Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1040 page)

True Thomas smiled above his harp,
 And turned his face to the naked sky,
Where, blown before the wastrel wind,
 The thistle-down she floated by.

“I ha’ vowed my vow in another place,
 And bitter oath it was on me,
I ha’ watched my arms the lee-long night,
 Where five-score fighting men would flee.

“My lance is tipped o’ the hammered flame,
 My shield is beat o’ the moonlight cold;
And I won my spurs in the Middle World,
 A thousand fathom beneath the mould.

“And what should I make wi’ a horse o’ pride,
 And what should I make wi’ a sword so brown,
But spill the rings o’ the Gentle Folk
 And flyte my kin in the Fairy Town?

“And what should I make wi’ blazon and belt,
 Wi’ keep and tail and seizin and fee,
And what should I do wi’ page and squire
 That am a king in my own countrie?

“For I send east and I send west,
 And I send far as my will may flee,
By dawn and dusk and the drinking rain,
 And syne my Sendings return to me.

“They come wi’ news of the groanin’ earth,
 They come wi’ news o’ the roarin’ sea,
Wi’ word of Spirit and Ghost and Flesh,
 And man, that’s mazed among the three.”

The King he bit his nether lip,
 And smote his hand upon his knee:
“By the faith o’ my soul, True Thomas,” he said,
 “Ye waste no wit in courtesie!

“As I desire, unto my pride,
 Can I make Earls by three and three,
To run before and ride behind
 And serve the sons o’ my body.”

“And what care I for your row-foot earls,
 Or all the sons o’ your body?
Before they win to the Pride o’ Name,
 I trow they all ask leave o’ me.

“For I make Honour wi’ muckle mouth,
 As I make Shame wi’ mincin’ feet,
To sing wi’ the priests at the market-cross,
 Or run wi’ the dogs in the naked street.

“And some they give me the good red gold,
 And some they give me the white money,
And some they give me a clout o’ meal,
 For they be people o’ low degree.

“And the song I sing for the counted gold
 The same I sing for the white money,
But best I sing for the clout o’ meal
 That simple people given me.”

The King cast down a silver groat,
 A silver groat o’ Scots money,
“If I come wi’ a poor man’s dole,” he said,
 “True Thomas, will ye harp to me?”

“Whenas I harp to the children small,
 They press me close on either hand.
And who are you,” True Thomas said,
 “That you should ride while they must stand?

“Light down, light down from your horse o’ pride,
 I trow ye talk too loud and hie,
And I will make you a triple word,
 And syne, if ye dare, ye shall ‘noble me.”

He has lighted down from his horse o’ pride,
 And set his back against the stone.
“Now guard you well,” True Thomas said,
 “Ere I rax your heart from your breast-bone!”

True Thomas played upon his harp,
 The fairy harp that couldna lee,
And the first least word the proud King heard,
 It harpit the salt tear out o’ his ee.

“Oh, I see the love that I lost long syne,
 I touch the hope that I may not see,
And all that I did o’ hidden shame,
 Like little snakes they hiss at me.

“The sun is lost at noon — at noon!
 The dread o’ doom has grippit me.
True Thomas, hide me under your cloak,
 God wot, I’m little fit to dee!”

‘Twas bent beneath and blue above —
 ‘Twas open field and running flood —
Where, hot on heath and dike and wall,
 The high sun warmed the adder’s brood.

“Lie down, lie down,” True Thomas said.
 “The God shall judge when all is done.
But I will bring you a better word
 And lift the cloud that I laid on.”

True Thomas played upon his harp,
 That birled and brattled to his hand,
And the next least word True Thomas made,
 It garred the King take horse and brand.

“Oh, I hear the tread o’ the fighting men,
 I see the sun on splent and spear.
I mark the arrow outen the fern
 That flies so low and sings so clear!

“Advance my standards to that war,
 And bid my good knights prick and ride;
The gled shall watch as fierce a fight
 As e’er was fought on the Border side!”

     ‘Twas bent beneath and blue above,
      ‘Twas nodding grass and naked sky,
     Where, ringing up the wastrel wind,
      The eyas stooped upon the pie.

True Thomas sighed above his harp,
 And turned the song on the midmost string;
And the last least word True Thomas made,
 He harpit his dead youth back to the King.

“Now I am prince, and I do well
 To love my love withouten fear;
To walk wi’ man in fellowship,
 And breathe my horse behind the deer.

“My hounds they bay unto the death,
 The buck has couched beyond the burn,
My love she waits at her window
 To wash my hands when I return.

“For that I live am I content
 (Oh! I have seen my true love’s eyes)
To stand wi’ Adam in Eden-glade,
 And run in the woods o’ Paradise!”

     ‘Twas naked sky and nodding grass,
      ‘Twas running flood and wastrel wind,
     Where, checked against the open pass,
      The red deer belled to call the hind.

True Thomas laid his harp away,
 And louted low at the saddle-side;
He has taken stirrup and hauden rein,
 And set the King on his horse o’ pride.

“Sleep ye or wake,” True Thomas said,
 “That sit so still, that muse so long;
Sleep ye or wake? — till the latter sleep
 I trow ye’ll not forget my song.

“I ha’ harpit a shadow out o’ the sun
 To stand before your face and cry;
I ha’ armed the earth beneath your heel,
 And over your head I ha’ dusked the sky.

“I ha’ harpit ye up to the throne o’ God,
 I ha’ harpit your midmost soul in three;
I ha’ harpit ye down to the Hinges o’ Hell,
 And — ye — would — make — a Knight o’ me!”

