“Rabbi Ben Ezra” (by Robert Browning, 1812-89). Youth is for dispute and age for counsel; each year, each period of a man’s life is but the necessary step to the next. Youth is an uncertain thing to bank on.
“Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life for which the first was made.”
“Rabbi Ben Ezra” is a plea for each period in life. Aspiration is the keynote.
“ ... Trust God; see all, nor be afraid!”
Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in His hand Who saith, “A whole I plann’d, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all nor be afraid!”
Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sigh’d, “Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall?” Not that, admiring stars, It yearn’d, “Nor Jove, nor Mars; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!”
Not for such hopes and fears Annulling youth’s brief years, Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without, Finish’d and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.
Poor vaunt of life indeed, Were man but formed to feed On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: Such feasting ended, then As sure an end to men; Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-cramm’d beast?
Rejoice we are allied To That which doth provide And not partake, effect and not receive! A spark disturbs our clod; Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe.
Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth’s smoothness rough, Each sting, that bids nor sit nor stand, but go! Be our joys three parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!
For thence,—a paradox Which comforts while it mocks,— Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: What I aspired to be, And was not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink i’ the scale.
What is he but a brute Whose flesh has soul to suit, Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? To man, propose this test— Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?
Yet gifts should prove their use: I own the Past profuse Of power each side, perfection every turn: Eyes, ears took in their dole, Brain treasured up the whole: Should not the heart beat once “How good to live and learn?”
Not once beat “Praise be Thine! I see the whole design, I, who saw power, see now love perfect too: Perfect I call Thy plan: Thanks that I was a man! Maker, remake, complete,—I trust what Thou shalt do!”
For pleasant is this flesh, Our soul, in its rose-mesh Pull’d ever to the earth, still yearns for rest; Would we some prize might hold To match those manifold Possessions of the brute,—gain most, as we did best!
Let us not always say, “Spite of this flesh to-day I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!” As the bird wings and sings, Let us cry, “All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!”
Therefore I summon age To grant youth’s heritage, Life’s struggle having so far reached its term: Thence shall I pass, approved A man, for aye removed From the developed brute; a god though in the germ.
And I shall thereupon Take rest, ere I be gone Once more on my adventure brave and new: Fearless and unperplex’d, When I wage battle next, What weapons to select, what armour to indue.
Youth ended, I shall try My gain or loss thereby; Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold: And I shall weigh the same, Give life its praise or blame: Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.
For note, when evening shuts, A certain moment cuts The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: A whisper from the west Shoots—“Add this to the rest, Take it and try its worth: here dies another day.”
So, still within this life, Though lifted o’er its strife, Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, “This rage was right i’ the main, That acquiescence vain: The Future I may face now I have proved the Past”
For more is not reserved To man, with soul just nerved To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: Here, work enough to watch The Master work, and catch Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool’s true play.
As it was better, youth Should strive, through acts uncouth, Toward making, than repose on aught found made: So, better, age, exempt From strife, should know, than tempt Further. Thou waitedest age: wait death nor be afraid!
Enough now, if the Right And Good and Infinite Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, With knowledge absolute, Subject to no dispute From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone.
Be there, for once and all, Sever’d great minds from small, Announced to each his station in the Past! Was I, the world arraigned, Were they, my soul disdain’d, Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last!
Now, who shall arbitrate? Ten men love what I hate, Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; Ten, who in ears and eyes Match me: we all surmise, They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe?
Not on the vulgar mass Call’d “work,” must sentence pass, Things done, that took the eye and had the price; O’er which, from level stand, The low world laid its hand, Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:
But all, the world’s coarse thumb And finger fail’d to plumb, So pass’d in making up the main account; All instincts immature, All purposes unsure, That weigh’d not as his work, yet swell’d the man’s amount:
Thoughts hardly to be pack’d Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped, All I could never be, All, men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.
Ay, note that Potter’s wheel, That metaphor! and feel Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,— Thou, to whom fools propound, When the wine makes its round, “Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!”
