Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1072 page)

The tempest flung me seaward,
  And pinned and bade me hold
The course I might not alter —
 And men esteemed me bold!
The calms embayed my quarry,
  The fog-wreath sealed his eyes;
The dawn-wind brought my topsails —
  And men esteemed me wise!

Yet, ‘spite my tyrant triumphs,
  Bewildered, dispossessed —
My dream held I beore me
  My vision of my rest;
But, crowned by Fleet and People,
  And bound by King and Pope —
Stands here Diego Valdez
  To rob me of my hope.

No prayer of mine shall move him.
  No word of his set free
The Lord of Sixty Pennants
  And the Steward of the Sea.
His will can loose ten thousand
  To seek their loves again —
But not Diego Valdez,
  High Admiral of Spain.

There walks no wind ‘neath Heaven
   Nor wave that shall restore
The old careening riot
  And the clamorous, crowded shore —
The fountain in the desert,
  The cistern in the waste,
The bread we ate in secret,
  The cup we spilled in haste.

Now call I to my Captains —
  For council fly the sign —
Now leap their zealous galleys,
  Twelve-oared, across the brine.
To me the straiter prison,
  To me the heavier chain —
To me Diego Valdez,
  High Admiral of Spain!

Song of the Dynamo

How do I know what Order brings
Me into being?
I only know, if you do certain things,
I must become your Hearing and your Seeing;
Also your Strength, to make great wheels go round,
And save your sons from toil, while I am bound!

What do I care how you dispose
The Powers that move me?
I only know that I am one with those
True Powers which rend the firmament above me,
And, harrying earth, would save me at the last-
But that your coward foresight holds me fast!

A Song of the English

Fair is our lot — O goodly is our heritage!
(Humble ye, my people, and be fearful in your mirth!)
 For the Lord our God Most High
 He hath made the deep as dry,
He hath smote for us a pathway to the ends of all the Earth!

Yea, though we sinned — and our rulers went from righteousness —
Deep in all dishonour though we stained our garments’ hem.
 Oh be ye not dismayed,
 Though we stumbled and we strayed,
We were led by evil counsellors — the Lord shall deal with them!

Hold ye the Faith — the Faith our Fathers seal]\ed us;
Whoring not with visions — overwise and overstale.
 Except ye pay the Lord
 Single heart and single sword,
Of your children in their bondage shall He ask them treble-tale!

Keep ye the Law — be swift in all obedience —
Clear the land of evil, drive the road and bridge the ford.
 Make ye sure to each his own
 That he reap where he hath sown;
By the peace among Our peoples let men know we serve the Lord!

          .    .    .    .    .

Hear now a song — a song of broken interludes —
A song of little cunning; of a singer nothing worth.
 Through the naked words and mean
 May ye see the truth between
As the singer knew and touched it in the ends of all the Earth!

Song of the Fifth River

“The Treasure and the Low” — Puck of Pook’s Hills.

Where first by Eden Tree
The Four Great Rivers ran,
To each was appointed a Man
Her Prince and Ruler to be.

But after this was ordained
(The ancient legends’ tell),
There came dark Israel,
For whom no River remained.

Then He Whom the Rivers obey
Said to him: “Fling on the ground
A handful of yellow clay,
And a Fifth Great River shall run,
Mightier than these Four,
In secret the  Earth around;
And Her secret evermore,
Shall be shown to thee and thy Race.”

So it was said and done.
And, deep in the veins of Earth,
And, fed by a thousand springs
That comfort the market-place,
Or sap the power of King,
The Fifth Great River had birth,
Even as it was foretold —
The Secret River of Gold!

And Israel laid down
His sceptre and his crown,
To brood on that River bank
Where the waters flashed and sank
And burrowed in earth and fell
And bided a season below,
For reason that none might know,
Save only Israel

He is Lord of the Last —
The Fifth, most wonderful, Flood.
He hears Her thunder past
And Her Song is in his blood.
He can foresay: “She will fall,”
For he knows which fountain dries
Behind which desert-belt
A thousand leagues to the South.

He can foresay:  “She will rise.”
He knows what far snows melt
Along what mountain-wall
A thousand leagues to the North,
He snuffs the coming drouth
As he snuffs the coming rain,
He knows what each will bring forth,
And turns it to his gain.

A Ruler without a Throne,
A Prince without a Sword,
Israel follows his quest.
In every land a guest,
Of many lands a lord,
In no land King is he.
But the Fifth Great River keeps
The secret of Her deeps
For Israel alone,
As it was ordered to be.

A Song of French Roads

1923
“The National Roads of France are numbered
throughout, and carry their numbers upon each
kilometre stone. By following these indications,
comprehensible even to strangers, the tourist
can see at a glance if he is on the correct road.
For example, Route Nationale No. 20 conducts
from Paris to the Spanish frontier at Bourg-
Madame, in the Eastern Pyrenees; and No. 10
to the same frontier at Hendaye, on the Bay of
Biscay: “-GUIDE BOOK.

Now praise the Gods of Time and Chance
That bring a heart’s desire,
And lay the joyous roads of France
Once more beneath the tyre-
So numbered by Napoleon,
The veriest ass can spy
How Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame
And Ten is for Hendaye.

