Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1074 page)

Now, this is the faith that the White Men hold —
     When they build their homes afar —
“Freedom for ourselves and freedom for our sons
      And, failing freedom, War.”
We have proved our faith — bear witness to our faith,
      Dear souls of freemen slain!
Oh, well for the world when the White Men join
      To prove their faith again!

Song of the Wise Children

1902
When the darkened Fifties dip to the North,
  And frost and the fog divide the air,
And the day is dead at his breaking-forth,
  Sirs, it is bitter beneath the Bear!

Far to Southward they wheel and glance,
  The million molten spears of morn —
The spears of our deliverance
  That shine on the house where we were born.

Flying-fish about our bows,
  Flying sea-fires in our wake:
This is the road to our Father’s House,
  Whither we go for our souls’ sake!

We have forfeited our birthright,
  We have forsaken all things meet;
We have forgotten the look of light,
  We have forgotten the scent of heart.

They that walk with shaded brows,
  Year by year in a shining land,
They be men of our Father’s House,
  They shall receive us and understand.

We shall go back by the boltless doors,
  To the life unaltered our childhood knew —
To the naked feet on the cool, dark floors,
  And the high-ceiled rooms that the Trade blows through:

To the trumpet-flowers and the moon beyond,
  And the tree-toad’s chorus drowning all —
And the lisp of the split banana-frond
  That talked us to sleep when we were small.

The wayside magic, the threshold spells,
  Shall soon undo what the North has done —
Because of the sights and the sounds and the smells
  That ran with our youth in the eye of the sun.

And Earth accepting shall ask no vows,
  Nor the Sea our love, nor our lover the Sky.
When we return to our Father’s House
  Only the English shall wonder why!

The Song of the Women

How shall she know the worship we would do her?
  The walls are high, and she is very far.
How shall the woman’s message reach unto her
  Above the tumult of the packed bazaar?
    Free wind of March, against the lattice blowing,
    Bear thou our thanks, lest she depart unknowing.

Go forth across the fields we may not roam in,
  Go forth beyond the trees that rim the city,
To whatsoe’er fair place she hath her home in,
  Who dowered us with walth of love and pity.
    Out of our shadow pass, and seek her singing —
    “I have no gifts but Love alone for bringing.”

Say that we be a feeble folk who greet her,
  But old in grief, and very wise in tears;
Say that we, being desolate, entreat her
  That she forget us not in after years;
    For we have seen the light, and it were grievous
    To dim that dawning if our lady leave us.

By life that ebbed with none to stanch the failing
  By Love’s sad harvest garnered in the spring,
When Love in ignorance wept unavailing
  O’er young buds dead before their blossoming;
    By all the grey owl watched, the pale moon viewed,
    In past grim years, declare our gratitude!

By hands uplifted to the Gods that heard not,
  By fits that found no favor in their sight,
By faces bent above the babe that stirred not,
  By nameless horrors of the stifling night;
    By ills foredone, by peace her toils discover,
    Bid Earth be good beneath and Heaven above her!

If she have sent her servants in our pain
  If she have fought with Death and dulled his sword;
If she have given back our sick again.
  And to the breast the wakling lips restored,
    Is it a little thing that she has wrought?
    Then Life and Death and Motherhood be nought.

Go forth, O wind, our message on thy wings,
  And they shall hear thee pass and bid thee speed,
In reed-roofed hut, or white-walled home of kings,
  Who have been helpen by ther in their need.
    All spring shall give thee fragrance, and the wheat
    Shall be a tasselled floorcloth to thy feet.   

Haste, for our hearts are with thee, take no rest!
  Loud-voiced ambassador, from sea to sea
Proclaim the blessing, mainfold, confessed.
  Of those in darkness by her hand set free.
    Then very softly to her presence move,
    And whisper: “Lady, lo, they know and love!”

The Songs of the Lathes

                1918
Being the  Words of the Tune Hummed at Her Lathe by Mrs. L. Embsay, Widow

The fans and the beltings they roar round me.
The power is shaking the floor round me
Till  the  lathes  pick  up  their  duty  and  the  midnight-shift takes over.
           It is good for me to be here!

Guns in Flanders — Flanders guns!
(I had a man that worked ‘em once!)
Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!
Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!
           Shells for guns in Flanders! Feeds the guns!

The cranes and the carriers they boom over me,
The bays and the galleries they loom over me,
With their quarter-mile of pillars growing little in the distance —
            It is good for me to be here!

The Zeppelins and Gothas they raid over us.
Our lights give warning, and fade over us.
(Seven thousand women keeping quiet in the darkness!)
            Oh, it’s good for me to be here.

