Chapter 5
She laid them upon her bosom, Under a cloud of her hair, And her red lips sang them a love song. The stars grew out of the air.
She opened her door and her window, And the heart and the soul came through, To her right hand came the red one, To her left hand came the blue.
They set up a noise like crickets, A chattering wise and sweet, And her hair was a folded flower, And the quiet of love her feet.
AN OLD SONG RESUNG
Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.
In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.
_Rudyard Kipling_
Born at Bombay, India, December 30, 1865, Rudyard Kipling, the author of a dozen contemporary classics, was educated in England. He returned, however, to India and took a position on the staff of "The Lahore Civil and Military Gazette," writing for the Indian press until about 1890, when he went to England, where he has lived ever since, with the exception of a short sojourn in America.
Even while he was still in India he achieved a popular as well as a literary success with his dramatic and skilful tales, sketches and ballads of Anglo-Indian life.
_Soldiers Three_ (1888) was the first of six collections of short stories brought out in "Wheeler's Railway Library." They were followed by the far more sensitive and searching _Plain Tales from the Hills_, _Under the Deodars_ and _The Phantom 'Rikshaw_, which contains two of the best and most convincing ghost-stories in recent literature.
These tales, however, display only one side of Kipling's extraordinary talents. As a writer of children's stories, he has few living equals. _Wee Willie Winkie_, which contains that stirring and heroic fragment "Drums of the Fore and Aft," is only a trifle less notable than his more obviously juvenile collections. _Just-So Stories_ and the two _Jungle Books_ (prose interspersed with lively rhymes) are classics for young people of all ages. _Kim_, the novel of a super-Mowgli grown up, is a more mature masterpiece.
Considered solely as a poet (see Preface) he is one of the most vigorous and unique figures of his time. The spirit of romance surges under his realities. His brisk lines conjure up the tang of a countryside in autumn, the tingle of salt spray, the rude sentiment of ruder natures, the snapping of a banner, the lurch and rumble of the sea. His poetry is woven of the stuff of myths; but it never loses its hold on actualities. Kipling himself in his poem "The Benefactors" (from _The Years Between_ [1919]) writes:
Ah! What avails the classic bent And what the cultured word, Against the undoctored incident That actually occurred?
Kipling won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1907. His varied poems have finally been collected in a remarkable one-volume _Inclusive Edition_ (1885-1918), an indispensable part of any student's library. This gifted and prolific creator, whose work was affected by the war, has frequently lapsed into bombast and a journalistic imperialism. At his best he is unforgettable, standing mountain-high above his host of imitators. His home is at Burwash, Sussex.
GUNGA DIN
You may talk o' gin an' beer When you're quartered safe out 'ere, An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it; But if it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it Now in Injia's sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, Of all them black-faced crew The finest man I knew Was our regimental _bhisti_,[5] Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din! You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! Hi! _slippy hitherao!_ Water, get it! _Panee lao!_[6] You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!"
The uniform 'e wore Was nothin' much before, An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, For a twisty piece o' rag An' a goatskin water-bag Was all the field-equipment 'e could find. When the sweatin' troop-train lay In a sidin' through the day, Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, We shouted "_Harry By!_"[7] Till our throats were bricky-dry, Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
It was "Din! Din! Din! You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? You put some _juldees_[8] in it, Or I'll _marrow_[9] you this minute, If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"
'E would dot an' carry one Till the longest day was done, An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear. If we charged or broke or cut, You could bet your bloomin' nut, 'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. With 'is _mussick_[10] on 'is back, 'E would skip with our attack, An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire." An' for all 'is dirty 'ide, 'E was white, clear white, inside When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was "Din! Din! Din!" With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. When the cartridges ran out, You could 'ear the front-files shout: "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"
I sha'n't forgit the night When I dropped be'ind the fight With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been. I was chokin' mad with thirst, An' the man that spied me first Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din. 'E lifted up my 'ead, An' 'e plugged me where I bled, An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water--green; It was crawlin' an' it stunk, But of all the drinks I've drunk, I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din! 'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around: For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!"
'E carried me away To where a _dooli_ lay, An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 'E put me safe inside, An' just before 'e died: "I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din. So I'll meet 'im later on In the place where 'e is gone-- Where it's always double drill and no canteen; 'E'll be squattin' on the coals Givin' drink to pore damned souls, An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!
