1 Across a world where all men grieve And grieving strive the more, The great days range like tides and leave Our dead on every shore. Heavy the load we undergo, And our own hands prepare, If we have parley with the foe, The load our sons must bear. 2 Before we loose the word That bids new worlds to birth, Needs must we loosen first the sword Of Justice upon earth; Or else all else is vain Since life on earth began, And the spent world sinks back again Hopeless of God and Man. 3 A People and their King Through ancient sin grown strong, Because they feared no reckoning Would set no bound to wrong; But now their hour is past, And we who bore it find Evil Incarnate held at last To answer to mankind. 4 For agony and spoil Of nations beat to dust, For poisoned air and tortured soil And cold, commanded lust, And every secret woe The shuddering waters saw— Willed and fulfilled by high and low— Let them relearn the Law. 5 That when the dooms are read, Not high nor low shall say:— “My haughty or my humble head Has saved me in this day.” That, till the end of time, Their remnant shall recall Their fathers’ old, confederate crime Availed them not at all. 6 That neither schools nor priests, Nor Kings may build again A people with the heart of beasts Made wise concerning men. Whereby our dead shall sleep In honour, unbetrayed, And we in faith and honour keep That peace for which they paid.
Archives: Poems
Disappointment
One day whilst full of burning thought, I faced the Corridor— The term was young, and I espied A new boy very raw. His face was pale, his brow was sad, His eyes with fearful rolls Pierced with their dull and leaden glance My sympathetic soul. His attitude of inward pain Convulsed each thrilling sense; Aesthetic souls must leap to him— He surely is 'intense'. What ails thee, gentle boy, I cried, Canst thou confide in me, Is it a mother's care you miss, Your home and family? He turned on me a frenzied glance, His eye with passion lights; 'I don't feel quite the thing,' said he, I've just been down to Keyte's.'
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The Descent of the Punkah
Yes, lay the jharun coats aside, Likewise my snow-white trews, And bring me forth my sober tweeds More fit for Autumn use. And ope for me the bottled beer That once I used to shun. Who dares to hint at 'liver' now The summer days are done? Within the deep verandah's shade There lurks a form I know, It is the punkah-pulling fiend Hi! Juldee chuti do Noor Ahmed! chase him from my sight, That evil form and brown. And recollect, ere I return, Have all the punkahs down. A necessary evil he, And somnolent withal, Who snored through fifty steamy nights, Nor wakened at my call. But stay—my soul is filled with peace, E'en towards my Aryan neighbours— Eight annas shall be his beyond The pittance of his labours. Fresh faces at the Band appear— Apace the station fills— And half a hundred friends return From half a hundred hills. Yea, straightway to the Club will I, (Though worldly prudence frown) And drink in driest Monopole My toast:—'The punkah's down.'
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The Declaration of London
(On the re-assembling of Parliament after the
Coronation, the Government have no intention
of allowing their followers to vote according to their
convictions on the Declaration of London, but insist
on a strictly party vote.—Daily Papers.)
We were all one heart and one race
When the Abbey trumpets blew.
For a moment’s breathing-space
We had forgotten you.
Now you return to your honoured place
Panting to shame us anew.
We have walked with the Ages dead—
With our Past alive and ablaze.
And you bid us pawn our honour for bread,
This day of all the days!
And you cannot wait till our guests are sped,
Or last week’s wreath decays?
The light is still in our eyes
Of Faith and Gentlehood,
Of Service and Sacrifice;
And it does not match our mood,
To turn so soon to your treacheries
That starve our land of her food.
Our ears still carry the sound
Of our once-Imperial seas,
Exultant after our King was crowned,
Beneath the sun and the breeze.
It is too early to have them bound
Or sold at your decrees.
Wait till the memory goes,
Wait till the visions fade,
We may betray in time, God knows,
But we would not have it said,
When you make report to our scornful foes.
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The Compliments of the Season
1 He came in the winter midnight— Our Ruler—Time's youngest boy, And we murdered his predecessor, With revel and riot and joy. 2 'Te morituri salutant!' Oh! what are your measures?' we cried. 'And what is your policy usward?' And our baby King replied:— 3 'My people! Some chairs will empty; And sundry cradles will fill; And divers passions will vanish; And hopes and hearts will chill 4 Ere I quit you in next December.' (Our Ruler paused and smiled, And the eyes of the terrible Father Looked out from the face of the Child.) 5 'Some vows will be plighted and broken And women and men will lie; And envy and hatred and malice Will thrive apace till I die. 6 And Loves Eternal will perish, Ere half of my reign be done, And a thousand good resolutions Will melt like snow in the sun.' 7 Then we spread the tables for feasting And made the great bells swing; And clamoured aloud for largesse At the hands of our generous King. 8 Rich nuts to the toothless gave he; Strong meats to the aged and weak— The gift of a fading eyesight— The gift of a withered cheek. 9 High hopes, brave aspirations, That sank us deep in the mire; Fair visions of long–lost chances; The gifts of a vain desire. 10 He dowered us richly with knowledge, The sins of our youth to mourn, And gave us the gift of loving, When the time for loving was gone. 11 So we hugged his gifts to our bosoms, And feasted and made good cheer; And we grasped the hands of our neighbours, And wished them:—'A Happy New Year'.
