Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1056 page)

          
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 threshold 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 air Tree,
 Wisdom, Strength, and Courtesy,
 Jungle-Favour go with thee!

The Overland Mail

(Foot-Service to the Hills)
In the name of the Empress of India, make way,
  O Lords of the Jungle, wherever you roam.
The woods are astir at the close of the day —
  We exiles are waiting for letters from Home.
Let the robber retreat — let the tiger turn tail —
In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail!

With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in,
  He turns to the foot-path that heads up the hill —
The bags on his back and a cloth round his chin,
  And, tucked in his waist-belt, the Post Office bill:
“Despatched on this date, as received by the rail,
Per
runnger, two bags of the Overland Mail.”

Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim.
  Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff.
Does the tempest cry “Halt”? What are tempests to him?
  The Service admits not a “but” or and “if.”
While the breath’s in his mouth, he must bear without fail,
In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail.

From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir,
  From level to upland, from upland to crest,
From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur,
  Fly the soft sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest.
From rail to ravine — to the peak from the vale —
Up, up through the night goes the Overland Mail.

There’s a speck on the hillside, a dot on the road —
  A jingle of bells on the foot-path below —
There’s a scuffle above in the monkey’s abode —
  The world is awake, and the clouds are aglow.
For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail:
“In the name of the Empress the Overland Mail!”

A Pageant of Elizabeth

Written for “The Pageant of Parliament,” 1934

    Like Princes  crowned  they  bore  them —
      Like Demi-Gods they wrought,
    When the New World lay before them
       In headlong fact and thought.
     Fate and their foemen proved them
       Above all meed of praise,
     And Gloriana loved them,
       And Shakespeare wrote them plays!
           .       .       .       .       .        .         .
Now Valour, Youth, and Life’s delight break forth
  In flames of wondrous deed, and thought sublime — -
Lightly to mould new worlds or lightly loose
  Words that shall shake and shape all after-time!

Giants with giants, wits with wits engage,
  And England-England-England takes the breath
Of morning, body and soul, till the great Age
  Fulfills in one great chord: — Elizabeth!

Pagett, M.P.

The toad beneath the harrow knows
Exactly where eath tooth-point goes.
The butterfly upon the road
Preaches contentment to that toad.

Pagett, M.P., was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith —
He spoke of the heat of India as the “Asian Solar Myth”;
Came on a four months’ visit, to “study the East,” in November,
And I got him to sign an agreement vowing to stay till September.

March came in with the
koil.
Pagett was cool and gay,
Called me a “bloated Brahmin,” talked of my “princely pay.”
March went out with the roses. “Where is your heat?” said he.
“Coming,” said I to Pagett, “Skittles!” said Pagett, M.P.

April began with the punkah, coolies, and prickly-heat, —
Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat.
He grew speckled and mumpy-hammered, I grieve to say,
Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way.

May set in with a dust-storm, — Pagett went down with the sun.
All the delights of the season tickled him one by one.
Imprimis
— ten day’s “liver” — due to his drinking beer;
Later, a dose of fever — slight, but he called it severe.

Dysent’ry touched him in June, after the
Chota Bursat
—
Lowered his portly person — made him yearn to depart.
He didn’t call me a “Brahmin,” or “bloated,” or “overpaid,”
But seemed to think it a wonder that any one stayed.

July was a trifle unhealthy, — Pagett was ill with fear.
‘Called it the “Cholera Morbus,” hinted that life was dear.
He babbled of “Eastern Exile,” and mentioned his home with tears;
But I haven’t seen
my
children for close upon seven years.

We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon,
(I’ve mentioned Pagett was portly) Pagett, went off in a swoon.
That was an end to the business; Pagett, the perjured, fled
With a practical, working knowledge of “Solar Myths” in his head.

And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lips
As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their “Eastern trips,”
And the sneers of the traveled idiots who duly misgovern the land,
And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand.

The Palace

1902
When I was a King and a Mason — a Master proven and skilled —
I cleared me ground for a Palace such as a King should build.
I decreed and dug down to my levels. Presently, under the silt,
I came on the wreck of a Palace such as a King had built.

There was no worth in the fashion — there was no wit in the plan —
Hither and thither, aimless, the ruined footings ran —
Masonry, brute, mishandled, but carven on every stone:
“After me cometh a Builder. Tell him, I too have known.”

Swift to my use in my trenches, where my well-planned ground-works grew,
I tumbled his quoins and his ashlars, and cut and reset them anew.
Lime I milled of his marbles; burned it, slacked it, and spread;
Taking and leaving at pleasure the gifts of the humble dead.

Yet I despised not nor gloried; yet, as we wrenched them apart,
I read in the razed foundations the heart of that builder’s heart.
As he had risen and pleaded, so did I understand
The form of the dream he had followed in the face of the thing he had planned.