Din! Din! Din! You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you, By the livin' Gawd that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
THE RETURN[11]
Peace is declared, and I return To 'Ackneystadt, but not the same; Things 'ave transpired which made me learn The size and meanin' of the game. I did no more than others did, I don't know where the change began; I started as a average kid, I finished as a thinkin' man.
_If England was what England seems An not the England of our dreams, But only putty, brass, an' paint, 'Ow quick we'd drop 'er!_ But she ain't!
Before my gappin' mouth could speak I 'eard it in my comrade's tone; I saw it on my neighbour's cheek Before I felt it flush my own. An' last it come to me--not pride, Nor yet conceit, but on the 'ole (If such a term may be applied), The makin's of a bloomin' soul.
Rivers at night that cluck an' jeer, Plains which the moonshine turns to sea, Mountains that never let you near, An' stars to all eternity; An' the quick-breathin' dark that fills The 'ollows of the wilderness, When the wind worries through the 'ills-- These may 'ave taught me more or less.
Towns without people, ten times took, An' ten times left an' burned at last; An' starvin' dogs that come to look For owners when a column passed; An' quiet, 'omesick talks between Men, met by night, you never knew Until--'is face--by shellfire seen-- Once--an' struck off. They taught me, too.
The day's lay-out--the mornin' sun Beneath your 'at-brim as you sight; The dinner-'ush from noon till one, An' the full roar that lasts till night; An' the pore dead that look so old An' was so young an hour ago, An' legs tied down before they're cold-- These are the things which make you know.
Also Time runnin' into years-- A thousand Places left be'ind-- An' Men from both two 'emispheres Discussin' things of every kind; So much more near than I 'ad known, So much more great than I 'ad guessed-- An' me, like all the rest, alone-- But reachin' out to all the rest!
So 'ath it come to me--not pride, Nor yet conceit, but on the 'ole (If such a term may be applied), The makin's of a bloomin' soul. But now, discharged, I fall away To do with little things again.... Gawd, 'oo knows all I cannot say, Look after me in Thamesfontein!
_If England was what England seems An' not the England of our dreams, But only putty, brass, an' paint, 'Ow quick we'd chuck 'er!_ But she ain't!
THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS
When the flush of a newborn sun fell first on Eden's green and gold, Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mold; And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart, Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?"
Wherefore he called to his wife and fled to fashion his work anew-- The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review; And he left his lore to the use of his sons--and that was a glorious gain When the Devil chuckled: "Is it Art?" in the ear of the branded Cain.
They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart, Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art?" The stone was dropped by the quarry-side, and the idle derrick swung, While each man talked of the aims of art, and each in an alien tongue.
They fought and they talked in the north and the south, they talked and they fought in the west, Till the waters rose on the jabbering land, and the poor Red Clay had rest-- Had rest till the dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start, And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art?"
The tale is old as the Eden Tree--as new as the new-cut tooth-- For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth; And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart, The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art?"
We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg, We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk of an addled egg, We know that the tail must wag the dog, as the horse is drawn by the cart; But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art?"
When the flicker of London's sun falls faint on the club- room's green and gold, The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mold-- They scratch with their pens in the mold of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start When the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it art?"
Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the four great rivers flow, And the wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago, And if we could come when the sentry slept, and softly scurry through, By the favor of God we might know as much--as our father Adam knew.
AN ASTROLOGER'S SONG[12]
To the Heavens above us O look and behold The Planets that love us All harnessed in gold! What chariots, what horses Against us shall bide While the Stars in their courses Do fight on our side?
All thought, all desires, That are under the sun, Are one with their fires, As we also are one: All matter, all spirit, All fashion, all frame, Receive and inherit Their strength from the same.
(Oh, man that deniest All power save thine own, Their power in the highest Is mightily shown. Not less in the lowest That power is made clear. Oh, man, if thou knowest, What treasure is here!)
Earth quakes in her throes And we wonder for why! But the blind planet knows When her ruler is nigh; And, attuned since Creation To perfect accord, She thrills in her station And yearns to her Lord.
The waters have risen, The springs are unbound-- The floods break their prison, And ravin around. No rampart withstands 'em, Their fury will last, Till the Sign that commands 'em Sinks low or swings past.
Through abysses unproven And gulfs beyond thought, Our portion is woven, Our burden is brought. Yet They that prepare it, Whose Nature we share, Make us who must bear is Well able to bear.
