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Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг
Songs from Books
THE QUEEN'S MEN
Valour and Innocence
Have latterly gone hence
To certain death by certain shame attended.
Envy – ah! even to tears! —
The fortune of their years
Which, though so few, yet so divinely ended.
Scarce had they lifted up
Life's full and fiery cup,
Than they had set it down untouched before them.
Before their day arose
They beckoned it to close —
Close in confusion and destruction o'er them.
They did not stay to ask
What prize should crown their task,
Well sure that prize was such as no man strives for;
But passed into eclipse,
Her kiss upon their lips —
Even Belphoebe's, whom they gave their lives for!
THE CITY OF SLEEP
Over the edge of the purple down,
Where the single lamplight gleams.
Know ye the road to the Merciful Town
That is hard by the Sea of Dreams —
Where the poor may lay their wrongs away,
And the sick may forget to-weep?
But we – pity us! Oh, pity us!
We wakeful; ah, pity us! —
We must go back with Policeman Day —
Back from the City of Sleep!
Weary they turn from the scroll and crown,
Fetter and prayer and plough —
They that go up to the Merciful Town,
For her gates are closing now.
It is their right in the Baths of Night
Body and soul to steep,
But we – pity us! ah, pity us!
We wakeful; oh, pity us! —
We must go back with Policeman Day —
Back from the City of Sleep!
Over the edge of the purple down,
Ere the tender dreams begin,
Look – we may look – at the Merciful Towns
But we may not enter in!
Outcasts all, from her guarded wall
Back to our watch we creep:
We – pity us! ah, pity us!
We wakeful; oh, pity us! —
We that go back with Policeman Day —
Back from the City of Sleep!
THE WIDOWER
For a season there must be pain —
For a little, little space
I shall lose the sight of her face,
Take back the old life again
While She is at rest in her place.
For a season this pain must endure —
For a little, little while
I shall sigh more often than smile,
Till Time shall work me a cure,
And the pitiful days beguile.
For that season we must be apart,
For a little length of years,
Till my life's last hour nears,
And, above the beat of my heart,
I hear Her voice in my ears.
But I shall not understand —
Being set on some later love,
Shall not know her for whom I strove,
Till she reach me forth her hand,
Saying, 'Who but I have the right?'
And out of a troubled night
Shall draw me safe to the land.
THE PRAYER OF MIRIAM COHEN
From the wheel and the drift of Things
Deliver us, Good Lord,
And we will face the wrath of Kings,
The faggot and the sword!
Lay not Thy Works before our eyes,
Nor vex us with Thy Wars,
Lest we should feel the straining skies
O'ertrod by trampling stars.
Hold us secure behind the gates
Of saving flesh and bone,
Lest we should dream what dream awaits
The soul escaped alone.
Thy Path, Thy Purposes conceal
From our beleaguered realm,
Lest any shattering whisper steal
Upon us and o'erwhelm.
A veil 'twixt us and Thee, Good Lord,
A veil 'twixt us and Thee,
Lest we should hear too clear, too clear,
And unto madness see!
THE SONG OF THE LITTLE HUNTER
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!
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!
GOW'S WATCH
ACT II. SCENE 2
The pavilion in the Gardens. Enter Ferdinand and the King
Ferdinand. Your tiercel's too long at hack. Sir.
He's no eyass
But a passage-hawk that footed ere we caught him.
Dangerously free o' the air. Faith, were he mine
(As mine's the glove he binds to for his tirings)
I'd fly him with a make-hawk. He's in yarak
Plumed to the very point. So manned, so weathered!
Give him the firmament God made him for.
And what shall take the air of him?
The King. A young wing yet.
Bold – overbold on the perch, but, think you,
Ferdinand,
He can endure the tall skies yonder? Cozen
Advantage out of the teeth of the hurricane?
Choose his own mate against the lammer-geier?
Ride out a night-long tempest, hold his pitch
Between the lightning and the cloud it leaps from,
Never too pressed to kill?
Ferdinand. I'll answer for him.
Bating all parable, I know the Prince.
There's a bleak devil in the young, my Lord;
God put it there to save 'em from their elders
And break their father's heart, but bear them scatheless
Through mire and thorns and blood if need be.
