Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1032 page)

Master-again Thy Sinner! This that was once Thy Shoe,
He has found and taken and carried aside, as fitting matter to chew.
Now there is neither blacking nor tongue, and the Housemaid has us in tow.
Master, remember Thy Servant is young, and tell her to let him go!

Master, extol Thy Servant, he has met a most Worthy Foe!
There has been fighting all over the Shop – and into the Shop also!
Till cruel umbrellas parted the strife (or I might have been chok- ing him yet),
But Thy Servant has had the Time of his Life – and now shall we call on the vet?

Master, behold Thy Servant! Strange children came to play,
And because they fought to caress him, Thy Servant wentedst away.
But now that the Little Beasts have gone, he has returned to see
(Brushed – with his Sunday collar on) what they left over from tea.

  .  .  .  .  .  . 

Master, pity Thy Servant! He is deaf and three parts blind.
He cannot catch Thy Commandments. He cannot read Thy Mind.
Oh, leave him not to his loneliness; nor make him that kitten’s scorn.
He hath had none other God than Thee since the year that he was born.

Lord, look down on Thy Servant! Bad things have come to pass.
There is no heat in the midday sun, nor health in the wayside grass.
His bones are full of an old disease – his torments run and increase.
Lord, make haste with Thy Lightnings and grant him a quick release!

The Holy War

1917

“For here lay the excellent wisdom of him that built Mansoul, that the
walls could never be broken down nor hurt by the most mighty adverse
potentate unless the townsmen gave consent thereto.” — BUNYAN’S Holy War.
A tinker out of Bedford,
A vagrant oft in quod,
A private under Fairfax,
A minister of God —

Two hundred years and thirty
  Ere Armageddon came
His single hand portrayed it,
  And Bunyan was his name!

He mapped for those who follow,
  The world in which we are —
“This famous town of Mansoul”
  That takes the Holy War.
Her true and traitor people,
  The Gates along her wall,
From Eye Gate unto Feel Gate,
  John Bunyan showed them all.

All enemy divisions,
  Recruits of every class,
And highly-screened positions
  For flame or poison-gas;
The craft that we call modern,
  The crimes that we call new,
John Bunyan had ‘em typed and filed
  In Sixteen Eighty-two.

Likewise the Lords of Looseness
  That hamper faith and works,
The Perseverance-Doubters,
  And Present-Comfort shirks,
With brittle intellectuals
  Who crack beneath a strain —
John Bunyan met that helpful set
  In Charles the Second’s reign.

Emmanuel’s vanguard dying
  For right and not for rights,
My Lord Apollyon lying
  To the State-kept Stockholmites,
The Pope,  the swithering Neutrals
  The Kaiser and his Gott —
Their roles, their goals, their naked souls —
  He knew and drew the lot.

Now he hath left his quarters,
  In Bunhill Fields to lie,
The wisdom that he taught us
  Is proven prophecy —
One watchword through our Armies,
  One answer from our Lands: —
“No dealings with Diabolus
  As long as Mansoul stands!”

A pedlar from a hovel,
  The lowest of the low —
The Father of the Novel,
  Salvation’s first Defoe,
Eight blinded generations
  Ere Armageddon came,
He showed us how to meet it,
  And Bunyan was his name!

The Hour of the Angel

“Stalky”
From “Land and Sea Tales” (1919-1923)
Sooner or late — in earnest or in jest —
   (But the stakes are no jest) Ithuriel’s Hour
Will spring on us, for the first time, the test
   Of our sole unbacked competence and power
   Up to the limit of our years and dower
Of judgment — or beyond. But here we have
Prepared long since our garland or our grave.

   For, at that hour, the sum of all our past,
   Act, habit, thought, and passion, shall be cast
   In one addition, be it more or less,
   And as that reading runs so shall we do;
   Meeting, astounded, victory at the last,
   Or, first and last, our own unworthiness.
And none can change us though they die to save!

The Houses

1898
(A Song of the Dominions)
‘Twixt my house and thy house the pathway is broad,
In thy house or my house is half the world’s hoard;
By my house and thy house hangs all the world’s fate,
On thy house and my house lies half the world’s hate.

For my house and thy house no help shall we find
Save thy house and my house — kin cleaving to kind;
If my house be taken, thine tumbleth anon.
If thy house be forfeit, mine followeth soon.

‘Twixt my house and thy house what talk can there be
Of headship or lordship, or service or fee?
Since my house to thy house no greater can send
Than thy house to my house — friend comforting friend;
And thy house to my house no meaner can bring
Than my house to thy house — King counselling King!

Hunting-Song of the Seeonee Pack

(From The Jungle Book)
As the dawn was breaking the Sambhur belled —
         Once, twice and again!
And a doe leaped up, and a doe leaped up
From the pond in the wood where the wild deer sup.
This I, scouting alone, beheld,
         Once, twice, and again!

As the dawn was breaking the Sambhur belled —
         Once, twice and again!
And a wolf stole back, and a wolf stole back
To carry the word to the waiting Pack,
And we sought and we found and we bayed on his track
         Once, twice and again!

As the dawn was breaking the Wolf-Pack yelled
         Once, twice and again!
Feet in the jungle that leave no mark!
Eyes that can see in the dark — the dark!
Tongue — give tongue to it! Hark! O Hark!
         Once, twice and again!

His spots are the joy of the Leopard: his horns are the Buffalo’s pride,
Be clean, for the strength of the hunter is known by the gloss of his hide.