The Last Suttee

Not many years ago a King died in one of the Rajpoot States. His wives, disregarding the orders of the English against Suttee, would have broken out of the palace had not the gates been barred. But one of them, disguised as the King’s favourite dancing-girl, passed through the line of guards and reached the pyre. There, her courage failing, she prayed her cousin, a baron of the court, to kill her. This he did, not knowing who she was.

Udai Chand lay sick to death
    In his hold by Gungra hill.
All night we heard the death-gongs ring
For the soul of the dying Rajpoot King,
All night beat up from the women’s wing
    A cry that we could not still.

All night the barons came and went,
    The lords of the outer guard:
All night the cressets glimmered pale
On Ulwar sabre and Tonk jezail,
Mewar headstall and Marwar mail,
    That clinked in the palace yard.

In the Golden room on the palace roof
    All night he fought for air:
And there was sobbing behind the screen,
Rustle and whisper of women unseen,
And the hungry eyes of the Boondi Queen
    On the death she might not share.

He passed at dawn — the death-fire leaped
    From ridge to river-head,
From the Malwa plains to the Abu scars:
And wail upon wail went up to the stars
Behind the grim zenana-bars,
    When they knew that the King was dead.

The dumb priest knelt to tie his mouth
    And robe him for the pyre.
The Boondi Queen beneath us cried:
“See, now, that we die as our mothers died
In the bridal-bed by our master’s side!
    Out, women! — to the fire!”

We drove the great gates home apace:
    White hands were on the sill:
But ere the rush of the unseen feet
Had reached the turn to the open street,
The bars shot down, the guard-drum beat —
    We held the dovecot still.

A face looked down in the gathering day,
    And laughing spoke from the wall:
“Oh]/e, they mourn here:  let me by —
Azizun, the  Lucknow nautch-girl, I!
When the house is rotten, the rats must fly,
    And I seek another thrall.

“For I ruled the King as ne’er did Queen, —
    To-night the Queens rule me!
Guard them safely, but let me go,
Or ever they pay the debt they owe
In scourge and torture!”  She leaped below,
    And the grim guard watched her flee.

They knew that the King had spent his soul
    On a North-bred dancing-girl:
That he prayed to a flat-nosed Lucknow god,
And kissed the ground where her feet had trod,
And doomed to death at her drunken nod,
    And swore by her lightest curl.

We bore the King to his fathers’ place,
    Where the tombs of the Sun-born stand:
Where the gray apes swing, and the peacocks preen
On fretted pillar and jewelled screen,
And the wild boar couch in the house of the Queen
    On the drift of the desert sand.

The herald read his titles forth,
    We set the logs aglow:
“Friend of the English, free from fear,
Baron of Luni to Jeysulmeer,
Lord of the Desert of Bikaneer,
    King of the Jungle, — go!”

All night the red flame stabbed the sky
    With wavering wind-tossed spears:
And out of a shattered temple crept
A woman who veiled her head and wept,
And called on the King — but the great King slept,
    And turned not for her tears.

Small thought had he to mark the strife —
    Cold fear with hot desire —
When thrice she leaped from the leaping flame,
And thrice she beat her breast for shame,
And thrice like a wounded dove she came
    And moaned about the fire.

One watched, a bow-shot from the blaze,
    The silent streets between,
Who had stood by the King in sport and fray,
To blade in ambush or boar at bay,
And he was a baron old and gray,
    And kin to the Boondi Queen.

He said:  “O shameless, put aside
    The veil upon thy brow!
Who held the King and all his land
To the wanton will of a harlot’s hand!
Will the white ash rise from the blistered brand?
    Stoop down, and call him now!”

Then she:  “By the faith of my tarnished soul,
    All things I did not well,
I had hoped to clear ere the fire died,
And lay me down by my master’s side
To rule in Heaven his only bride,
    While the others howl in Hell.

“But I have felt the fire’s breath,
    And hard it is to die!
Yet if I may pray a Rajpoot lord
To sully the steel of a Thakur’s sword
With base-born blood of a trade abhorred,” —
    And the Thakur answered, “Ay.”

He drew and struck:  the straight blade drank
    The life beneath the breast.
“I had looked for the Queen to face the flame,
But the harlot dies for the Rajpoot dame —
Sister of mine, pass, free from shame,
    Pass with thy King to rest!”

The black log crashed above the white:
    The little flames and lean,
Red as slaughter and blue as steel,
That whistled and fluttered from head to heel,
Leaped up anew, for they found their meal
    On the heart of — the Boondi Queen!

Late Came the God

“The Wish House”
Late came the God, having sent his forerunners who were
      not regarded —
  Late, but in wrath;
Saying: “The wrong shall be paid, the contempt be rewarded
  On all that she hath.”
He poisoned the blade and struck home, the full bosom receiving
The wound and the venom in one, past cure or relieving.
He made treaty with Time to stand still that the grief might
     be fresh —
Daily renewed and nightly pursued through her soul to her
     flesh —
Mornings of memory, noontides of agony, midnights unslaked
     for her,
Till the stones of the streets of her Hells and her Paradise ached
     for her.

So she lived while her body corrupted upon her.
  And she called on the Night for a sign, and a Sign was allowed,
And she builded an Altar and served by the light of her Vision —
  Alone, without hope of regard or reward, but uncowed,
Resolute, selfless, divine.
  These things she did in Love’s honour...
What is a God beside Woman? Dust and derision!

The Law of the Jungle

(From The Jungle Book)

Now this is the Law of the Jungle — as old and as true as the sky;
And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die.
As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back —
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.