Chapter 3
When the dole was ended, laughingly she said, 'Master, of a million mouths is not one unfed?' Laughing, Shiv made answer, 'All have had their part, Even he, the little one, hidden 'neath thy heart.' From her breast she plucked it, Parbati the thief, Saw the Least of Little Things gnawed a new-grown leaf! Saw and feared and wondered, making prayer to Shiv, Who hath surely given meat to all that live. _All things made he--Shiva the Preserver. Mahadeo! Mahadeo! He made all,-- Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine, And mother's heart for sleepy head, O little son of mine!_
THE FAIRIES' SIEGE
I have been given my charge to keep-- Well have I kept the same! Playing with strife for the most of my life, But this is a different game. _I_'ll not fight against swords unseen, Or spears that I cannot view-- Hand him the keys of the place on your knees-- 'Tis the Dreamer whose dreams come true!
Ask for his terms and accept them at once. Quick, ere we anger him; go! Never before have I flinched from the guns, But this is a different show. _I_'ll not fight with the Herald of God (I know what his Master can do!) Open the gate, he must enter in state, 'Tis the Dreamer whose dreams come true!
I'd not give way for an Emperor, I'd hold my road for a King-- To the Triple Crown I would not bow down-- But this is a different thing. _I_'ll not fight with the Powers of Air, Sentry, pass him through! Drawbridge let fall, it's the Lord of us all, The Dreamer whose dreams come true!
A SONG TO MITHRAS
(Hymn of the 30th Legion: _circa_ A.D. 350.)
Mithras, God of the Morning, our trumpets waken the Wall! 'Rome is above the Nations, but Thou art over all!' Now as the names are answered and the guards are marched away, Mithras, also a soldier, give us strength for the day!
Mithras, God of the Noontide, the heather swims in the heat. Our helmets scorch our foreheads, our sandals burn our feet. Now in the ungirt hour--now ere we blink and drowse, Mithras, also a soldier, keep us true to our vows!
Mithras, God of the Sunset, low on the Western main-- Thou descending immortal, immortal to rise again! Now when the watch is ended, now when the wine is drawn, Mithras, also a soldier, keep us pure till the dawn!
Mithras, God of the Midnight, here where the great bull dies, Look on thy children in darkness. Oh take our sacrifice! Many roads thou hast fashioned--all of them lead to the Light: Mithras, also a soldier, teach us to die aright!
THE NEW KNIGHTHOOD
Who gives him the Bath? 'I,' said the wet, Rank Jungle-sweat, 'I'll give him the Bath!'
Who'll sing the psalms? 'We,' said the Palms. 'Ere the hot wind becalms, We'll sing the psalms.'
Who lays on the sword? 'I,' said the Sun, 'Before he has done, I'll lay on the sword.'
Who fastens his belt? 'I,' said Short-Rations, 'I know all the fashions Of tightening a belt!'
Who gives him his spur? 'I,' said his Chief, Exacting and brief, 'I'll give him the spur.'
Who'll shake his hand? 'I,' said the Fever, 'And I'm no deceiver, I'll shake his hand.'
Who brings him the wine? 'I,' said Quinine, 'It's a habit of mine. '_I_'ll come with the wine.'
Who'll put him to proof? 'I,' said All Earth, 'Whatever he's worth, I'll put to the proof.'
Who'll choose him for Knight? 'I,' said his Mother, 'Before any other, My very own Knight.'
And after this fashion, adventure to seek, Was Sir Galahad made--as it might be last week!
