To the Companions
Horace, BK. V. Ode 17.
“The United Idolaters”
How comes it that, at even-tide,
When level beams should show most truth,
Man, failing, takes unfailing pride
In memories of his frolic youth?
Venus and Liber fill their hour;
The games engage, the law-courts prove;
Till hardened life breeds love of power
Or Avarice, Age’s final love.
Yet at the end, these comfort not —
Nor any triumph Fate decrees —
Compared with glorious, unforgot —
Ten innocent enormities
Of frontless days before the beard,
When, instant on the casual jest,
The God Himself of Mirth appeared
And snatched us to His heaving breast
And we — not caring who He was
But certain He would come again —
Accepted all He brought to pass
As Gods accept the lives of men...
Then He withdrew from sight and speech,
Nor left a shrine. How comes it now,
While Charon’s keel grates on the beach,
He calls so clear: “Rememberest thou?”
Together
England at War
Where Horse and Rider each can trust the other everywhere,
It takes a fence and more than a fence to pound that happy pair;
For the one will do what the other demands, although he is beaten
and blown,
And when it is done, they can live through a run that neither
could face alone.
When Crew and Captain understand each other to the core,
It takes a gale and more than a gale to put their ship ashore,
For the one will do what the other commands, although they;
chilled to the bone,
And both together can live through weather that neither could
face alone.
When King and People understand each other past a doubt,
It takes a foe and more than a foe to knock that country out;
For the one will do what the other required as soon as the need
is shown;
And hand in hand they can make a stand which neither could
make alone!
This wisdom had Elizabeth and all her subjects too,
For she was theirs and they were hers, as well the Spaniard knew;
For when his grim Armada came to conquer the Nation and
Throne,
Why, back to back they met an attack that neither could face
alone!
It is nor wealth, nor talk, nor trade, nor schools, nor even the
Vote,
Will save your land when the enemy’s hand is tightening round
your throat.
But a King and a People who thoroughly trust each other in all
that is done
Can sleep on their bed without any dread — for the world will
leave ‘em alone!
To James Whitcomb Riley
1890
On Receiving a Copy of His Rhymes for Children
Your trail runs to the westward,
And mine to my own place;
There is water between our lodges,
And I have not seen your face.
But since I have read your verses
‘Tis easy to guess the rest, —
Because in the hearts of the children
There is neither East nor West.
Born to a thousand fortunes
Of good or evil hap,
Once they were kings together,
Throned in a mother’s lap.
Surely they know that secret —
Yellow and black and white —
When they meet as kings together
In innocent dreams at night.
By a moon they all can play with —
Grubby and grimed and unshod,
Very happy together,
And very near to God.
Your trail runs to the westward,
And mine to my own place:
There is water between our lodges,
And you cannot see my face. —
And that is well — for crying
Should neither be written nor seen,
But if I call you Smoke-in-the-Eyes,
I know you will know what I mean.
To a Lady, Persuading Her to a Car
Ben Jonson
— The Muse Among the Motors (1900-1930)
Love’s fiery chariot, Delia, take
Which Vulcan wrought for Venus’ sake.
Wings shall not waft thee, but a flame
Hot as my heart — as nobly tame:
Lit by a spark, less bright, more wise
Than linked lightnings of thine eyes!
Seated and ready to be drawn
Come not in muslins, lace or lawn,
But, for thy thrice imperial worth,
Take all the sables of the North,
With frozen diamonds belted on,
To face extreme Euroclydon!
Thus in our thund’ring toy we’ll prove
Which is more blind, the Law or Love;
And may the jealous Gods prevent
Our fierce and uncontrouled descent!
To Motorists
Herrick
— The Muse Among the Motors (1900-1930)
Since ye distemper and defile
Sweet Here by the measured mile,
Nor aught on jocund highways heed
Except the evidence of speed;
And bear about your dreadful task
Faces beshrouded ‘neath a mask;
Great goblin eyes and glue hands
And souls enslaved to gears and bands;
Here shall no graver curse be said
Than, though y’are quick, that ye are dead!
To T. A.
I have made for you a song,
And it may be right or wrong,
But only you can tell me if it’s true;
I have tried for to explain
Both your pleasure and your pain,
And, Thomas, here’s my best respects to you!
O there’ll surely come a day
When they’ll give you all your pay,
And treat you as a Christian ought to do;
So, until that day comes round,
Heaven keep you safe and sound,
And, Thomas, here’s my best respects to you!