Think
What our prime saw! Such glory, such achievements
As now our children, wondering at, examine
Themselves to see if they shall hardly equal.
But what cared we while we wrought the wonders?
Nothing!
The rampant deed contented.
The King. Little enough, God knows! But afterwards? After – There comes the reckoning. I would save him that.
Ferdinand. Save him dry scars that ache of winter-nights.
Worn out self-pity and as much of knowledge
As makes old men fear judgment? Then loose him – loose him,
A' God's name loose him to adventure early!
And trust some random pike, or half-backed horse,
Besides what's caught in Italy, to save him.
The King. I know. I know. And yet … What stirs in the garden?
Enter Gow and a Gardener bearing the Prince's body
Ferdinand.(Gods give me patience!) Gow and a gardener Bearing some load along in the dusk to the dunghill. Nay – a dead branch – But as I said, the Prince —
_The King. _They've set it down. Strange that they work so late.
Gow (setting down the body). Heark, you unsanctified fool, while I set out our story. We found it, this side the North park wall which it had climbed to pluck nectarines from the alley. Heark again! There was a nectarine in its hand when we found it, and the naughty brick that slipped from the coping beneath its foot and so caused its death, lies now under the wall for the King to see.
The King (above). The King to see! Why should he? Who's the man?
Gow. That is your tale. Swerve from it by so much as the breadth of my dagger and here's your instant reward. You heard not, saw not, and by the Horns of ninefold-cuckolded Jupiter you thought not nor dreamed not anything more or other!
The King. Ninefold-cuckolded Jupiter. That's a rare oath! Shall we look closer?
Ferdinand. Not yet, my Lord! (I cannot hear him breathe.)
Gardener. The North park wall? It was so. Plucking nectarines. It shall be. But how shall I say if any ask why our Lady the Queen —
Gow (stabs him). Thus! Hie after the Prince and tell him y'are the first fruits of his nectarine tree. Bleed there behind the laurels.
The King. Why did Gow buffet the clown? What said he? I'll go look.
Ferdinand (above). Save yourself! It is the King!
Enter the King and Ferdinand to Gow
Gow. God save you! This was the Prince!
The King. The Prince! Not a dead branch? (Uncovers the face.) My flesh and blood! My son! my son! my son!
Ferdinand (to Gow). I had feared something of this. And that fool yonder?
Gow. Dead, or as good. He cannot speak.
Ferdinand. Better so.
The King. 'Loosed to adventure early!' Tell the tale.
Gow. Saddest truth alack! I came upon him not a half hour since, fallen from the North park wall over against the Deerpark side – dead – dead! – a nectarine in his hand that the dear lad must have climbed for, and plucked the very instant, look you, that a brick slipped on the coping. 'Tis there now. So I lifted him, but his neck was as you see – and already cold.
The King. Oh, very cold. But why should he have troubled to climb? He was free of all the fruit in my garden, God knows!.. What, Gow?
Gow. Surely, God knows!
The King. A lad's trick. But I love him the better for it… True, he's past loving… And now we must tell our Queen. What a coil at the day's end! She'll grieve for him. Not as I shall; Ferdinand, but as youth for youth. They were much of the same age. Playmate for playmate. See, he wears her colours. That is the knot she gave him last – last… Oh God! When was yesterday?
Ferdinand. Come in! Come in, my Lord. There's a dew falling.
The King. He'll take no harm of it. I'll follow presently…
He's all his mother's now and none of mine —
Her very face on the bride-pillow. Yet I tricked her.
But that was later – and she never guessed.
I do not think he sinned much – he's too young —
Much the same age as my Queen. God must not judge him
Too hardly for such slips as youth may fall in.
But I'll entreat that Throne.
(Prays by the body.)
Gow. The Heavens hold up still. Earth opens not and this dew's mere water. What shall a man think of it all? (To Gardener.) Not dead yet, sirrah? I bade you follow the Prince. Despatch!
Gardener. Some kind soul pluck out the dagger. Why did you slay me? I'd done no wrong. I'd ha' kept it secret till my dying day. But not now – not now! I'm dying. The Prince fell from the Queen's chamber window. I saw it in the nut alley. He was —
Ferdinand. But what made you in the nut alley at that hour?
