Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1009 page)

Ye know who use the Crystal Ball
  (To peer by stealth on Doom),
The Shade that, shaping first of all,
  Prepares an empty room.
    Then doth It pass
    Like breath from glass,
But, on the extorted Vision bowed intent,
No man considers why It came or went.

Before the years reborn behold
  Themselves with stranger eye,
And the sport-making Gods of old,
  Like Samson slaying, die,
    Many shall hear
    The all-pregnant sphere,
Bow to the birth and sweat, but — speech denied —
Sit dumb or — dealt in part — fall weak and wide.

Yet instant to fore-shadowed need
  The eternal balance swings;
That winged men, the Fates may breed
  So soon as Fate hath wings.
    These shall possess
    Our littleness,
And in the imperial task (as worthy) lay
Up our lives’ all to piece one giant Day.

The Beginner

 — The Muse Among the Motors (1900-1930)
Lo! What is this that I make — sudden, supreme, unrehearsed —
 This that my clutch in the crowd pressed at a venture has raised?
Forward and onward I sprang when I thought (as I ought) I reversed,
 And a cab like martagon opes and I sit in the wreckage dazed.

And someone is taking my name, and the driver is rending the air
 With cries for my blood and my gold, and a snickering news-boy brings
My cap, wheel-pashed from the kerb. I must run her home for repair,
 Where she leers with her bonnet awry — flat on the nether springs!

The Beginnings

1914-18
“Mary Postgate” — A Diversity of Creatures
   It was not part of their blood,
     It came to them very late
   With long arrears to make  good,
     When the English began to hate.

   They were not easily moved,
      They were  icy-willing  to  wait
   Till  every  count  should  be  proved,
     Ere  the  English  began  to  hate.

   Their voices  were  even  and  low,
     Their  eyes  were  level  and  straight.
   There was neither sign nor show,
     When  the  English  began  to  hate.

   It was not preached to  the  crowd,
     It was not taught by the State.
   No man spoke it aloud,
     When  the English began to hate.

   It  was  not  suddenly  bred,
     It  will  not  swiftly abate,
   Through  the  chill  years  ahead,
     When Time  shall  count from  the date
     That the English  began  to  hate.

The Bells and Queen Victoria

1911
    “Gay go up and gay go down
          To ring the Bells of London Town.”
     When London Town’s asleep in bed
     You’ll hear the Bells ring overhead.
           In excelsis gloria!
           Ringing for Victoria,
     Ringing for their mighty mistress — ten years dead!

     THE BELLS:
     Here is more gain than Gloriana guessed —
       Then Gloriana guessed or Indies bring —
     Then golden Indies bring. A Queen confessed —
       A Queen confessed that crowned her people King.
     Her people King,  and crowned a11 Kings above,
       Above a11 Kings have crowned their Queen their love —
     Have crowned their love their Queen, their Queen their love!
     Denying her, we do ourselves deny,
       Disowning her are we ourselves disowned.
     Mirror was she of our fidelity,
       And handmaid of our destiny enthroned;
     The very marrow of Youth’s dream, and still
     Yoke-mate of  wisest Age that worked her will!

     Our fathers had declared to us her praise —
       Her praise the years had proven past all speech.
     And past all speech our loyal hearts always,
       Always our hearts lay open, each to each —
     Therefore men gave the treasure of their blood
     To this one woman — for she understood!

    
Four o’ the clock! Now all the world is still.
     Oh, London Bells, to all the world declare
     The Secret of the Empire — read who will!
     The Glory of the People — touch who dare!

     THE BELLS:
       Power that has reached itself all kingly powers,
         
St. Margaret’s:
By love o’erpowered —
         
St. Martin’s:
 By love o’erpowered —
         
St. Clement Danes:
 By love o’erpowered,
            The greater power confers!
     THE BELLS:
     For we were hers, as she, as she was ours,
         
Bow Bells:
And she was ours —
         
St. Paul’s:
 And  she  was  ours —
         
Westminister:
 And  she  was  ours,
      As we, even we, were hers!
THE BELLS
       As we were hers!

The Bell Buoy

1896

They christened my brother of old —
     And a saintly name he bears —
They gave him his place to hold
  At the head of the belfry-stairs,
  Where the minister-towers stand
And the breeding kestrels cry.
  Would I change with my brother a league inland?
(Shoal!   ‘Ware shoal!)
   Not I!

In the flush of the hot June prime,
  O’er sleek flood-tides afire,
I hear him hurry the chime
  To the bidding of checked Desire;
  Till the sweated ringers tire
And the wild bob-majors die.
  Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir?
(Shoal!   ‘Ware shoal!)
   Not I!

When the smoking scud is blown —
  When the greasy wind-rack lowers —
Apart and at peace and alone,
  He counts the changeless hours.
  He wars with darkling Powers
(I war with a darkling sea);
  Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk?
(Shoal!   ‘Ware shoal!)
   Not he!

There was never a priest to pray
  There was never a hand to toll,
When they made me guard of the bay,
  And moored me over the shoal.
I rock, I reel, and I roll —
My four great hammers ply —
 Could I speak or be still at the Church’s will?
(Shoal!   ‘Ware shoal!)
   Not I!

The landward marks have failed,
  The fog-bank glides unguessed,
The seaward lights are veiled,
  The spent deep feigns her rest:
  But my ear is laid to her breast,
I lift to the swell — I cry!
  Could I wait in sloth on the Church’s oath?
(Shoal!   ‘Ware shoal!)
   Not I!

