Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1020 page)

They are purged of pride because they died; they know the worth of
  their bays;
They sit at wine with the Maidens Nine and the Gods of the Elder Days-
It is their will to serve or be still as fitteth Our Father’s praise.

‘Tis theirs to sweep through the ringing deep where Azrael’s outposts
  are,
Or buffet a path through the Pit’s red wrath when God goes out to war,
Or hang with the reckless Seraphim on the rein of a red-maned star.

They take their mirth in the joy of the Earth-they dare not grieve for
  her pain;
They know of toil and the end of toil; they know God’s Law is plain;
So they whistle the Devil to make them sport who know that Sin is vain.

And oft-times cometh our wise Lord God, master of every trade,
And tells them tales of His daily toil, of Edens newly made;
And they rise to their feet as He passes by, gentlemen unafraid. 

To these who are cleansed of base Desire, Sorrow and Lust and Shame-
Gods for they knew the hearts of men, men for they stooped to Fame-
Borne on the breath that men call Death, my brother’s spirit came.

He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of Earth -
E’en as he trod that day to God so walked he from his birth,
In simpleness and gentleness and honour and clean mirth.

So cup to lip in fellowship they gave him welcome high
And made him place at the banquet board-the Strong Men ranged
  thereby,
Who had done his work and held his peace and had no fear to die

Beyond the loom of the last lone star, through open darkness hurled,
Further than rebel comet dared or hiving star-swarm swirled,
Sits he with those that praise our God for that they served His world.

A Dedication

To “Soldiers Three”

And they were stronger hands than mine
That digged the Ruby from the earth —
More cunning brains that made it worth
The large desire of a king,
And stouter hearts that through the brine
Went down the perfect Pearl to bring.

Lo, I have wrought in common clay
Rude figures of a rough-hewn race,
Since pearls strew not the market-place
In this my town of banishment,
Where with the shifting dust I play,
And eat the bread of discontent.

Yet is there life in that I make.
0 thou who knowest, turn and see —
As thou hast power over me
So have I power over these,
Because I wrought them for thy sake,
And breathed in them mine agonies.

Small mirth was in the making — now
I lift the cloth that cloaks the clay,
And, wearied, at thy feet I lay
My wares, ere I go forth to sell.
The long bazar will praise, but thou —
Heart of my heart — have I done well?

The Deep-Sea Cables

The wrecks dissolve above us; their dust drops down from afar —
Down to the dark, to the utter dark, where the blind white sea-snakes are.
There is no sound, no echo of sound, in the deserts of the deep,
Or the great grey level plains of ooze where the shell-burred cables creep.

Here in the womb of the world — here on the tie-ribs of earth
 Words, and the words of men, flicker and flutter and beat —
Warning, sorrow and gain, salutation and mirth —
 For a Power troubles the Still that has neither voice nor feet.

They have wakened the timeless Things; they have killed their father Time;
 Joining hands in the gloom, a league from the last of the sun.
Hush!  Men talk to-day o’er the waste of the ultimate slime,
 And a new Word runs between:  whispering, “Let us be one!”

Delilah

We have another viceroy now, — those days are dead and done
Of Delilah Aberyswith and depraved Ulysses Gunne.

Delilah Aberyswith was a lady — not too young —
With a perfect taste in dresses and a badly-bitted tongue,
With a thirst for information, and a greater thirst for praise,
And a little house in Simla in the Prehistoric Days.

By reason of her marriage to a gentleman in power,
Delilah was acquainted with the gossip of the hour;
And many little secrets, of the half-official kind,
Were whispered to Delilah, and she bore them all in mind.

She patronized extensively a man, Ulysses Gunne,
Whose mode of earning money was a low and shameful one.
He wrote for certain papers, which, as everybody knows,
Is worse than serving in a shop or scaring off the crows.

He praised her “queenly beauty” first; and, later on, he hinted
At the “vastness of her intellect” with compliment unstinted.
He went with her a-riding, and his love for her was such
That he lent her all his horses and — she galled them very much.

One day, THEY brewed a secret of a fine financial sort;
It related to Appointments, to a Man and a Report.
‘Twas almost worth the keeping, — only seven people knew it —
And Gunne rose up to seek the truth and patiently ensue it.

It was a Viceroy’s Secret, but — perhaps the wine was red —
Perhaps an Aged Councillor had lost his aged head —
Perhaps Delilah’s eyes were bright — Delilah’s whispers sweet —
The Aged Member told her what ‘twere treason to repeat.

Ulysses went a-riding, and they talked of love and flowers;
Ulysses went a-calling, and he called for several hours;
Ulysses went a-waltzing, and Delilah helped him dance —
Ulysses let the waltzes go, and waited for his chance.

The summer sun was setting, and the summer air was still,
The couple went a-walking in the shade of Summer Hill.
The wasteful sunset faded out in turkis-green and gold,
Ulysses pleaded softly, and . . . that bad Delilah told!

Next morn, a startled Empire learnt the all-important news;
Next week, the Aged Councillor was shaking in his shoes.
Next month, I met Delilah and she did not show the least
Hesitation in affirming that Ulysses was a “beast.”

            *   *   *   *   *

We have another Viceroy now, those days are dead and done —
Off, Delilah Aberyswith and most mean Ulysses Gunne!