Fool! All that is, at all, Lasts ever, past recall; Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure; What enter’d into thee, That was, is, and shall be: Time’s wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure.
He fix’d thee ’mid this dance Of plastic circumstance, This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest Machinery just meant To give thy soul its bent, Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impress’d.
What though the earlier grooves Which ran the laughing loves Around thy base, no longer pause and press? What though, about thy rim, Scull-things in order grim Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?
Look not thou down but up! To uses of a cup, The festal board, lamp’s flash and trumpet’s peal, The new wine’s foaming flow, The master’s lips aglow! Thou, heaven’s consummate cup, what need’st thou with earth’s wheel?
But I need, now as then, Thee, God, who mouldest men; And since, not even while the whirl was worst Did I,—to the wheel of life With shapes and colours rife, Bound dizzily,—mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst:
So, take and use Thy work: Amend what flaws may lurk, What strain o’ the stuff, what warpings past the aim! My times be in Thy hand! Perfect the cup as plann’d! Lest age approve of youth, and death complete the same! |
Robert Browning.
“Prospice,” by Robert Browning (1812-89), is the greatest death song ever written. It is a battle-song and a pæan of victory.
“The journey is done, the summit attained,
And the strong man must go.”
“I would hate that Death bandaged my eyes and forebore,
And bade me creep past.”
“No! let me taste the whole of it”
“The reward of all.”
This poem is included in this book because these lines are enough to reconcile any one to any fate.
Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go: For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall, Though a battle’s to fight ere a guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more. The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forebore, And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life’s arrears Of pain, darkness, and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute’s at end. And the elements’ rage, the fiend-voices that rave Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest! |
Robert Browning.
The “Recessional” (by Rudyard Kipling, 1865-) is one of the most popular poems of this century. It is a warning to an age and a nation drunk with power, a rebuke to materialistic tendencies and boastfulness, a protest against pride.
“Reverence is the master-key of knowledge.”
God of our fathers, known of old— Lord of our far-flung battle-line— Beneath whose awful Hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies— The captains and the kings depart— Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget!
Far-called our navies melt away— On dune and headland sinks the fire— Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe— Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the Law— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard— All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard— For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord! Amen. |
Rudyard Kipling.
“Ozymandias of Egypt,” by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822). This sonnet is a rebuke to the insolent pride of kings and empires. It is extremely picturesque. It finds a place here because more elderly scholars of good judgment are pleased with it. I remember an old gray-haired scholar in Chicago who often recited it to his friends merely because it touched his fancy.
I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mock’d them and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal these words appear: 'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’ Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away.” |
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
“Mortality” (by William Knox, 1789-1825) is always quoted as Lincoln’s favourite poem.
O why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passes from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high, Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.
The child that a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant’s affection that proved, The husband that mother and infant that blessed, Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure,—her triumphs are by; And the memory of those that beloved her and praised Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne, The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn, The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, The beggar that wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven, The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed That wither away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes, even those we behold, To repeat every tale that hath often been told.
For we are the same that our fathers have been; We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,— We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, And we run the same course that our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink; To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling; But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.
They loved, but their story we cannot unfold; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come; They enjoyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb.
They died, ay! they died! and we things that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, Who make in their dwellings a transient abode, Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea! hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, Are mingled together like sunshine and rain; And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge, Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
’Tis the wink of an eye, ’tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,— O why should the spirit of mortal be proud? |
William Knox.
“On First Looking Into Chapman’s 'Homer,’” by John Keats (1795-1821). The last four lines of this sonnet form the most tremendous climax in literature. The picture is as vivid as if done with a brush. Every great book, every great poem is a new world, an undiscovered country. Every learned person is a whole territory, a universe of new thought. Every one who does anything with a heart for it, every specialist every one, however simple, who is strenuous and genuine, is a “new discovery.” Let us give credit to the smallest planet that is true to its own orbit.