OUTSONG IN THE JUNGLE
BALOO
FOR the sake of him who showed One wise Frog the Jungle-Road, Keep the Law the Man-Pack make For thy blind old Baloo's sake! Clean or tainted, hot or stale, Hold it as it were the Trail, Through the day and through the night, Questing neither left nor right. For the sake of him who loves Thee beyond all else that moves, When thy Pack would make thee pain, Say: 'Tabaqui sings again.' When thy Pack would work thee ill, Say: 'Shere Khan is yet to kill.' When the knife is drawn to slay, Keep the Law and go thy way. (Root and honey, palm and spathe, Guard a cub from harm and scathe!) _Wood and Water, Wind and Tree, Jungle-Favour go with thee!_
KAA
Anger is the egg of Fear-- Only lidless eyes are clear. Cobra-poison none may leech, Even so with Cobra-speech. Open talk shall call to thee Strength, whose mate is Courtesy. Send no lunge beyond thy length; Lend no rotten bough thy strength. Gauge thy gape with buck or goat, Lest thine eye should choke thy throat After gorging, wouldst thou sleep? Look thy den be hid and deep, Lest a wrong, by thee forgot, Draw thy killer to the spot. East and West and North and South, Wash thy hide and close thy mouth. (Pit and rift and blue pool-brim, Middle-Jungle follow him!) _Wood and Water, Wind and Tree, Jungle-Favour go with thee!_
BAGHEERA
In the cage my life began; Well I know the worth of Man. By the Broken Lock that freed-- Man-cub, 'ware the Man-cub's breed! Scenting-dew or starlight pale, Choose no tangled tree-cat trail. Pack or council, hunt or den, Cry no truce with Jackal-Men. Feed them silence when they say: 'Come with us an easy way.' Feed them silence when they seek Help of thine to hurt the weak. Make no _bandar's_ boast of skill; Hold thy peace above the kill. Let nor call nor song nor sign Turn thee from thy hunting-line. (Morning mist or twilight clear, Serve him, Wardens of the Deer!) _Wood and Water, Wind and Tree, Jungle-Favour go with thee!_
THE THREE
_On the trail that thou must tread To the thresholds of our dread, Where the Flower blossoms red; Through the nights when thou shalt lie Prisoned from our Mother-sky, Hearing us, thy loves, go by; In the dawns when thou shalt wake To the toil thou canst not break, Heartsick for the Jungle's sake: Wood and Water, Wind and Tree, Wisdom, Strength, and Courtesy, Jungle-Favour go with thee!_
HARP SONG OF THE DANE WOMEN
What is a woman that you forsake her, And the hearth-fire and the home-acre, To go with the old grey Widow-maker?
She has no house to lay a guest in-- But one chill bed for all to rest in, That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.
She has no strong white arms to fold you, But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you-- Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.
Yet, when the signs of summer thicken, And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken, Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken--
Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters. You steal away to the lapping waters, And look at your ship in her winter quarters.
You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables, The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables-- To pitch her sides and go over her cables.
Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow, And the sound of your oar-blades, falling hollow. Is all we have left through the months to follow.
Ah, what is Woman that you forsake her, And the hearth-fire and the home-acre, To go with the old grey Widow-maker?
THE THOUSANDTH MAN
One man in a thousand, Solomon says, Will stick more close than a brother. And it's worth while seeking him half your days If you find him before the other. Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend On what the world sees in you, But the Thousandth Man will stand your friend With the whole round world agin you.
'Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show Will settle the finding for 'ee. Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em go By your looks or your acts or your glory. But if he finds you and you find him, The rest of the world don't matter; For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim With you in any water.
You can use his purse with no more talk Than he uses yours for his spendings, And laugh and meet in your daily walk As though there had been no lendings. Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em call For silver and gold in their dealings; But the Thousandth Man he's worth 'em all. Because you can show him your feelings.
His wrong's your wrong, and his right's your right, In season or out of season. Stand up and back it in all men's sight-- With _that_ for your only reason! Nine hundred and ninety-nine can't bide The shame or mocking or laughter, But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side To the gallows-foot--and after!
THE WINNERS
What is the moral? Who rides may read. When the night is thick and the tracks are blind A friend at a pinch is a friend indeed, But a fool to wait for the laggard behind. Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne, He travels the fastest who travels alone.
White hands cling to the tightened rein, Slipping the spur from the booted heel, Tenderest voices cry 'Turn again,' Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel, High hopes faint on a warm hearth stone-- He travels the fastest who travels alone.
One may fall but he falls by himself-- Falls by himself with himself to blame, One may attain and to him is pelf, Loot of the city in Gold or Fame. Plunder of earth shall be all his own Who travels the fastest and travels alone.
Wherefore the more ye be holpen and stayed, Stayed by a friend in the hour of toil, Sing the heretical song I have made-- His be the labour and yours be the spoil, Win by his aid and the aid disown-- He travels the fastest who travels alone!
