Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1042 page)

Truth hailed and bade her stand; the quavering shade
Clung to her knees and babbled, “Sister, aid!
I am — I was — thy Deputy, and men
Besought me for my useful tongue or pen
To gloss their gentle deeds, and I complied,
And they, and thy demands, were satisfied.
But this — ” she pointed o’er the blistered plain,
Where men as Gods and devils wrought amain —
“This is beyond me! Take thy work again.”

Tablets and pen transferred, she fled afar,
And Truth assumed the record of the War...
She saw, she heard, she read, she tried to tell
Facts beyond precedent and parallel —
Unfit to hint or breathe, much less to write,
But happening every minute, day and night.
She called for proof. It came. The dossiers grew.
She marked them, first, “Return. This
can’t
be true.”
Then, underneath the cold official word:
“This is not really half of what occurred.”

She faced herself at last, the story runs,
And telegraphed her sister: “Come at once.
Facts out of hand. Unable overtake
Without your aid. Come back for Truth’s own sake!
Co-equal rank and powers if you agree.
They need us both, but you far more than me!”

L’Envoi (1)

There’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,
 And the ricks stand gray to the sun,
Singing: — “Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover,
 And your English summer’s done.”
    You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind,
    And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;
    You have heard the song — how long! how long?
    Pull out on the trail again!

   Ha’ done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,
   We’ve seen the seasons through,
   And it’s time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
   Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.

It’s North you may run to the rime-ringed sun,
 Or South to the blind Horn’s hate;
Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,
 Or West to the Golden Gate;
    Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,
    And the wildest tales are true,
    And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
    And life runs large on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old,
 And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;
And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll
 Of a black Bilbao tramp;
    With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,
    And a drunken Dago crew,
    And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail
    From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.

There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,
 Or the way of a man with a maid;
But the fairest way to me is a ship’s upon the sea
 In the heel of the North-East Trade.
    Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass,
    And the drum of the racing screw,
    As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
    As she lifts and ‘scends on the Long Trail —
      the trail that is always new?

See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,
 And the fenders grind and heave,
And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,
 And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;
    It’s “Gang-plank up and in,” dear lass,
    It’s “Hawsers warp her through!”
    And it’s “All clear aft” on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
    We’re backing down on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.

O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,
 And the sirens hoot their dread!
When foot by foot we creep o’er the hueless viewless deep
 To the sob of the questing lead!
    It’s down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,
    With the Gunfleet Sands in view,
    Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail,
      our own trail, the out trail,
    And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail —
      the trail that is always new.

O the blazing tropic night, when the wake’s a welt of light
 That holds the hot sky tame,
And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors
 Where the scared whale flukes in flame!
    Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass,
    And her ropes are taut with the dew,
    For we’re booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
    We’re sagging south on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.

Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb,
 And the shouting seas drive by,
And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,
 And the Southern Cross rides high!
    Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,
    That blaze in the velvet blue.
    They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
    They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail —
      the trail that is always new.

Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start —
 We’re steaming all-too slow,
And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle
 Where the trumpet-orchids blow!
    You have heard the call of the off-shore wind,
    And the voice of the deep-sea rain;
    You have heard the song — how long! how long?
    Pull out on the trail again!

The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,
And The Deuce knows what we may do —
But we’re back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
We’re down, hull down on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.

L’Envoi (2)

DEPARTMENTAL DITTlES
The smoke upon your Altar dies,
  The flowers decay,
The Goddess of your sacrifice
   Has flown away.
What profit then to sing or slay
The sacrifice from day to day?

“We know the Shrine is void,” they said.
  “The Goddess flown —
“Yet wreaths are on the altar laid —
  “The Altar-Stone
“Is black withfumes of sacrifice,
“Albeit She has Bed our eyes.

“For, it may be, if still we sing
  “And tend the Shrine,
“Some Deity on wandering wing
  “May there incline,
“And, finding all in order meet,
“Stay while we Worship at Her feet.”

L’Envoi to “Life’s Handicap”

My new-cut ashlar takes the light
 Where crimson-blank the windows flare;
By my own work, before the night,
 Great Overseer I make my prayer.

If there be good in that I wrought,
 Thy hand compelled it, Master, Thine;
Where I have failed to meet Thy thought
 I know, through Thee, the blame is mine.

One instant’s toil to Thee denied
 Stands all Eternity’s offence,
Of that I did with Thee to guide
 To Thee, through Thee, be excellence.

Who, lest all thought of Eden fade,
 Bring’st Eden to the craftsman’s brain,
Godlike to muse o’er his own trade
 And Manlike stand with God again.

The depth and dream of my desire,
 The bitter paths wherein I stray,
Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire,
 Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay!

