Part 3

In the damp ditches ranging from the line Towards the lighted west Tall spires of blossom, dimly white, define A sweetness manifest.

And now the last red rim is vanishing, Leaving the sky-line cold, And mists, transfigured, to the grasses cling Like gossamer of gold.

The dusk descends; between us and the town The gliding miles increase; And on our souls there settles softly down An all-enfolding peace.

❦

POEMS OF INDIA

I. IN A MANGO-TOPE[1]

[1] Grove.

Between the sky-line and my feet The stretch of lemon-grass is sere, And, from some hidden village near, There comes a single tom-tom’s beat.

High noon is grey on bush and tree, The plain runs on without a change, As though, for once, the eye could range Through time into eternity.

And round me, in the mango-tope, No sound disturbs the stillness wide But the horse tethered at my side Cropping the herbage of the slope.

All human stress has died away, As if life, pausing, held apart, As if this vain world’s fretting heart Stood still to hear the silence pray.

In many a mud-walled haunt of man To-night the screaming conch will blare --God knows what forces throng the air Above these plains of Hindoostan.

From under every banyan-tree Whose roots entwine the reddened stone Carved with some god that lurks alone Beneath the aërial canopy,

From every grove within the land Whose shadows hide a crumbling shrine There seems to come some unknown sign, Some touch of an undreamed-of hand.

And where, without the village wall, Some woman’s soul went up in fire And the thick reek above the pyre Hung in mid-heaven like a pall,

Around that altar in the plain, Hid though it be in jungle grass, Forgotten as the seasons pass, There clings the majesty of pain;

The life-through-death that has not ceased, Which cannot drown in Lethe’s flood, That sign of sacrificial blood That stains and glorifies the East.

O land so near the veil, where life Is lived beside the shore of death, Which treads the rose to taste its breath And wraps the garland round the knife,

Beneath the chastening of thy sun, By tree and plain and jungle-shrine, Whose soul through silence touches thine, May know that life and death are one!

❦

II. NIGHT IN THE PLAINS

The plains lie in the furnace of the year And sleep, repenting, hides from men his boon, And flagging life strains fitfully to hear The tardy footstep of the slow monsoon. All day the stones, the dust upon the plain, From never-changing skies the heat have drawn, And darkness brings no solace in its train --The breeze will rise an hour before the dawn.

There is no rest; from out the heavy skies The burning planets hang; now near, now far, Shrilly the women’s voices fall and rise, Crying to Kali in the hot bazaar. There is no nightwatch but will end at last, There is no vigil but will pass away, The time wears on, the moon is setting fast --The breeze will rise an hour before the day.

Life crouches low and fear is with the strong, On every side the crawling time to mark, There sound, like fevered pulses all night long, The tom-toms, throbbing in the stifling dark; A puff of odour from the jasmine-tree Comes by the well across the parching lawn, See where the hosts of heaven stand patiently, --The breeze will rise an hour before the dawn.

The sick men toss, the breathless air is still; Along the ward one slow, soft whisper falls, Where Death’s grim angel waits to have his will Within the shadow of the whitewashed walls; And women’s steadfast eyes are fixed upon The lurking shape whose hand they keep at bay, Stand up, O souls of men, fight on, fight on! --The breeze will rise an hour before the day.

Is that a shiver in the tamarind, Or some awakening bird that stirs the leaves? Turn, turn to sleep, there comes a breath of wind And mainas talk by the verandah-eaves; A little space to sleep and to forget Before the tyrant sun begins his sway, Ere in the heavens his brazen throne be set --God give us strength to face the coming day.

❦

III. THE RESTING-PLACE

Brother, beside the jungle track, thy stone Half raised, a nameless, carven slab, I see, Half hidden by the tangle, secretly; Where roots join twisted hands above thy head, Where scarce a footfall passes save my own, Nor white man’s tread.

I have been wandering since noon was high, And now, because the evening comes apace, Thy tomb shall be my rest a little space; From thy long-vanished hand this loan I take, Across the years this hospitality That thou dost make.