Though terrors o'ertake us We'll not be afraid. No power can unmake us Save that which has made. Nor yet beyond reason Or hope shall we fall-- All things have their season, And Mercy crowns all!
Then, doubt not, ye fearful-- The Eternal is King-- Up, heart, and be cheerful, And lustily sing:-- _What chariots, what horses Against us shall bide While the Stars in their courses Do fight on our side?_
FOOTNOTES:
[5] The _bhisti_, or water-carrier, attached to regiments in India, is often one of the most devoted of the Queen's servants. He is also appreciated by the men.
[6] Bring water swiftly.
[7] Tommy Atkins' equivalent for "O Brother!"
[8] Speed.
[9] Hit you.
[10] Water-skin.
[11] From _The Five Nations_ by Rudyard Kipling. Copyright by Doubleday, Page & Co. and A. P. Watt & Son.
[12] From _Rewards and Fairies_ by Rudyard Kipling. Copyright by Doubleday, Page and Co. and A. P. Watt & Son.
_Richard Le Gallienne_
Richard Le Gallienne, who, in spite of his long residence in the United States, must be considered an English poet, was born at Liverpool in 1866. He entered on a business career soon after leaving Liverpool College, but gave up commercial life to become a man of letters after five or six years.
His early work was strongly influenced by the artificialities of the aesthetic movement (see Preface); the indebtedness to Oscar Wilde is especially evident. A little later Keats was the dominant influence, and _English Poems_ (1892) betray how deep were Le Gallienne's admirations. His more recent poems in _The Lonely Dancer_ (1913) show a keener individuality and a finer lyrical passion. His prose fancies are well known--particularly _The Book Bills of Narcissus_ and the charming and high-spirited fantasia, _The Quest of the Golden Girl_.
Le Gallienne came to America about 1905 and has lived ever since in Rowayton, Conn., and New York City.
A BALLAD OF LONDON
Ah, London! London! our delight, Great flower that opens but at night, Great City of the midnight sun, Whose day begins when day is done.
Lamp after lamp against the sky Opens a sudden beaming eye, Leaping alight on either hand, The iron lilies of the Strand.
Like dragonflies, the hansoms hover, With jeweled eyes, to catch the lover; The streets are full of lights and loves, Soft gowns, and flutter of soiled doves.
The human moths about the light Dash and cling close in dazed delight, And burn and laugh, the world and wife, For this is London, this is life!
Upon thy petals butterflies, But at thy root, some say, there lies, A world of weeping trodden things, Poor worms that have not eyes or wings.
From out corruption of their woe Springs this bright flower that charms us so, Men die and rot deep out of sight To keep this jungle-flower bright.
Paris and London, World-Flowers twain Wherewith the World-Tree blooms again, Since Time hath gathered Babylon, And withered Rome still withers on.
Sidon and Tyre were such as ye, How bright they shone upon the tree! But Time hath gathered, both are gone, And no man sails to Babylon.
REGRET
One asked of regret, And I made reply: To have held the bird, And let it fly; To have seen the star For a moment nigh, And lost it Through a slothful eye; To have plucked the flower And cast it by; To have one only hope-- To die.
_Lionel Johnson_
Born in 1867, Lionel Johnson received a classical education at Oxford, and his poetry is a faithful reflection of his studies in Greek and Latin literatures. Though he allied himself with the modern Irish poets, his Celtic origin is a literary myth; Johnson, having been converted to Catholicism in 1891, became imbued with Catholic and, later, with Irish traditions. His verse, while sometimes strained and over-decorated, is chastely designed, rich and, like that of the Cavalier poets of the seventeenth century, mystically devotional. _Poems_ (1895) contains his best work. Johnson died in 1902.
MYSTIC AND CAVALIER
Go from me: I am one of those who fall. What! hath no cold wind swept your heart at all, In my sad company? Before the end, Go from me, dear my friend!
Yours are the victories of light: your feet Rest from good toil, where rest is brave and sweet: But after warfare in a mourning gloom, I rest in clouds of doom.
Have you not read so, looking in these eyes? Is it the common light of the pure skies, Lights up their shadowy depths? The end is set: Though the end be not yet.
When gracious music stirs, and all is bright, And beauty triumphs through a courtly night; When I too joy, a man like other men: Yet, am I like them, then?