The Totem
“The Tie”
From “Limits and Renewals” (1932)
Ere the mother’s milk had dried
On my lips, the Brethren came —
Tore me from my nurse’s side,
And bestowed on me a name
Infamously overtrue —
Such as “Bunny,” “Stinker,” “Podge”; —
But, whatever I should do,
Mine for ever in the Lodge.
Then they taught with palm and toe —
Then I learned with yelps and tears —
All the Armoured Man should know
Through his Seven Secret Years...
Last, oppressing as oppressed,
I was loosed to go my ways
With a Totem on my breast
Governing my nights and days —
Ancient and unbribeable,
By the virtue of its Name —
Which, however oft I fell,
Lashed me back into The Game.
And the World, that never knew,
Saw no more beneath my chin
Than a patch of rainbow-hue,
Mixed as Life and crude as Sin.
To Thomas Atkins
PRELUDE TO “BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS”
I have made for you a song
And it may be right or wrong,
But only you can tell me if it’s true.
I have tri
ed for to explain
Both your pleasure and your pain,
And, Thomas, here’s my best respects to you!
O there’ll surely come a day
When they’ll give you all your pay,
And treat you as a Christian ought to do;
So, until that day comes round,
Heaven keep you safe and sound,
And, Thomas, here’s my best respects to you!
To the True Romance
1891
Thy face is far from this our war, Our call and counter-cry, I shall not find Thee quick and kind, Nor know Thee till I die, Enough for me in dreams to see And touch Thy garments’ hem: Thy feet have trod so near to God I may not follow them. Through wantonness if men profess They weary of Thy parts, E’en let them die at blasphemy And perish with their arts; But we that love, but we that prove Thine excellence august, While we adore discover more Thee perfect, wise, and just. Since spoken word Man’s Spirit stirred Beyond his belly-need, What is is Thine of fair design In thought and craft and deed; Each stroke aright of toil and fight, That was and that shall be, And hope too high, wherefore we die, Has birth and worth in Thee. Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee To gild his dross thereby, And knowledge sure that he endure A child until he die — For to make plain that man’s disdain Is but new Beauty’s birth — For to possess in loneliness The joy of all the earth. As Thou didst teach all lovers speech And Life all mystery, So shalt Thou rule by every school Till love and longing die, Who wast or yet the Lights were set, A whisper in the Void, Who shalt be sung through planets young When this is clean destroyed. Beyond the bounds our staring rounds, Across the pressing dark, The children wise of outer skies Look hitherward and mark A light that shifts, a glare that drifts, Rekindling thus and thus, Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne Strange tales to them of us. Time hath no tide but must abide The servant of Thy will; Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme The ranging stars stand still — Regent of spheres that lock our fears, Our hopes invisible, Oh ‘twas certes at Thy decrees We fashioned Heaven and Hell! Pure Wisdom hath no certain path That lacks thy morning-eyne, And captains bold by Thee controlled Most like to Gods design; Thou art the Voice to kingly boys To lift them through the fight, And Comfortress of Unsuccess, To give the dead good-night — A veil to draw ‘twixt God His Law And Man’s infirmity, A shadow kind to dumb and blind The shambles where we die; A rule to trick th’ arithmetic Too base of leaguing odds — The spur of trust, the curb of lust, Thou handmaid of the Gods! O Charity, all patiently Abiding wrack and scaith! O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats Yet drops no jot of faith! Devil and brute Thou dost transmute To higher, lordlier show, Who art in sooth that lovely Truth The careless angels know! Thy face is far from this our war, Our call and counter-cry, I may not find Thee quick and kind, Nor know Thee till I die. Yet may I look with heart unshook On blow brought home or missed — Yet may I hear with equal ear The clarions down the List; Yet set my lance above mischance And ride the barriere — Oh, hit or miss, how little ‘tis, My Lady is not there!
To the Unknown Goddess
Will you conquer my heart with your beauty; my sould going out from afar?
Shall I fall to your hand as a victim of crafty and cautions shikar?
Have I met you and passed you already, unknowing, unthinking and blind?
Shall I meet you next session at Simla, O sweetest and best of your kind?
Does the P. and O. bear you to meward, or, clad in short frocks in the West,
Are you growing the charms that shall capture and torture the heart in my breast?
Will you stay in the Plains till September — my passion as warm as the day?
Will you bring me to book on the Mountains, or where the thermantidotes play?