The jungle has grown over thee, O friend, For, scarce a furlong from thy buried dust, Once stood a city where the great and just Built high the parapet and mosque and dome, Where now the creeper flings its tasselled end Around their home.

How many centuries have come and gone Since first thou sawest, with awakened eyes, The green-scarfed houris proffering Paradise; Since thy young cresent moon, athwart this shade, Son of the Prophet, has in silver shone Where thou art laid!

Mayhap, thy spirit loved what mine loves best; The tread of horses and the pride of life, The jungle’s magic and the joy of strife, The long nights spent beneath the spangled sky-- O dead Mahommedan! Thy passing guest By these accepts from thee this meed of rest _Salaam, O Bhai!_[2]

[2] Brother.

❦

IV. EVENING IN THE OPIUM FIELDS

As pageants, marshalled by a masterhand, So are the poppy-fields; in rose and red And foam of white and livid purple spread, Mile upon mile, they stretch on either hand; Dark by the well the heavy mangoes stand, Where labouring oxen pace with dusty tread And dripping water-skins climb up to shed Their gush upon the irrigated land.

So cool the labyrinthine channels run, Flooding the grey stems with a maze of gold; For, as he nears his end, the dying sun Does all the plain within his arms enfold; Beneath the mangoe-trees long shadows creep, Like sleep’s tread falling through the flowers of sleep.

❦

V. ‘GOD IS GREAT’

“_Allāh hu akhbar! Allāh hu akhbar! La ilahā illalāh!_”

Aslant upon the dusty way The little mosque has thrown its shade, A streak of blue at noontime laid, To lengthen tardily with day; And now the hour has come to pray, Soldier and prince and clod-- ‘God is great, God is great, There is no god but God!’

He stands upon the outer wall, His hand upraised, his sunken eyes Look westward to where Mecca lies; Ho! Islam’s men, it is the call To evening prayer; he cries to all, Soldier and prince and clod-- ‘God is great, God is great, There is no god but God!’

Close to the wall below his feet A pomegranate, against the white, Flaunts, green and scarlet, in the light, Now glaring day has lost its heat; Ho! Islam’s men in field and street, Soldier and prince and clod-- ‘God is great, God is great, There is no god but God!’

Dark figure, seeing inwardly Through evening mist and evening balms To Mecca, white among the palms, Across the rolling leagues of sea, At thy long cry they bend the knee, Soldier and prince and clod-- ‘God is great, God is great, There is no god but God!’

Spread at thy feet, around, beneath, The world wears on amid its tears, And few and evil are their years Fighting their way from birth to death, Soldier and prince and clod-- What shining city canst thou see, Far off, beyond the flood of fate, Where none are poor or desolate That thou dost cry eternally?

There comes no answer, early, late, But ‘God is great, God is great, There is no god but God!’

“_Allāh hu akhbar! Allāh hu akhbar! La ilahā illalāh!_”

❦

VI. A MAHOMMEDAN GRAVEYARD

Within the wall their graves are still and white, Their feet turned ever southward; all the dust Is thick in moonlight, and the banyans thrust Long roots into the glory of the night; Hanging like dusky tresses overhead, Where, by the highway’s side, lie Islam’s dead.

Who sighs, who prays one prayer as he perceives, So near his passing foot, that township set With crumbling slab and little minaret Below the lattice of the banyan leaves? Who knows one name in all that silent throng Whose hands have ceased from work so long--so long?

Each heart round which eternal shadow sleeps Has spent the hour that we have all to spend, Has waited for the coming of the end, And now, who thinks, who minds, who cares, who weeps? Who tells us how he faced the figure grim? ’Tis words to us--it was the world to him.

How shall we nerve our hearts to bear that sight, The long horizon of advancing dark, That dread oblivion with no lamp nor spark Of love’s remembrance to make soft the night? What is there but the dull relief of tears That weakness wrings from us throughout our years?

No, never that. Who stands and fights his pain Can still endure. But unto him who lies And seeks to ease him with his coward cries Relief is not nor any rest again; And who can tighten up the string anew That gives beneath the straining of the screw?