Gardener. No wrong. No more than another man's wife. Jocasta of the still-room. She'd kissed me good-night too; but that's over with the rest… I've stumbled on the Prince's beastly loves, and I pay for all. Let me pass!
Gow. Count it your fortune, honest man. You would have revealed it to your woman at the next meeting. You fleshmongers are all one feather. (Plucks out the dagger.) Go in peace and lay your death to Fortune's door. He's sped – thank Fortune!
Ferdinand. Who knows not Fortune, glutted on
easy thrones,
Stealing from feasts as rare to coney-catch
Privily in the hedgerows for a clown.
With that same cruel-lustful hand and eye,
Those nails and wedges, that one hammer and lead,
And the very gerb of long-stored lightning loosed.
Yesterday 'gainst some King.
The King. I have pursued with prayers where my heart warns me My soul shall overtake —
Enter the Queen
The King. Look not! Wait till I tell you, dearest… Air!.. 'Loosed to adventure early' … I go late. (Dies.)
Gow. So! God hath cut off the Prince in his pleasures. Gow, to save the King, hath silenced one poor fool who knew how it befell, and now the King's dead, needs only that the Queen should kill Gow and all's safe for her this side o' the Judgment. …Senor Ferdinand, the wind's easterly. I'm for the road.
Ferdinand. My horse is at the gate. God speed you. Whither?
Gow. To the Duke, if the Queen does not lay hands on me before. However it goes, I charge you bear witness, Senor Ferdinand, I served the old King faithfully. To the death, Senor Ferdinand – to the death!
THE WISHING CAPS
Life's all getting and giving.
I've only myself to give.
What shall I do for a living?
I've only one life to live.
End it? I'll not find another.
Spend it? But how shall I best?
Sure the wise plan is to live like a man
And Luck may look after the rest!
Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
Give or hold at your will.
If I've no care for Fortune,
Fortune must follow me still.
Bad Luck, she is never a lady,
But the commonest wench on the street,
Shuffling, shabby and shady,
Shameless to pass or meet.
Walk with her once – it's a weakness!
Talk to her twice – it's a crime!
Thrust her away when she gives you 'good day,'
And the besom won't board you next time.
Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
What is Your Ladyship's mood?
If I've no care for Fortune,
My Fortune is bound to be good!
Good Luck, she is never a lady,
But the cursedest quean alive!
Tricksey, wincing and jady,
Kittle to lead or drive.
Greet her – she's hailing a stranger!
Meet her – she's busking to leave.
Let her alone for a shrew to the bone,
And the hussy comes plucking your sleeve!
Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
I'll neither follow nor flee.
If I don't run after Fortune,
Fortune must run after me!
'BY THE HOOF OF THE WILD GOAT'
By the Hoof of the Wild Goat uptossed
From the cliff where she lay in the Sun
Fell the Stone
To the Tarn where the daylight is lost,
So she fell from the light of the Sun
And alone!
Now the fall was ordained from the first
With the Goat and the Cliff and the Tarn,
But the Stone
Knows only her life is accursed
As she sinks from the light of the Sun
And alone!
Oh Thou Who has builded the World,
Oh Thou Who has lighted the Sun,
Oh Thou Who has darkened the Tarn,
Judge Thou
The sin of the Stone that was hurled
By the goat from the light of the Sun,
As she sinks in the mire of the Tarn,
Even now – even now – even now!
SONG OF THE RED WAR-BOAT
(A.D. 683)
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 thunders bellow and clamour
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'll 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 oars, and out with the mead —
The rest will be two-reef sailing…
That was a night indeed!
But we hold that in all disaster
(And faith, we have found it true!)
If only you stand by your master,
The Gods will stand by you!
MORNING SONG IN THE JUNGLE
One moment past our bodies cast
No shadow on the plain;
Now clear and black they stride our track,
And we run home again.
In morning hush, each rock and bush
Stands hard, and high, and raw:
Then give the Call: 'Good rest to all
That keep the Jungle Law!'
Now horn and pelt our peoples melt
In covert to abide;
Now, crouched and still, to cave and hill
Our Jungle Barons glide.
Now, stark and plain, Man's oxen strain,
That draw the new-yoked plough;
Now, stripped and dread, the dawn is red
Above the lit talao.