If ye find that the bullock can toss you, or the heavy-browed Sambhur can gore;
Ye need not stop work to inform us; we knew it ten seasons before.

Oppress not the cubs of the stranger, but hail them as Sister and Brother,
For though they are little and fubsy, it may be the Bear is their mother.

“There is none like to me!” says the Cub in the pride of his earliest kill;
But the Jungle is large and the Cub he is small. Let him think and be still.

The Hyaenas

After the burial-parties leave
  And the baffled kites have fled;
The wise hyaenas come out at eve
  To take account of our dead.

How he died and why he died
  Troubles them not a whit.
They snout the bushes and stones aside
  And dig till they come to it.

They are only resolute they shall eat
  That they and their mates may thrive,
And they know that the dead are safer meat
  Than the weakest thing alive.

(For a goat may butt, and a worm may sting,
  And a child will sometimes stand;
But a poor dead soldier of the King
  Can never lift a hand.)

They whoop and halloo and scatter the dirt
  Until their tushes white
Take good hold of the army shirt,
  And tug the corpse to light,

And the pitiful face is shewn again
  For an instant ere they close;
But it is not discovered to living men —
  Only to God and to those

Who, being soulless, are free from shame,
  Whatever meat they may find.
Nor do they defile the dead man’s name —
  That is reserved for his kind.

Hymn Before Action

1896
The earth is full of anger,
The seas are dark with wrath,
The Nations in their harness
Go up against our path:
Ere yet we loose the legions —
Ere yet we draw the blade,
Jehovah of the Thunders,
Lord God of Battles, aid!

High lust and froward bearing,
Proud heart, rebellious brow —
Deaf ear and soul uncaring,
We seek Thy mercy now!
The sinner that forswore Thee,
The fool that passed Thee by,
Our times are known before Thee —
Lord, grant us strength to die!

For those who kneel beside us
At altars not Thine own,
Who lack the lights that guide us,
Lord, let their faith atone!
If wrong we did to call them,
By honour bound they came;
Let not Thy Wrath befall them,
But deal to us the blame.

From panic, pride, and terror
Revenge that knows no rein —
Light haste and lawless error,
Protect us yet again,
Cloke Thou our undeserving,
Make firm the shuddering breath,
In silence and unswerving
To taste Thy lesser death.

Ah, Mary pierced with sorrow,
Remember, reach and save
The soul that comes to-morrow
Before the God that gave!
Since each was born of woman,
For each at utter need —
True comrade and true foeman —
Madonna, intercede!

E’en now their vanguard gathers,
E’en now we face the fray —
As Thou didst help our fathers,
Help Thou our host to-day.
Fulfilled of signs and wonders,
In life, in death made clear —
Jehovah of the Thunders,
Lord God of Battles, hear!

Hymn of the Triumphant Airman

1929
FLYING EAST TO WEST AT 1000 M.P.H.
OH, LONG had we paltered
      With bridle and girth
Ere those horses were haltered
      That gave us the Earth-

Ere the Flame and the Fountain,
      The Spark and the Wheel,
Sank Ocean and Mountain
      Alike ‘neath our keel.

But the Wind in her blowing,
      The bird on the wind,
Made naught of our going,
      And left us behind.

Till the gale was outdriven,
      The gull overflown,
And there matched us in Heaven
      The Sun-God alone.

He only the master
      We leagued to o’erthrow,
He only the faster
      And, therefore, our foe!
.  .  .  .  .
Light steals to uncurtain
      The dim-shaping skies
That arch and make certain
      Where he shall arise.

We lift to the onset.
      We challenge anew.
>From sunrise to sunset,
      Apollo, pursue!
.  .  .  .  .
What ails thee, O Golden?
      Thy Chariot is still?
What Power has withholden
      The Way from the Will?

Lo, Hesper hath paled not,
      Nor darkness withdrawn.
The Hours have availed not
      To lead forth the Dawn!

Do they flinch from full trial,
      The Coursers of Day?
The shade on our dial
      Moves swifter than they!

We fleet, but thou stayest
      A God unreleased;
And still thou delayest
      Low down in the East-

A beacon faint-burning,
      A glare that decays
As the blasts of our spurning
      Blow backward its blaze.

The mid-noon grows colder,
      Night rushes to meet,
And the curve of Earth’s shoulder
      Heaves up thy defeat.

Storm on at that portal,
      We have thee in prison!
Apollo, immortal,
      Thou hast not arisen!

Hymn to Physical Pain

“The Tender Achilles”
From “Limits and Renewals” (1932)
Dread Mother of Forgetfulness
  Who, when Thy reign begins,
Wipest away the Soul’s distress,
  And memory of her sins.

The trusty Worm that dieth not —
  The steadfast Fire also,
By Thy contrivance are forgot
  In a completer woe.

Thine are the lidless eyes of night
  That stare upon our tears,
Through certain hours which in our sight
  Exceed a thousand years:

Thine is the thickness of the Dark
  That presses in our pain,
As Thine the Dawn that bids us mark
  Life’s grinning face again.

Thine is the weariness outworn
  No promise shall relieve,
That says at eve, “Would God ‘twere morn”
  At morn, “Would God ‘twere eve!”

And when Thy tender mercies cease
  And life unvexed is due,
Instant upon the false release
 The Worm and Fire renew.

Wherefore we praise Thee in the deep,
  And on our beds we pray
For Thy return that Thou may’st keep
  The Pains of Hell at bay!