The roofs and the buildings they grow round me,
Eating up the fields I used to know round me;
And the shed that I began in is a sub-inspector’s office —
            So long have I been here!

I’ve seen six hundred mornings make our lamps grow dim,
Through the bit that isn’t painted round our sky-light rim,
And the  sunshine   through  the  window  slope  according  to the  seasons,
          Twice since I’ve been here.

The trains on the sidings they call to us
With the hundred thousand blanks that they haul to us;
And we send  ‘em what we’ve  finished,  and they take it where it’s wanted,
          For that is why we are here!

Man’s hate passes as his love will pass.
God made Woman what she always was.
Them that bear the burden they will never grant forgiveness
          So long as they are here!

Once I was a woman, but that’s by with me.
All I loved and looked for, it must die with me;
But the Lord has left me over for a servant of the Judgment,
          And I serve His Judgments here!

Guns in Flanders — Flanders guns!
(I had a son that worked ‘em once!)
Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!
Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!
          Shells for guns in Flanders! Feeds the guns!

A Song to Mithras

Hymn of the XXX Legion: circa A.D. 350
“On the Great Wall” - Puck of Pook’s Hill
Mithras, God of the Morning, our trumpets waken the Wall!
“Rome is above the Nations, but thou art over all!”
Now as the names are answered, and the guards are marched away,
Mithras, also a soldier, give us strength for the day!

Mithras, God of the Noontide, the heather swims in the heat.
Our helmets scorch our foreheads, our sandals burn our feet.
Now in the ungirt hour – now lest we blink and drowse,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us true to our vows!

Mithras, God of the Sunset, low on the Western main –
Thou descending immortal, immortal to rise again!
Now when the watch is ended, now when the wine is drawn,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us pure till the dawn!

Mithras, God of the Midnight, here where the great Bull dies,
Look on Thy children in darkness. Oh, take our sacrifice!
Many roads Thou hast fashioned – all of them lead to Light!
Mithras, also a soldier, teach us to die aright.

The Sons of Martha

The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part;
But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.
And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,
Her Sons must wait upon Mary’s Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.

It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.
It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.
It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,
Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.

They say to mountains, “Be ye removed.” They say to the lesser floods, “Be dry.”
Under their rods are the rocks reproved — they are not afraid of that which is high.
Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit — then is the bed of the deep laid bare,
That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.

They finger death at their gloves’ end where they piece and repiece the living wires.
He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.
Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,
And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.

To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.
They are concerned with matters hidden — under the earthline their altars are —
The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,
And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city’s drouth.

They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.
They do not teach that His Pity allows them to drop their job when they dam’-well choose.
As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,
Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren’s days may be long in the land.

Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat —
Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!
Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,
But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.

And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessed — they know the Angels are on their side.
They know in them is the Grace confessed, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.
They sit at the Feet — they hear the World — they see how truly the Promise runs.
They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and — the Lord He lays it on Martha’s Sons!

South Africa

         1903

Lived a woman wonderful,
  (May the Lord amend her!)
Neither simple, kind, nor true,
But her Pagan beauty drew
Christian gentlemen a few
  Hotly to attend her.

Christian gentlemen a few
  From Berwick unto Dover;
For she was South Africa,
Ana she was South Africa,
She was Our South Africa,
  Africa all over!

Half her land was dead with drouth,
  Half was red with battle;
She was fenced with fire and sword
Plague on pestilence outpoured,
Locusts on the greening sward
  And murrain on the cattle!

True, ah true, and overtrue.
  That is why we love her!
For she is South Africa,
And she is South Africa,
She is Our South Africa,
  Africa all over!

Bitter hard her lovers toild,
  Scandalous their paymen, —
Food forgot on trains derailed;
Cattle — dung where fuel failed;
Water where the mules had staled;
  And sackcloth for their raiment!

So she filled their mouths with dust
  And their bones with fever;
Greeted them with cruel lies;
Treated them despiteful-wise;
Meted them calamities
  Till they vowed to leave her!

They took ship and they took sail,
  Raging, from her borders —
In a little, none the less,
They forgat their sore duresse;
They forgave her waywardness
  And returned for orders!

They esteemed her favour more
  Than a Throne’s foundation.
For the glory of her face
Bade farewell to breed and race —
Yea, and made their burial-place
  Altar of a Nation!

Wherefore, being bought by blood,
  And by blood restored
To the arms that nearly lost,
She, because of all she cost,
Stands, a very woman, most
  Perfect and adored!

On your feet, and let them know
  This is why we love her!
For she is South Africa,
She is Our South Africa,
Is Our Own South Africa,
  Africa all over!