O brothers! turn and look where courage stands Serene and still with never-changing eye, Courage to be forgot--to live--to die, Stand up like men and clench your failing hands; What man could dare to face the land unknown With but a coward’s heart to call his own?

❦

VII. CHERRY-BLOSSOM AT DAGSHAI

Far down below this range to-day A waft of morning pureness fills The blue ravines that stretch away To lose themselves among the hills.

And, like a shrouded diadem, Beyond the peaks set row on row, Looms northern India’s mystic gem, The crown of Himalayan snow.

These lower heights which close us in A more ethereal jewel wear, There seems, where sheer descents begin, A radiant mirage in the air,

For, with its veil of rose and foam A-quiver like transparent wings, To the stern ramparts of its home The wild hill cherry-blossom clings.

Own sister to the clouds of dawn, Each magic tree o’erhangs the brink, Its slender stems like lattice drawn, Dark, on a fairyland of pink.

Three days agone no sign was ours, No voice to cry the coming hope That autumn’s wave would break in flowers And roll in torrents down the slope;

But as, when darkness rends apart, A shaft of glory pierces through, Joy’s hand has pierced the mountain’s heart And all the barren world is new.

❦

VIII. ‘WITH MILITARY HONOURS’

Take down the helmet from its dusty board, Lay down his sword Upon the flag that drapes his narrow bed; Pace, horses, with your load, Down the white road, Beneath the glare by Eastern sunlight shed.

And you, ye passing men of other race, Make way, give place Before a freight more sacred than the gun; Dark eyes of each degree Look up and see That well-known pageant passing in the sun.

With clank of chain and wheels the carriage goes, But his repose Nor sound of arms nor tramp of horse can dim; Forward; the dead-march rolls, Keep we our souls Strong for the last that love can do for him.

Flowers, lie soft upon his weary breast, He is at rest, The fight he could but lose is over now; Lie light, ye heartsease bands, Like parting hands Laying a last caress upon his brow.

Asters, twine purple like a velvet pall, Cry out to all, Ye heavy grave-flowers, of a new-made grief; A body striving sore That strives no more; His night was long but daylight brought relief.

O trumpet voice of flaming marigold! Tell out with bold And certain tongue how great a heart lies here, Until the Trumpet’s tone Shall drown your own And that dear head upon its time-worn bier Shall wake and hear.

❦

IX. THE DISTANT TEMPLE

Branch of the henna-tree, Blown in a temple garden far away In that unfading East across the sea, O for one waft of perfume from your spray To cheer the heart in me!

Flower of the champa white, Sown by the evening wind where dusky feet Have worn the temple pavement with their beat, I would lie down and give my soul to-night Could I but breathe your sweet!

Note of the temple gong At sunset clanging through the dusty gold, Since last I heard your nightly music told It seems as though the months were ages long And joy itself grown old.

Heart of the East, my heart, Laden with your remembrance, may not rest; The very winds that blow from east to west From out that far horizon-line, impart Your whisper, trebly blest.

Sound of the temple drum, Like distant beating of the march of fate, Through the long years your voice is never dumb, Calling, at sundown, from the temple gate To me, who cannot come.

❦

_Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London and Bungay._

Transcriber’s Notes

Possible printer’s errors were generally retained, including odd and inconsistent hyphenations, spellings, and punctuations.

_Italics_, =Bolds=, and +Small Caps+ have been marked as so.

Footnotes have been renumbered and moved to the end of their respective stanza.

Where missing in certain poems, the fleuron ❦ symbol/illustration has been silently added to the end.

These poems have had their individual indentation or stanzas standardized within each poem: The Lost Track, The Soul, New Year’s Eve, With Military Honours.

Quotation marks have been added to the 2nd stanza of Time and Space: ‘How far, my dear, has your hand gone from mine In these long days and months since they have met?’

In the 5th stanza of The Valley of the Kings, the final comma was kept instead of replacing it with a period. The section number of God is Great has been changed to “V.” to match the Table of Contents.