Ho! Get to lair! The sun's aflare
Behind the breathing grass:
And creaking through the young bamboo
The warning whispers pass.
By day made strange, the woods we range
With blinking eyes we scan;
While down the skies the wild duck cries:
'The Day – the Day to Man!'
The dew is dried that drenched our hide,
Or washed about our way;
And where we drank, the puddled bank
Is crisping into clay.
The traitor Dark gives up each mark
Of stretched or hooded claw;
Then hear the Call: 'Good rest to all
That keep the Jungle Law!'
BLUE ROSES
Roses red and roses white
Plucked I for my love's delight.
She would none of all my posies —
Bade me gather her blue roses.
Half the world I wandered through,
Seeking where such flowers grew;
Half the world unto my quest
Answered me with laugh and jest.
Home I came at wintertide,
But my silly love had died,
Seeking with her latest breath
Roses from the arms of Death.
It may be beyond the grave
She shall find what she would have.
Mine was but an idle quest —
Roses white and red are best.
A RIPPLE SONG
Once a ripple came to land
In the golden sunset burning —
Lapped against a maiden's hand,
By the ford returning.
Dainty foot and gentle breast –
Here, across, be glad and rest.
'Maiden, wait,' the ripple saith;
'Wait awhile, for I am Death!'
'Where my lover calls I go —
Shame it were to treat him coldly —
'Twas a fish that circled so,
Turning over boldly.'
Dainty foot and tender heart,
Wait the loaded ferry-cart.
'Wait, ah, wait!' the ripple saith;
'Maiden, wait, for I am Death!'
'When my lover calls I haste —
Dame Disdain was never wedded!'
Ripple-ripple round her waist,
Clear the current eddied.
Foolish heart and faithful hand,
Little feet that touched no land.
Far away the ripple sped,
Ripple – ripple – running red!
BUTTERFLIES
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
Dull grey eggs that, properly fed,
Turn, by way of the worm, to lots of
Glorious butterflies raised from the dead…'
'Heaven is beautiful, Earth is ugly,'
The three-dimensioned preacher saith,
So we must not look where the snail and the slug lie
For Psyche's birth… And that is our death!
MY LADY'S LAW
The Law whereby my lady moves
Was never Law to me,
But 'tis enough that she approves
Whatever Law it be.
For in that Law, and by that Law,
My constant course I'll steer;
Not that I heed or deem it dread,
But that she holds it dear.
Tho' Asia sent for my content
Her richest argosies,
Those would I spurn, and bid return,
If that should give her ease.
With equal heart I'd watch depart
Each spicèd sail from sight,
Sans bitterness, desiring less
Great gear than her delight.
Though Kings made swift with many a gift
My proven sword to hire,
I would not go nor serve 'em so,
Except at her desire.
With even mind, I'd put behind
Adventure and acclaim,
And clean give o'er, esteeming more
Her favour than my fame.
Yet such am I, yea such am I —
Sore bond and freest free,
The Law that sways my lady's ways
Is mystery to me!
THE NURSING SISTER
(Maternity Hospital)
Our sister sayeth such and such.
And we must bow to her behests;
Our sister toileth overmuch,
Our little maid that hath no breasts.
A field untilled, a web unwove,
A flower withheld from sun or bee,
An alien in the courts of Love,
And – teacher unto such as we!
We love her, but we laugh the while,
We laugh, but sobs are mixed with laughter;
Our sister hath no time to smile,
She knows not what must follow after.
Wind of the South, arise and blow,
From beds of spice thy locks shake free;
Breathe on her heart that she may know,
Breathe on her eyes that she may see.
Alas! we vex her with our mirth,
And maze her with most tender scorn,
Who stands beside the gates of Birth,
Herself a child – a child unborn!
Our sister sayeth such and such,
And we must bow to her behests;
Our sister toileth overmuch,
Our little maid that hath no breasts.
THE LOVE SONG OF HAR DYAL
Alone upon the housetops to the North
I turn and watch the lightning in the sky —
The glamour of thy footsteps in the North.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die.
Below my feet the still bazar is laid —
Far, far below the weary camels lie —
The camels and the captives of thy raid.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!
My father's wife is old and harsh with years,
And drudge of all my father's house am I —
My bread is sorrow and my drink is tears.
Come back to me. Beloved, or I die!