At the careless end of night
  I thrill to the nearing screw;
I turn in the clearing light
  And I call to the drowsy crew;
  And the mud boils foul and blue
As the blind bow backs away.
  Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks?
(Shoal!   ‘Ware shoal!)
   Not they!           

The beach-pools cake and skim,
  The bursting spray-heads freeze,
I gather on crown and rim
  The grey, grained ice of the seas,
  Where, sheathed from bitt to trees,
The plunging colliers lie.
  Would I barter my place for the Church’s grace?
(Shoal !   ‘Ware shoal !)
   Not I!              

Through the blur of the whirling snow,
  Or the black of the inky sleet,
The lanterns gather and grow,
  And I look for the homeward fleet.
  Rattle of block and sheet —
“Ready about-stand by!”
  Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay?
(Shoal!   ‘Ware shoal!)
   Not I!

I dip and I surge and I swing
  In the rip of the racing tide,
By the gates of doom I sing,
  On the horns of death I ride.
  A ship-length overside,
Between the course and the sand,
  Fretted and bound I bide
        Peril whereof I cry.
Would I change with my brother a league inland?
(Shoal!   ‘Ware shoal!)
   Not I!

The Benefactors

Ah! What avails the classic bent
     And what the cultured word,
Against the undoctored incident
  That actually occurred?

And what is Art whereto we press
  Through paint and prose and rhyme —
When Nature in her nakedness
  Defeats us every time?

It is not learning, grace nor gear,
  Nor easy meat and drink,
But bitter pinch of pain and fear
  That makes creation think.

When in this world’s unpleasing youth
  Our godlike race began,
The longest arm, the sharpest tooth,
  Gave man control of man;

Till, bruised and bitten to the bone
  And taught by pain and fear,
He learned to deal the far-off stone,
  And poke the long, safe spear.

So tooth and nail were obsolete
  As means against a foe,
Till, bored by uniform defeat,
  Some genius built the bow.

Then stone and javelin proved as vain
  As old-time tooth and nail;
Till, spurred anew by fear and pain,
  Man fashioned coats of mail.

Then was there safety for the rich
  And danger for the poor,
Till someone mixed a powder which
  Redressed the scale once more.

Helmet and armour disappeared
  With sword and bow and pike,
And, when the smoke of battle cleared,
  All men were armed alike.   .   .   .

And when ten million such were slain
  To please one crazy king,
Man, schooled in bulk by fear and pain,
  Grew weary of the thing;

And, at the very hour designed,
  To enslave him past recall,
His tooth-stone-arrow-gun-shy mind
  Turned and abolished all.

All Power, each Tyrant, every Mob
   Whose head has grown too large,
Ends by destroying its own job
  And works its own discharge;

And Man, whose mere necessities
  Move all things from his path,
Trembles meanwhile at their decrees,
  And deprecates their wrath!

Belts

There was a row in Silver Street that’s near to Dublin Quay,
Between an Irish regiment an’ English cavalree;
It started at Revelly an’ it lasted on till dark:
The first man dropped at Harrison’s, the last forninst the Park.
    For it was: — “Belts, belts, belts, an’ that’s one for you!”
    An’ it was “Belts, belts, belts, an’ that’s done for you!”
    O buckle an’ tongue
    Was the song that we sung
    From Harrison’s down to the Park!

There was a row in Silver Street — the regiments was out,
They called us “Delhi Rebels”, an’ we answered “Threes about!”
That drew them like a hornet’s nest — we met them good an’ large,
The English at the double an’ the Irish at the charge.
    Then it was: — “Belts, &c.”

There was a row in Silver Street — an’ I was in it too;
We passed the time o’ day, an’ then the belts went whirraru!
I misremember what occurred, but subsequint the storm,
A
Freeman’s Journal Supplemint
was all
my
uniform.
    O it was: — “Belts, &c.”

There was a row in Silver Street — they sent the Polis there,
The English were too drunk to know, the Irish didn’t care;
But when they grew impertinint we simultaneous rose,
Till half o’ them was Liffey mud an’ half was tatthered clo’es.
    For it was: — “Belts, &c.”

There was a row in Silver Street — it might ha’ raged till now,
But some one drew his side-arm clear, an’ nobody knew how;
‘Twas Hogan took the point an’ dropped; we saw the red blood run:
An’ so we all was murderers that started out in fun.
    While it was: — “Belts, &c.”

There was a row in Silver Street — but that put down the shine,
Wid each man whisperin’ to his next:  “‘Twas never work o’ mine!”
We went away like beaten dogs, an’ down the street we bore him,
The poor dumb corpse that couldn’t tell the bhoys were sorry for him.
    When it was: — “Belts, &c.”

There was a row in Silver Street — it isn’t over yet,
For half of us are under guard wid punishments to get;
‘Tis all a merricle to me as in the Clink I lie:
There was a row in Silver Street — begod, I wonder why!
    But it was: — “Belts, belts, belts, an’ that’s one for you!”
    An’ it was “Belts, belts, belts, an’ that’s done for you!”
    O buckle an’ tongue
    Was the song that we sung
    From Harrison’s down to the Park!

The Betrothed

    
“You must choose between me and your cigar.”
     — BREACH OF PROMISE CASE, CIRCA 1885.