song of Seven Cities
“The Vortex” — A Diversity of Creatures
I was Lord of Cities very sumptuously builded.
Seven roaring Cities paid me tribute from far.
Ivory their outposts were — the guardrooms of them gilded,
And garrisoned with Amazons invincible in war.
All the world went softly when it walked before my Cities —
Neither King nor Army vexed my peoples at their toil.
Never horse nor chariot irked or overbore my Cities.
Never Mob nor Ruler questioned whence they drew their spoil.
Banded, mailed and arrogant from sunrise unto sunset,
Singing while they sacked it, they possessed the land at large.
Yet when men would rob them, they resisted, they made onset
And pierced the smoke of battle with a thousand-sabred charge.
So they warred and trafficked only yesterday, my Cities.
To-day there is no mark or mound of where my Cities stood.
For the River rose at midnight and it washed away my Cities.
They are evened with Atlantis and the towns before the Flood.
Rain on rain-gorged channels raised the -water-levels round them,