            *   *   *   *   *

When I was a King and a Mason — in the open noon of my pride,
They sent me a Word from the Darkness. They whispered and called me aside.
They said — “The end is forbidden.” They said — “Thy use is fulfilled.
“Thy Palace shall stand as that other’s — the spoil of a King who shall build.”

I called my men from my trenches, my quarries, my wharves, and my sheers.
All I had wrought I abandoned to the faith of the faithless years.
Only I cut on the timber — only I carved on the stone:
“AfterT me cometh a BuilderT. Tell him, I too have known!”

Pan in Vermont

1893

It’s forty in the shade to-day, the spouting eaves declare;
The boulders nose above the drift, the southern slopes are bare;
Hub-deep in slush Apollo’s car swings north along the Zod-
iac. Good luck, the Spring is back, and Pan is on the road!

His house is Gee & Tellus’ Sons, – so goes his jest with men –
He sold us Zeus knows what last year; he’ll take us in again.
Disguised behind the livery-team, fur-coated, rubber-shod –
Yet Apis from the bull-pen lows – he knows his brother God!

Now down the lines of tasseled pines the yearning whispers wake –
Pithys of old thy love behold! Come in for Hermes’s sake!
How long since that so-Boston boot with reeling Maenads ran!
Numen adest!
Let be the rest. Pipe and we pay, O Pan.

(What though his phlox and hollyhocks ere half a month demised?
What though his ampelopsis clambered not as advertised?
Though every seed was guaranteed and every standard true –
Forget, forgive they did not live! Believe, and buy anew!)

Now o’er a careless knee he flings the painted page abroad –
Such bloom hath never eye beheld this side of Eden Sword;
Such fruit Pomona marks her own, yea, Liber oversees,
That we may reach (one dollar each) the Lost Hesperides!

Serene, assenting, unabashed, he writes our orders down: –
Blue Asphodel on all our paths – a few true bays for crown –
Uncankered bud, immoral flower, and leaves that never fall –
Apples of Gold, of Youth, of Health – and – thank you, Pan, that’s all….

He’s off along the drifted pent to catch the Windsor train,
And swindle every citizen from Keene to Lake Champlain.
But where his goat’s-hoof cut the crust – beloved, look below –
He’s left us (I’ll forgive him all) the may-flower ‘neath her snow!

Parade-Song of the Camp-Animals

              
“Her Majesty’s Servants” — The Jungle Book
                Elephants of the Gun-Teams
We lent to Alexander the strength of Hercules,
The wisdom of our foreheads, the cunning of our knees.
We bowed our necks to service — they ne’er were loosed again, —
Make way there, way for the ten-foot teams
        Of the Forty-Pounder train!

                  
Gun-Bullocks

   Those heroes in their harnesses avoid a cannon-ball,
   And what they know of powder upsets them one and all;
   Then we come into action and tug the guns again, —
   Make way there, way for the twenty yoke
            Of the Forty-Pounder train!

                   
Cavalry Horses

      By the brand on my withers, the finest of tunes
      Is played by the Lancers, Hussars, and Dragoons,
      And it’s sweeter than “Stables” or “Water” to me,
      The Cavalry Canter of “Bonnie Dundee!”

      Then feed us and break us and handle and groom,
      And give us good riders and plenty of room,
      And launch us in column of squadron and see
      The Way  of the War-horse to “Bonnie Dundee!”
  

                 
Screw-Gun Mules

As me and my companions were scrambling up a hill,
The path was lost in rolling stones, but we went forward still;
For we can wriggle and climb, my lads, an  turn up everywhere
And it’s our delight on a mountain height, with a leg or two to spare!

Good luck to every sergeant, then, that lets us pick our road:
Bad luck to all the driver-men that cannot pack a load!
For we can wriggle and climb, my lads, and turn up everywhere,
And it’s our delight on a mountain height, with a leg or two to spare!

                 
Commissariat Camels

           We haven’t a camelty tune of our own
           To help us trollop along,
           But every neck is a hair-trombone
           (Rtt-ta-ta-ta! is a hair-trombone! )
           And this is our marching-song:
          
Can’t! Don’t! Shan’t! Won’t!
           Pass it along the line!
           Somebody’s pack has slid from his back,
           ‘Wish it were only mine!
           Somebody’s load has tipped off in the road —
           Cheer for a halt and a row!
          
Urrr! Yarrh! Grr! Arrh!
           Somebody’s catching it now!

                
All The Beasts Together

               Children of the Camp are we,
               Serving each in his degree;
               Children of the yoke and goad,
               Pack and harness, pad and load.
               See our line across the plain,
               Like a heel-rope bent again,
               Reaching, writhing, rolling far,
               Sweeping all away to war!
               While the men that walk beside,
               Dusty, silent, heavy-eyed,
               Cannot tell why we or they
               March and suffer day by day.
                  
Children. of the Camp are we,
                    Serving each in his degree;
                    Children of the yoke and goad,
                    Pack and harness, pad and load!