A Departure

“The Parable of Boy Jones”
From “Land and Sea Tales”
Since first the White Horse Banner blew free,
  By Hengist’s horde unfurled,
Nothing has changed on land or sea
  Of the things that steer the world.
(As it was when the long-ships scudded through the gale
  So it is where the Liners go.)
Time and Tide, they are both in a tale —
  “Woe to the weaker — woe! “

No charm can bridle the hard-mouthed wind
  Or smooth the fretting swell.
No gift can alter the grey Sea’s mind,
  But she serves the strong man well.
(As it is when her uttermost deeps are stirred
  So it is where the quicksands show,)
All the waters have but one word —
  “Woe to the weaker — woe! “

The feast is ended, the tales are told,
  The dawn is overdue,
And we meet on the quay in the whistling cold
  Where the galley waits her crew.
Out with the torches, they have flared too long,
  And bid the harpers go.
Wind and warfare have but one song —
  “Woe to the weaker — woe!”

Hail to the great oars gathering way,
  As the beach begins to slide!
Hail to the war-shields’ click and play
  As they lift along our side!
Hail to the first wave over the bow —
  Slow for the sea-stroke! Slow! —
All the benches are grunting now: —
 
“Woe to the weaker — woe!”
The Derelict

  
I was the staunchest of our fleet
   Till the sea rose beneath my feet
Unheralded, in hatred past all measure.
   Into his pits he stamped my crew,
   Buffeted, blinded, bound and threw,
Bidding me eyeless wait upon his pleasure.

   Man made me, and my will
   Is to my maker still,
Whom now the currents con, the rollers steer —
   Lifting forlorn to spy
   Trailed smoke along the sky,
Falling afraid lest any keel come near!

   Wrenched as the lips of thirst,
   Wried, dried, and split and burst,
Bone-bleached my decks, wind-scoured to the graining;
   And, jarred at every roll
   The gear that was my soul
Answers the anguish of my beams’ complaining.

   For life that crammed me full,
   Gangs of the prying gull
That shriek and scrabble on the riven hatches.
   For roar that dumbed the gale,
   My hawse-pipes’ guttering wail,
Sobbing my heart out through the uncounted watches.

   Blind in the hot blue ring
   Through all my points I swing —
Swing and return to shift the sun anew.
   Blind in my well-known sky
   I hear the stars go by,
Mocking the prow that cannot hold one true.

   White on my wasted path
   Wave after wave in wrath
Frets ‘gainst his fellow, warring where to send me.
   Flung forward, heaved aside,
   Witless and dazed I bide
The mercy of the comber that shall end me.

   North where the bergs careen,
   The spray of seas unseen
Smokes round my head and freezes in the falling.
   South where the corals breed,
   The footless, floating weed
Folds me and fouls me, strake on strake upcrawling.

   I that was clean to run
   My race against the sun —
Strength on the deep, am bawd to all disaster;
   Whipped forth by night to meet
   My sister’s careless feet,
And with a kiss betray her to my master.

   Man made me, and my will
   Is to my maker still —
To him and his, our peoples at their pier:
   Lifting in hope to spy
   Trailed smoke along the sky,
Falling afraid lest any keel come near!

The Destroyers

1898
The strength of twice three thousand horse
  That seeks the single goal;
The line that holds the rending course,
  The hate that swings the whole;
The stripped hulls, slinking through the gloom,
  At gaze and gone again —
The Brides of Death that wait the groom —
  The Choosers of the Slain!

Offshore where sea and skyline blend
  In rain, the daylight dies;
The sullen, shouldering swells attend
  Night and our sacrifice.
Adown the stricken capes no flare —
  No mark on spit or bar, —
Girdled and desperate we dare
  The blindfold game of war.

Nearer the up-flung beams that spell
  The council of our foes;
Clearer the barking guns that tell
  Their scattered flank to close.
Sheer to the trap they crowd their way
  From ports for this unbarred.
Quiet, and count our laden prey,
  The convoy and her guard!

On shoal with scarce a foot below,
  Where rock and islet throng,
Hidden and hushed we watch them throw
  Their anxious lights along.
Not here, not here your danger lies —
  (Stare hard, O hooded eyne!)
Save were the dazed rock-pigeons rise
  The lit cliffs give no sign.

Therefore — to break the rest ye seek,
  The Narrow Seas to clear —
Hark to the siren’s whimpering shriek —
  The driven death is here!
Look to your van a league away, —
  What midnight terror stays
The bulk that checks against the spray
  Her crackling tops ablaze?

Hit, and hard hit! The blow went home,
  The muffled, knocking stroke —
The steam that overruns the foam —
  The foam that thins to smoke —
The smoke that clokes the deep aboil —
  The deep that chokes her throes
Till, streaked with ash and sleeked with oil,
  The lukewarm whirlpools close!

A shadow down the sickened wave
  Long since her slayer fled:
But hear their chattering quick-fires rave
  Astern, abeam, ahead!
Panic that shells the drifting spar —
  Loud waste with none to check —
Mad fear that rakes a scornful star
  Or sweeps a consort’s deck.

Now, while their silly smoke hangs thick,
  Now ere their wits they find,
Lay in and lance them to the quick —
  Our gallied whales are blind!
Good luck to those that see the end,
  Good-bye to those that drown —
For each his chance as chance shall send —
  And God for all!
Shut down!

The strength of twice three thousand horse
  That serve the one command;
The hand that heaves the headlong force,
  The hate that backs the hand:
The doom-bolt in the darkness freed,
  The mine that splits the main;
The white-hot wake, the ‘wildering speed —
  The Choosers of the Slain!