A ST. HELENA LULLABY
'How far is St. Helena from a little child at play?' What makes you want to wander there with all the world between? Oh, Mother, call your son again or else he'll run away. (_No one thinks of winter when the grass is green!_)
'How far is St. Helena from a fight in Paris street?' I haven't time to answer now--the men are falling fast. The guns begin to thunder, and the drums begin to beat. (_If you take the first step you will take the last!_)
'How far is St. Helena from the field of Austerlitz?' You couldn't hear me if I told--so loud the cannons roar. But not so far for people who are living by their wits. (_'Gay go up' means 'Gay go down' the wide world o'er!_)
'How far is St. Helena from an Emperor of France?' I cannot see--I cannot tell--the crowns they dazzle so. The Kings sit down to dinner, and the Queens stand up to dance. (_After open weather you may look for snow!_)
'How far is St. Helena from the Capes of Trafalgar?' A longish way--a longish way--with ten year more to run. It's South across the water underneath a setting star. (_What you cannot finish you must leave undone!_)
'How far is St. Helena from the Beresina ice?' An ill way--a chill way--the ice begins to crack. But not so far for gentlemen who never took advice. (_When you can't go forward you must e'en come back!_)
'How far is St. Helena from the field of Waterloo?' A near way--a clear way--the ship will take you soon. A pleasant place for gentlemen with little left to do, (_Morning never tries you till the afternoon!_)
'How far from St. Helena to the Gate of Heaven's Grace?' That no one knows--that no one knows--and no one ever will. But fold your hands across your heart and cover up your face, And after all your trapesings, child, lie still!
CHIL'S SONG
These were my companions going forth by night-- _(For Chil! Look you, for Chil!)_ Now come I to whistle them the ending of the fight. _(Chil! Vanguards of Chil!)_ Word they gave me overhead of quarry newly slain, Word I gave them underfoot of buck upon the plain. Here's an end of every trail--they shall not speak again!
They that called the hunting-cry--they that followed fast-- _(For Chil! Look you, for Chil!)_ They that bade the sambhur wheel, or pinned him as he passed-- _(Chil! Vanguards of Chil!)_ They that lagged behind the scent--they that ran before, They that shunned the level horn--they that overbore, Here's an end of every trail--they shall not follow more.
These were my companions. Pity 'twas they died! (_For Chil! Look you, for Chil!_') Now come I to comfort them that knew them in their pride. (_Chil! Vanguards of Chil!_) Tattered flank and sunken eye, open mouth and red, Locked and lank and lone they lie, the dead upon their dead. Here's an end of every trail--and here my hosts are fed!
THE CAPTIVE
Not with an outcry to Allah nor any complaining He answered his name at the muster and stood to the chaining. When the twin anklets were nipped on the leg-bars that held them, He brotherly greeted the armourers stooping to weld them. Ere the sad dust of the marshalled feet of the chain-gang swallowed him, Observing him nobly at ease, I alighted and followed him. Thus we had speech by the way, but not touching his sorrow-- Rather his red Yesterday and his regal To-morrow, Wherein he statelily moved to the clink of his chains unregarded, Nowise abashed but contented to drink of the potion awarded. Saluting aloofly his Fate, he made swift with his story, And the words of his mouth were as slaves spreading carpets of glory Embroidered with names of the Djinns--a miraculous weaving-- But the cool and perspicuous eye overbore unbelieving. So I submitted myself to the limits of rapture-- Bound by this man we had bound, amid captives his capture-- Till he returned me to earth and the visions departed. But on him be the Peace and the Blessing; for he was great-hearted!
THE PUZZLER
The Celt in all his variants from Builth to Ballyhoo, His mental processes are plain--one knows what he will do, And can logically predicate his finish by his start; But the English--ah, the English--they are quite a race apart.
Their psychology is bovine, their outlook crude and raw. They abandon vital matters to be tickled with a straw, But the straw that they were tickled with--the chaff that they were fed with-- They convert into a weaver's beam to break their foeman's head with.
For undemocratic reasons and for motives not of State, They arrive at their conclusions--largely inarticulate. Being void of self-expression they confide their views to none; But sometimes in a smoking-room, one learns why things were done.
Yes, sometimes in a smoking-room, through clouds of 'Ers' and 'Ums,' Obliquely and by inference illumination comes, On some step that they have taken, or some action they approve-- Embellished with the _argot_ of the Upper Fourth Remove.
In telegraphic sentences, half nodded to their friends, They hint a matter's inwardness--and there the matter ends. And while the Celt is talking from Valencia to Kirkwall, The English--ah, the English!--don't say anything at all!