One stone the more swings to her place
 In that dread Temple of Thy Worth —
It is enough that through Thy grace
 I saw naught common on Thy earth.

Take not that vision from my ken;
 Oh whatsoe’er may spoil or speed,
Help me to need no aid from men
 That I may help such men as need!

The Lesson

1899-1902
(Boer War)

Let us admit it fairly, as a business people should,
We have had no end of a lesson: it will do us no end of good.
Not on a single issue, or in one direction or twain,
But conclusively,  comprehensively,  and  several times and
      again,

Were all our most holy illusions knocked higher than Gilde-
      roy’s kite.
We have had a jolly good lesson, and it serves us jolly well
     right !                            .

This was not bestowed us under the trees, nor yet in the shade
     of a tent,
But swingingly, over eleven degrees of a bare brown conti-
     nent.
From  Lamberts  to Delagoa  Bay, and  from Pietersburg  to
     Sutherland,
Fell the phenomenal lesson we learned-with a fullness ac-
     corded no other land.

It was our fault, and our very great fault, and not the judg-
     ment of Heaven.
We made an Army in our own image, on an island nine by
     seven,
Which faithfully mirrored its makers’ ideals, equipment, and
     mental attitude —
And so we got our lesson: and we ought to accept it with
     gratitude.

We have spent two hundred million pounds to prove the fact
     once more,
That horses are quicker than men afoot, since two and two
     make four;
And horses have four legs, and men have two legs, and two
     into four goes twice,
And nothing over except our lesson — and very cheap at the
     price.

For remember (this our children shall know: we are too near
     for that knowledge)
Not our mere astonied camps, but Council and Creed and
     College —
All the obese, unchallenged old things that stifle and overlie
     us —
Have felt the effects of the lesson we got-an advantage no
     money could by us!

Then let us develop  this marvellous  asset which we alone
     command,
And which, it may subsequently transpire, will be worth as
     much as the Rand.
Let us approach this pivotal fact in a humble yet hopeful
     mood —
We have had no end of a lesson, it will do us no end of good!

It was our fault, and our very great fault — and now we must
     turn it to use.
We have forty million reasons for failure,  but not a single
     excuse.
So the more we work and the less we talk the better results
     we shall get —
We have had an Imperial lesson; it may make us an Empire
     yet!

Lichtenberg

      
(New South Wales Contingent)

Smells are surer than sounds or sights
  To make your heart-strings crack —
They start those awful voices o’ nights
  That whisper,  “ Old man, come back! “
That must be why the big things pass
  And the little things remain,
Like the smell of the wattle by Lichtenberg,
   Riding in, in the rain.

   There was some silly fire on the flank
      And the small wet drizzling down —
   There were the sold-out shops and the bank
      And the wet, wide-open town;
    And we were doing escort-duty
      To somebody’s baggage-train,
    And I smelt wattle by Lichtenberg —
       Riding in, in the rain.

    It was all Australia to me —
       All I had found or missed:
     Every face I was crazy to see,
      And every woman I’d kissed:
    All that I should n’t ha’ done, God knows!
       (As He knows I’ll do it again),
    That smell of the wattle round Lichtenberg,
       Riding in, in the rain!

    And I saw Sydney the same as ever,
       The picnics and brass-bands;
     And my little homestead on Hunter River
       And my new vines joining hands.
     It all came over me in one act
        Quick as a shot through the brain —
      With the smell of the wattle round Lichtenberg,
         Riding in, in the rain.

       I have forgotten a hundred fights,
         But one I shall not forget —
       With the raindrops bunging up my sights
        And my eyes bunged up with wet;
       And through the crack and the stink of the cordite
          (Ah Christ!   My country again!)
       The smell of the wattle by Lichtenberg,
          Riding in, in the rain!

The Light That Failed

So we settled it all when the storm was done
As comfy as comfy could be;
And I was to wait in the barn, my dears,
Because I was only three.
And Teddy would run to the rainbow’s foot
Because he was five and a man —
And that’s how it all began, my dears,
And that’s how it all began!

Then we brought the lances down — then the trumpets blew —
When we went to Kandahar, ridin’ two an’ two.
       Ridin’ — ridin’ — ridin’ two an’ two!
              Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-a!
              All the way to Kandahar,
       Ridin’ two an’ two.

The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn,
When the smoke of the cooking hung grey.
He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn,
And he looked to his strength for his prey.
But the moon swept the smoke-wreaths away;
And he turned from his meal in the villager’s close,
And he bayed to the moon as she rose.

“I have a thousand men,” said he,
   “To wait upon my will;
And towers nine upon the Tyne,
   And three upon the Till.”