Sixteen hath fed our fighting-line
From Dunkirk to Peronne,
And Thirty-nine and Twenty-nine
Can show where it has gone,
Which slant through Arras and Bapaume,
And join outside Cambrai,
While Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye!

The crops and houses spring once more
Where Thirty-seven ran,
And even ghostly Forty-four
Is all restored to man.
Oh, swift as shell-hole poppies pass
The blurring years go by,
And Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye!

And you desire that sheeted snow
Where chill Mont Louis stands?
And we the rounder gales that blow
Full-lunged across the Landes-
So you will use the Orleans Gate,
While we slip through Versailles;
Since Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye.

Sou’-West by South-and South by West-
On every vine appear
Those four first cautious leaves that test
The temper of the year;
The dust is white at Angouleme,
The sun is warm at Blaye;
And Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye.

Broad and unbridled, mile on mile,
The highway drops her line
Past Langon down that grey-walled aisle
Of resin-scented pine;
And ninety to the lawless hour
The kilometres fly-
What was your pace to Bourg-Madame?
We sauntered to Hendaye.

Now Fontarabia marks our goal,
And Bidassoa shows,
At issue with each whispering shoal
In violet, pearl and rose,
Ere crimson over ocean’s edge
The sunset banners die . . .
Yes-Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
But Ten is for Hendaye!

Oh, praise the Gods of Time and Chance
That ease the long control
And bring the glorious soul of France
Once more to cheer our soul
With beauty, change and valiancy
Of sun and soil and sky,
Where Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye!

Song of the Galley-Slaves

“The Finest Story in the World”
 — Many Inventions

We pulled for you when the wind was against us and the sails
     were low.
       
Will you never let us go?
We ate bread and onions when you took towns, or ran aboard
     quickly when you were beaten back by the foe.
The Captains walked up and down the deck in fair weather sing-
     ing songs, but we were below.
We fainted with our chins on the oars and you did not see that
     we were idle, for we still swung to and fro.
       
Will you never let us go?
The solt made the oar-hands like shark-skin; our knees were
     cut to the bone with salt-cracks; our hair was stuck to
     our foreheads; and our lips were cut to the gums, and you
     whipped us because we could not row.
       
Will you never let us go?
But, in a little time, we shall run out of the port-holes as the water
     runs along the oar-blade,  and though you tell the others
     to row after us you will never catch us till you catch the
     oar-thresh and tie up the winds in the belly of the sail.
     Aho!
        
Will you never let us go?

A Song of Kabir

Oh, light was the world that he weighed in his hands!
Oh, heavy the tale of his fiefs and his lands!
He has gone from the
guddee
and put on the shroud,
And departed in guise of
bairagi
avowed!

Now the white road to Delhi is mat for his feet.
The
sal
and the
kikar
must guard him from heat.
His home is the camp, and waste, and the crowd —
He is seeking the Way as
bairagi
avowed!

He has looked upon Man, and his eyeballs are clear —
(There was One; there is One, and but One, saith Kabir);
The Red Mist of Doing has thinned to a cloud —
He has taken the Path for
bairagi
avowed!

To learn and discern of his brother the clod,
Of his brother the brute, and his brother the God,
He has gone from the council and put on the shroud
(“Can ye hear?” saith Kabir), a
bairagi
avowed!

bairagi

— Wandering holy man.
kikar
— Wayside trees.

The Song of the Little Hunter

“The King  Ankus” — The Second Jungle Book

Ere Mor the Peacock flutters, ere the Monkey People cry,
  Ere Chil the Kite swoops down a furlong sheer,
Through the Jungle very softly flits a shadow and a sigh —
  He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!
Very softly down the glade runs a waiting, watching shade,
  And the whisper spreads and widens far and near.
And the sweat is on thy brow, for he passes even now —
  He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!

Ere the moon has climbed the mountain, ere the rocks are ribbed with light,
  When the downward-dipping trails are dank and drear,
Comes a breathing hard behind thee — snuffle-snuffle through the night —
  It is Fear, O Little Hunter  it is Fear,
On thy knees and draw the bow; bid the shrilling arrow go;
  In the empty, mocking thicket plunge the spear!
But thy hands are loosed and weak, and the blood has left thy cheek —
  It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!

When the heat-cloud sucks the tempest, when the slivered pine-trees fall,
  When the blinding, blaring rain-squalls lash and veer,
Through the war-gongs of the thunder rings a voice more loud than all —
  It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
Now the spates are banked and deep; now the footless boulders leap —
  Now the lightning shows each littlest leaf — rib clear —
But thy throat is shut and dried, and thy heart against thy side
  Hammers: Fear, O Little Hunter — this is Fear!

Song of the Men’s Side

Neolithic
“The Knife and the Naked Chalk”
 — Rewards and Fairies
    Once we feared The Beast — when he followed us we ran,
      Ran very fast though we knew
    It was not right that The Beast should master Man;
      But what could we Flint-workers do?
    The Beast only grinned at our spears round his ears —
      Grinned at the hammers that we made;
    But now we will hunt him for the life with the Knife —
       And this is the Buyer of the Blade!

        
Room for  his shadow on the grass — let it pass!
            To left and right-stand clear!
         This is the Buyer of the Blade — be afraid!
           This is the great god Tyr!