HADRAMAUTI
Who knows the heart of the Christian? How does he reason? What are his measures and balances? Which is his season For laughter, forbearance or bloodshed, and what devils move him When he arises to smite us? _I_ do not love him.
He invites the derision of strangers--he enters all places. Booted, bareheaded he enters. With shouts and embraces He asks of us news of the household whom we reckon nameless. Certainly Allah created him forty-fold shameless.
So it is not in the Desert. One came to me weeping-- The Avenger of Blood on his track--I took him in keeping. Demanding not whom he had slain, I refreshed him, I fed him As he were even a brother. But Eblis had bred him.
He was the son of an ape, ill at ease in his clothing, He talked with his head, hands and feet. I endured him with loathing. Whatever his spirit conceived his countenance showed it As a frog shows in a mud-puddle. Yet I abode it!
I fingered my beard and was dumb, in silence confronting him. _His_ soul was too shallow for silence, e'en with Death hunting him. I said: 'Tis his weariness speaks,' but, when he had rested, He chirped in my face like some sparrow, and, presently, jested!
Wherefore slew I that stranger? He brought me dishonour. I saddled my mare, Bijli, I set him upon her. I gave him rice and goat's flesh. He bared me to laughter. When he was gone from my tent, swift I followed after, Taking my sword in my hand. The hot wine had filled him. Under the stars he mocked me--therefore I killed him!
CHAPTER HEADINGS
THE NAULAHKA
We meet in an evil land That is near to the gates of hell. I wait for thy command To serve, to speed or withstand. And thou sayest, I do not well?
Oh Love, the flowers so red Are only tongues of flame, The earth is full of the dead, The new-killed, restless dead. There is danger beneath and o'erhead, And I guard thy gates in fear Of peril and jeopardy, Of words thou canst not hear, Of signs thou canst not see-- And thou sayest 'tis ill that I came?
This I saw when the rites were done, And the lamps were dead and the Gods alone, And the grey snake coiled on the altar stone-- Ere I fled from a Fear that I could not see, And the Gods of the East made mouths at me.
* * * * *
Now it is not good for the Christian's health to hustle the Aryan brown, For the Christian riles, and the Aryan smiles and he weareth the Christian down; And the end of the fight is a tombstone white with the name of the late deceased, And the epitaph drear: 'A fool lies here who tried to hustle the East.'
* * * * *
Beat off in our last fight were we? The greater need to seek the sea. For Fortune changeth as the moon To caravel and picaroon. Then Eastward Ho! or Westward Ho! Whichever wind may meetest blow. Our quarry sails on either sea, Fat prey for such bold lads as we. And every sun-dried buccaneer Must hand and reef and watch and steer. And bear great wrath of sea and sky Before the plate-ships wallow by. Now, as our tall bows take the foam, Let no man turn his heart to home, Save to desire treasure more, And larger warehouse for his store, When treasure won from Santos Bay Shall make our sea-washed village gay.
* * * * *
Because I sought it far from men, In deserts and alone, I found it burning overhead, The jewel of a Throne.
Because I sought--I sought it so And spent my days to find-- It blazed one moment ere it left The blacker night behind.
* * * * *
When a lover hies abroad. Looking for his love, Azrael smiling sheathes his sword, Heaven smiles above. Earth and sea His servants be, And to lesser compass round, That his love be sooner found.
* * * * *
There was a strife 'twixt man and maid-- Oh that was at the birth of time! But what befell 'twixt man and maid, Oh that's beyond the grip of rhyme. 'Twas, 'Sweet, I must not bide with you,' And 'Love, I cannot bide alone'; For both were young and both were true, And both were hard as the nether stone.
* * * * *
There is pleasure in the wet, wet clay, When the artist's hand is potting it; There is pleasure in the wet, wet lay, When the poet's pad is blotting it; There is pleasure in the shine of your picture on the line At the Royal Acade-my; But the pleasure felt in these is as chalk to Cheddar cheese When it comes to a well-made Lie: To a quite unwreckable Lie, To a most impeccable Lie! To a water-tight, fire-proof, angle-iron, sunk-hinge, time-lock, steel-face Lie! Not a private hansom Lie, But a pair-and-brougham Lie, Not a little-place-at-Tooting, but a country-house-with-shooting And a ring-fence-deer-park Lie.