When the light of your eyes shall make pallid the mean lesser lights I pursue,
And the charm of your presence shall lure me from love of the gay “thirteen-two”;
When the peg and the pig-skin shall please not; when I buy me Calcutta-build clothes;
When I quit the Delight of Wild Asses; foreswearing the swearing of oaths ;
As a deer to the hand of the hunter when I turn ‘mid the gibes of my friends;
When the days of my freedom are numbered, and the life of the bachelor ends.
Ah, Goddess! child, spinster, or widow — as of old on Mars Hill whey they raised
To the God that they knew not an altar — so I, a young Pagan, have praised
The Goddess I know not nor worship; yet, if half that men tell me be true,
You will come in the future, and therefore these verses are written to you.
To Wolcott Balestier
Beyond the path of the outmost sun through utter darkness hurled —
Further than ever comet flared or vagrant star-dust swirled —
Live such as fought and sailed and ruled and loved and made our world.
They are purged of pride because they died, they know the worth of their bays,
They sit at wine with the Maidens Nine and the Gods of the Elder Days,
It is their will to serve or be still as fitteth our Father’s praise.
‘Tis theirs to sweep through the ringing deep where Azrael’s outposts are,
Or buffet a path through the Pit’s red wrath when God goes out to war,
Or hang with the reckless Seraphim on the rein of a red-maned star.
They take their mirth in the joy of the Earth —
they dare not grieve for her pain —
They know of toil and the end of toil, they know God’s law is plain,
So they whistle the Devil to make them sport who know that Sin is vain.
And ofttimes cometh our wise Lord God, master of every trade,
And tells them tales of His daily toil, of Edens newly made;
And they rise to their feet as He passes by, gentlemen unafraid.
To these who are cleansed of base Desire, Sorrow and Lust and Shame —
Gods for they knew the hearts of men, men for they stooped to Fame,
Borne on the breath that men call Death, my brother’s spirit came.
He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of Earth —
E’en as he trod that day to God so walked he from his birth,
In simpleness and gentleness and honour and clean mirth.
So cup to lip in fellowship they gave him welcome high
And made him place at the banquet board — the Strong Men ranged thereby,
Who had done his work and held his peace and had no fear to die.
Beyond the loom of the last lone star, through open darkness hurled,
Further than rebel comet dared or hiving star-swarm swirled,
Sits he with those that praise our God for that they served His world.
Tomlinson
Now Tomlinson gave up the ghost in his house in Berkeley Square,
And a Spirit came to his bedside and gripped him by the hair —
A Spirit gripped him by the hair and carried him far away,
Till he heard as the roar of a rain-fed ford the roar of the Milky Way:
Till he heard the roar of the Milky Way die down and drone and cease,
And they came to the Gate within the Wall where Peter holds the keys.
“Stand up, stand up now, Tomlinson, and answer loud and high
The good that ye did for the sake of men or ever ye came to die —
The good that ye did for the sake of men in little earth so lone!”
And the naked soul of Tomlinson grew white as a rain-washed bone.
“O I have a friend on earth,” he said, “that was my priest and guide,
And well would he answer all for me if he were by my side.”
— “For that ye strove in neighbour-love it shall be written fair,
But now ye wait at Heaven’s Gate and not in Berkeley Square:
Though we called your friend from his bed this night, he could not speak for you,
For the race is run
by one and one and never by two and two.”
Then Tomlinson looked up and down, and little gain was there,
For the naked stars grinned overhead, and he saw that his soul was bare:
The Wind that blows between the worlds, it cut him like a knife,
And Tomlinson took up his tale and spoke of his good in life.
“This I have read in a book,” he said, “and that was told to me,
And this I have thought that another man thought of a Prince in Muscovy.”
The good souls flocked like homing doves and bade him clear the path,
And Peter twirled the jangling keys in weariness and wrath.
“Ye have read, ye have heard, ye have thought,” he said, “and the tale is yet to run:
By the worth of the body that once ye had, give answer — what ha’ ye done?”
Then Tomlinson looked back and forth, and little good it bore,
For the Darkness stayed at his shoulder-blade and Heaven’s Gate before: —
“O this I have felt, and this I have guessed, and this I have heard men say,
And this they wrote that another man wrote of a carl in Norroway.”
— “Ye have read, ye have felt, ye have guessed, good lack! Ye have hampered Heaven’s Gate;
There’s little room between the stars in idleness to prate!
O none may reach by hired speech of neighbour, priest, and kin
Through borrowed deed to God’s good meed that lies so fair within;
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 813