And in the battle, when the horsemen sweep Against a thousand deaths, and fall on sleep: Who ever sought that sudden calm, if I Sought not? yet could not die!
Seek with thine eyes to pierce this crystal sphere: Canst read a fate there, prosperous and clear? Only the mists, only the weeping clouds, Dimness and airy shrouds.
Beneath, what angels are at work? What powers Prepare the secret of the fatal hours? See! the mists tremble, and the clouds are stirred: When comes the calling word?
The clouds are breaking from the crystal ball, Breaking and clearing: and I look to fall. When the cold winds and airs of portent sweep, My spirit may have sleep.
O rich and sounding voices of the air! Interpreters and prophets of despair: Priests of a fearful sacrament! I come, To make with you mine home.
TO A TRAVELLER
The mountains, and the lonely death at last Upon the lonely mountains: O strong friend! The wandering over, and the labour passed, Thou art indeed at rest: Earth gave thee of her best, That labour and this end.
Earth was thy mother, and her true son thou: Earth called thee to a knowledge of her ways, Upon the great hills, up the great streams: now Upon earth's kindly breast Thou art indeed at rest: Thou, and thine arduous days.
Fare thee well, O strong heart! The tranquil night Looks calmly on thee: and the sun pours down His glory over thee, O heart of might! Earth gives thee perfect rest: Earth, whom thy swift feet pressed: Earth, whom the vast stars crown.
_Ernest Dowson_
Ernest Dowson was born at Belmont Hill in Kent in 1867. His great-uncle was Alfred Domett (Browning's "Waring"), who was at one time Prime Minister of New Zealand. Dowson, practically an invalid all his life, was reckless with himself and, as disease weakened him more and more, hid himself in miserable surroundings; for almost two years he lived in sordid supper-houses known as "cabmen's shelters." He literally drank himself to death.
His delicate and fantastic poetry was an attempt to escape from a reality too big and brutal for him. His passionate lyric, "I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion," a triumph of despair and disillusion, is an outburst in which Dowson epitomized himself--"One of the greatest lyrical poems of our time," writes Arthur Symons, "in it he has for once said everything, and he has said it to an intoxicating and perhaps immortal music."
Dowson died obscure in 1900, one of the finest of modern minor poets. His life was the tragedy of a weak nature buffeted by a strong and merciless environment.
TO ONE IN BEDLAM
With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars, Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine; Those scentless wisps of straw that, miserable, line His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares.
Pedant and pitiful. O, how his rapt gaze wars With their stupidity! Know they what dreams divine Lift his long, laughing reveries like enchanted wine, And make his melancholy germane to the stars'?
O lamentable brother! if those pity thee, Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me; Half a fool's kingdom, far from men who sow and reap, All their days, vanity? Better than mortal flowers, Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep, The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivious hours!
YOU WOULD HAVE UNDERSTOOD ME
You would have understood me, had you waited; I could have loved you, dear! as well as he: Had we not been impatient, dear! and fated Always to disagree.
What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter: Lest we should still be wishing things unsaid. Though all the words we ever spake were bitter, Shall I reproach you, dead?
Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise cover All the old anger, setting us apart: Always, in all, in truth was I your lover; Always, I held your heart.
I have met other women who were tender, As you were cold, dear! with a grace as rare. Think you, I turned to them, or made surrender, I who had found you fair?
Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited, I had fought death for you, better than he: But from the very first, dear! we were fated Always to disagree.
Late, late, I come to you, now death discloses Love that in life was not to be our part: On your low lying mound between the roses, Sadly I cast my heart.
I would not waken you: nay! this is fitter; Death and the darkness give you unto me; Here we who loved so, were so cold and bitter, Hardly can disagree.
"_A. E._"
(_George William Russell_)
At Durgan, a tiny town in the north of Ireland, George William Russell was born in 1867. He moved to Dublin when he was 10 years old and, as a young man, helped to form the group that gave rise to the Irish Renascence--the group of which William Butler Yeats, Doctor Douglas Hyde, Katharine Tynan and Lady Gregory were brilliant members. Besides being a splendid mystical poet, "A. E." is a painter of note, a fiery patriot, a distinguished sociologist, a public speaker, a student of economics and one of the heads of the Irish Agricultural Association.