* * * * *
We be the Gods of the East-- Older than all-- Masters of Mourning and Feast How shall we fall?
Will they gape for the husks that ye proffer Or yearn to your song? And we--have we nothing to offer Who ruled them so long-- In the fume of the incense, the clash of the cymbal, the blare of the conch and the gong?
Over the strife of the schools Low the day burns-- Back with the kine from the pools Each one returns To the life that he knows where the altar-flame glows and the _tulsi_ is trimmed in the urns.
* * * * *
THE LIGHT THAT FAILED
So we settled it all when the storm was done As comfy as comfy could be; And I was to wait in the barn, my dears, Because I was only three, And Teddy would run to the rainbow's foot Because he was five and a man; And that's how it all began, my dears, And that's how it all began.
* * * * *
'If I have taken the common clay And wrought it cunningly In the shape of a God that was digged a clod, The greater honour to me.' 'If thou hast taken the common clay, And thy hands be not free From the taint of the soil, thou hast made thy spoil The greater shame to thee.'
* * * * *
The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn, Where the smoke of the cooking hung grey: He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn, And he looked to his strength for his prey. But the moon swept the smoke-wreaths away, And he turned from his meal in the villager's close, And he bayed to the moon as she rose.
* * * * *
The lark will make her hymn to God, The partridge call her brood, While I forget the heath I trod, The fields wherein I stood.
Tis dule to know not night from morn, But greater dule to know I can but hear the hunter's horn That once I used to blow.
* * * * *
There were three friends that buried the fourth, The mould in his mouth and the dust in his eyes, And they went south and east and north-- The strong man fights but the sick man dies.
There were three friends that spoke of the dead-- The strong man fights but the sick man dies-- 'And would he were here with us now,' they said, 'The sun in our face and the wind in our eyes.'
* * * * *
Yet at the last, ere our spearmen had found him, Yet at the last, ere a sword-thrust could save, Yet at the last, with his masters around him, He spoke of the Faith as a master to slave. Yet at the last, though the Kafirs had maimed him, Broken by bondage and wrecked by the reiver, Yet at the last, tho' the darkness had claimed him, He called upon Allah, and died a Believer!
GALLIO'S SONG
(And Gallio cared for none of these things.--ACTS xviii. 17)
All day long to the judgment-seat The crazed Provincials drew-- All day long at their ruler's feet Howled for the blood of the Jew. Insurrection with one accord Banded itself and woke, And Paul was about to open his mouth When Achaia's Deputy spoke--
'Whether the God descend from above Or the Man ascend upon high, Whether this maker of tents be Jove Or a younger deity-- I will be no judge between your gods And your godless bickerings. Lictor, drive them hence with rods-- I care for none of these things!
'Were it a question of lawful due Or Cæsar's rule denied, Reason would I should bear with you And order it well to be tried; But this is a question of words and names. I know the strife it brings. I will not pass upon any your claims. I care for none of these things.
'One thing only I see most clear, As I pray you also see. Claudius Cæsar hath set me here Rome's Deputy to be. It is Her peace that ye go to break-- Not mine, nor any king's. But, touching your clamour of "Conscience sake," I care for none of these things.
'Whether ye rise for the sake of a creed, Or riot in hope of spoil, Equally will I punish the deed, Equally check the broil; Nowise permitting injustice at all From whatever doctrine it springs-- But--whether ye follow Priapus or Paul, I care for none of these things.'
THE BEES AND THE FLIES
A farmer of the Augustan Age Perused in Virgil's golden page, The story of the secret won From Proteus by Cyrene's son-- How the dank sea-god showed the swain Means to restore his hives again. More briefly, how a slaughtered bull Breeds honey by the bellyful.
The egregious rustic put to death A bull by stopping of its breath, Disposed the carcass in a shed With fragrant herbs and branches spread, And, having thus performed the charm, Sat down to wait the promised swarm.
Nor waited long. The God of Day Impartial, quickening with his ray Evil and good alike, beheld The carcass--and the carcass swelled. Big with new birth the belly heaves Beneath its screen of scented leaves. Past any doubt, the bull conceives!
The farmer bids men bring more hives To house the profit that arrives; Prepares on pan, and key and kettle, Sweet music that shall make 'em settle; But when to crown the work he goes, Gods! what a stink salutes his nose!