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific—and all his men Look’d at each other with a wild surmise— Silent, upon a peak in Darien. |
John Keats.
“Hervé Riel” (by Robert Browning, 1812-89) is a poem for older boys. Here is a hero who does a great deed simply as a part of his day’s work. He puts no value on what he has done, because he could have done no other way.
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French—woe to France! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view.
’Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase, First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signalled to the place, “Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick—or, quicker still, Here’s the English can and will!”
Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on board: “Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?” laughed they; “Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the Formidable here, with her twelve and eighty guns, Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where ’tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons. And with flow at full beside? Now ’tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring! Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!”
Then was called a council straight; Brief and bitter the debate: “Here’s the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that’s left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound?— Better run the ships aground!” (Ended Damfreville his speech.) “Not a minute more to wait! Let the captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate.
“Give the word!”—But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these— A captain? A lieutenant? A mate—first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet— A poor coasting pilot he, Hervé Riel, the Croisiekese.
And “What mockery or malice have we here?” cries Hervé Riel: “Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell, ’Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying’s for? Morn and eve, night and day. Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there’s a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this Formidable clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Grève, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, —Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I’ve nothing but my life,—here’s my head!” cries Hervé Riel.
Not a minute more to wait “Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!” cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief. Still the north wind, by God’s grace! See the noble fellow’s face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea’s profound! See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harboured to the last, And just as Hervé Riel hollas “Anchor!”—sure as fate, Up the English come—too late!
So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o’erlooking Grève. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm, “Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away! ’Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!” How hope succeeds despair on each Captain’s countenance! Out burst all with one accord, “This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France’s King Thank the man that did the thing!” What a shout, and all one word, “Hervé Riel!” As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before.
Then said Damfreville, “My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips: You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. ’Faith, our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate’er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart’s content and have! or my name’s not Damfreville.”
Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: “Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty’s done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?— Since ’tis ask and have, I may— Since the others go ashore— Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!” That he asked and that he got,—nothing more.
Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. So, for better and for worse, Hervé Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore! |
Robert Browning.
“The Problem” (by Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803-80) is quoted from one end of the world to the other. Emerson teaches one lesson above all others, that each soul must work out for itself its latent force, its own individual expression, and that with a “sad sincerity.” “The bishop of the soul” can do no more.
I like a church; I like a cowl; I love a prophet of the soul; And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles: Yet not for all his faith can see Would I that cowlèd churchman be. Why should the vest on him allure, Which I could not on me endure?
Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought; Never from lips of cunning fell The thrilling Delphic oracle; Out from the heart of nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old; The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano’s tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below,— The canticles of love and woe: The hand that rounded Peter’s dome And groined the aisles of Christian Rome Wrought in a sad sincerity; Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew; The conscious stone to beauty grew.
Knowst thou what wove yon woodbird’s nest Of leaves and feathers from her breast? Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, Painting with morn each annual cell? Or how the sacred pine-tree adds To her old leaves new myriads? Such and so grew these holy piles, While love and terror laid the tiles. Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, As the best gem upon her zone, And Morning opes with haste her lids To gaze upon the Pyramids; O’er England’s abbeys bends the sky, As on its friends, with kindred eye; For out of Thought’s interior sphere These wonders rose to upper air; And Nature gladly gave them place, Adopted them into her race, And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Ararat.
These temples grew as grows the grass; Art might obey, but not surpass. The passive Master lent his hand To the vast soul that o’er him planned; And the same power that reared the shrine Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. Ever the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting choirs, And through the priest the mind inspires. The word unto the prophet spoken Was writ on tables yet unbroken; The word by seers or sibyls told, In groves of oak, or fanes of gold.
Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost. I know what say the fathers wise,— The Book itself before me lies, Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, And he who blent both in his line, The younger Golden Lips or mines, Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. His words are music in my ear, I see his cowlèd portrait dear; And yet, for all his faith could see, I would not the good bishop be. |
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
“To America,” included by permission of the Poet Laureate, is a good poem and a great poem. It is a keen thrust at the common practice of teaching American children to hate the English of these days on account of the actions of a silly old king dead a hundred years. Alfred Austin deserves great credit for this poem.
What is the voice I hear On the winds of the western sea? Sentinel, listen from out Cape Clear And say what the voice may be. ’Tis a proud free people calling loud to a people proud and free.
And it says to them: “Kinsmen, hail! We severed have been too long. Now let us have done with a worn-out tale— The tale of an ancient wrong— And our friendship last long as our love doth and be stronger than death is strong.”
Answer them, sons of the self-same race, And blood of the self-same clan; Let us speak with each other face to face And answer as man to man, And loyally love and trust each other as none but free men can.
Now fling them out to the breeze, Shamrock, Thistle, and Rose, And the Star-spangled Banner unfurl with these— A message to friends and foes Wherever the sails of peace are seen and wherever the war-wind blows—
A message to bond and thrall to wake, For wherever we come, we twain, The throne of the tyrant shall rock and quake, And his menace be void and vain; For you are lords of a strong land and we are lords of the main.
Yes, this is the voice of the bluff March gale; We severed have been too long, But now we have done with a worn-out tale— The tale of an ancient wrong— And our friendship last long as love doth last and stronger than death is strong. |
Alfred Austin.
It is quite true that the English flag stands for freedom the world over. Wherever it floats almost any one is safe, whether English or not.
[Above the portico the Union Jack remained fluttering in the flames for some time, but ultimately when it fell the crowds rent the air with shouts, and seemed to see significance in the incident.—Daily Papers.]
Winds of the World, give answer? They are whimpering to and fro— And what should they know of England who only England know?— The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag, They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at the English Flag!
Must we borrow a clout from the Boer—to plaster anew with dirt? An Irish liar’s bandage, or an English coward’s shirt? We may not speak of England; her Flag’s to sell or share. What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World, declare!
The North Wind blew:—“From Bergen my steel-shod van-guards go; I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe; By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God, That the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod.
“I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors with flame, Because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies came; I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down with my blast, And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere the spirit passed.
“The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic night, The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Light: What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs to dare, Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!”
The South Wind sighed:—“From The Virgins my mid-sea course was ta’en Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main, Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the long-backed breakers croon Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked lagoon.
“Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys, I waked the palms to laughter—I tossed the scud in the breeze— Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone, But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown.
“I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for a wisp on the Horn; I have chased it north to the Lizard—ribboned and rolled and torn; I have spread its fold o’er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea; I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free.
“My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross, Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the Southern Cross. What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my reefs to dare, Ye have but my seas to furrow. Go forth, for it is there!”
The East Wind roared:—“From the Kuriles, the Bitter Seas, I come, And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the English home. Look—look well to your shipping! By the breath of my mad typhoon I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your best at Kowloon!
“The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before, I raped your richest roadstead—I plundered Singapore! I set my hand on the Hoogli; as a hooded snake she rose, And I flung your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled crows.
“Never the lotos closes, never the wild-fowl wake, But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died for England’s sake— Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid— Because on the bones of the English the English Flag is stayed.
“The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass knows. The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows. What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my sun to dare, Ye have but my sands to travel. Go forth, for it is there!”
The West Wind called:—“In squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred people die. They make my might their porter, they make my house their path, Till I loose my neck from their rudder and whelm them all in my wrath.
“I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from the hole; They bellow one to the other, the frightened ship-bells toll, For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with my breath, And they see strange bows above them and the two go locked to death.
“But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by dark or day, I heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away, First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky, Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by.
“The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it—the frozen dews have kissed— The naked stars have seen it, a fellow-star in the mist. What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my breath to dare, Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!” |
Rudyard Kipling.