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The City of the Heart
I passed through the lonely Indian town, Deep sunk 'twixt the walls of wheat, And the dogs that lived in the land came down And bayed at me in the street. But I struck with my dog-whip o'er nose and back Of the yelping, yellow crew, Till I cleared a pathway athwart the pack, And I and my horse went through. I passed through the streets of my haunted heart, In the hush of a hopeless night; And from every gully a dog would start And bay my soul with affright. But I smote with the dog-whip of Work and Fact These evil beasts on the head, Till I made of my heart a wholesome tract, Empty and garnishèd.
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The City of Sleep
Over the edge of the purple down, Where the single lamplight gleams, Know ye the road to the Merciful Town That is hard by the Sea of Dreams– Where the poor may lay their wrongs away, And the sick may forget to weep? But we–pity us! Oh, pity us! We wakeful; ah, pity us!– We must go back with Policeman Day– Back from the City of Sleep! Weary they turn from the scroll and crown, Fetter and prayer and plough– They that go up to the Merciful Town, For her gates are closing now. It is their right in the Baths of Night Body and soul to steep, But we – pity us! ah, pity us! We wakeful; oh, pity us!– We must go back with Policeman Day– Back from the City of Sleep! Over the edge of the purple down, Ere the tender dreams begin, Look–we may look–at the Merciful Town, But we may not enter in! Outcasts all, from her guarded wall Back to our watch we creep: We–pity us! ah, pity us! We wakeful; ah, pity us!– We that go back with Policeman Day– Back from the City of Sleep!
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The Burden
One grief on me is laid Each day of every year, Wherein no soul can aid, Whereof no soul can hear: Whereto no end is seen Except to grieve again— Ah, Mary Magdalene, Where is there greater pain? To dream on dear disgrace Each hour of every day— To bring no honest face To aught I do or say: To lie from morn till e'en— To know my lies are vain— Ah, Mary Magdalene, Where can be greater pain? To watch my steadfast fear Attend mine every way Each day of every year— Each hour of every day: To burn, and chill between— To quake and rage again— Ah, Mary Magdalene, Where shall be greater pain? One grave to me was given— To guard till Judgment Day— But God looked down from Heaven And rolled the Stone away! One day of all my years— One hour of that one day— His Angel saw my tears And rolled the Stone away!
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The Boar of the Year
1 In the shade of the trees by the lunch-tent the Old Haileyburian sat, A full fourteen-stone in the saddle, and the best of hard riders at that,— And he shouted aloud as we passed him: 'I'll wait till the claret-cup cools. There's a sounder broke loose in the open! Ride, hard for the love of your Schools!' 2 Bull-huge in the mists of the morn at the head of his sounder he stood— Our quarry—and watched us awhile, and we thirsted aloud for his blood; Then over the brawn of his shoulder looked back as we galloped more near— Then fled for the far-away cover; and we followed the Boar of the Year! 3 There was Cheltenham perched on an Arab—so rich are these thrice-born R.E's; Then Rugby—his mount was a Waler, and a couple of O.U.S.C.s, And the rest of the field followed after. They were older and wiser, perhaps— For we flew over tats at the nullahs, but they scrambled through by the gaps. 4 Away like a bird went the Arab, head and tail in the air, which is wrong For a pig-sticker worthy his salt looks down as he gallops along; And the Arab was new to the business. What wonder that Cheltenham fell In the grip of a buffalo-wallow, and sat down to rest him a spell? Then Rugby shot forward the first of us three, for to reason it stands That a coachy Artillery charger has the legs of a mere fourteen-hands. 5 But he jinked, and the Waler went wide; but the country-breds wheeled and we flew O'er the treacherous black-cotton furrows—spears up, riding all that he knew. Now, a beast with a mouth like a brickbat can't turn to a turn of the wrist— And the Waler took furlongs to turn in; and the rest of the run Rugby missed. So we shed him and spread him and left him, after manifold jinkings and chouses, And the issue was narrowed to this: 'Ride, boys, for the love of your Houses!' 6 Dull-white on the slate of his hide ran a spear-scar from shoulder to chine: And a pig that is marked by the spear is seldom the sweetest of swine. When he stopped in the shade of the reh-grass that fringes the river-bed's marge, The lift of his rust-red back-bristles had warned us: Look out for the charge! 7 And we got it! Right-wheel, best foot foremost—with a quick sickle sweep of the head That missed the off-hock of my pony and tore through a tussock instead, He made for the next horse's belly—the jungle-pig's deadliest trick— And he caught the spear full in the shoulder, and the bamboo broke short at the nick: Then the prettiest mare in the Province let out with her ever-quick heels, And the sound of the Ancient his death-grunt was drowned in her feminine squeals! 8 And which of the Houses got first-spear? With sorrow unfeigned be it said, I jabbed at his quarters and missed, and—I rode for the Black and the Red; And he for the Black and the Yellow, and his was the first and last spear That ended the hunt by the river, and won you the Boar of the Year. 9 So we drank in the shade of the lunch-tent to the Barrack that stands by the Sea— We drank to the health of its fellows—to all who have been and may be. And Cheltenham joined in the chorus and Rugby re-echoed the cheer On the day that we rode for the College, and won you the Boar of the Year!
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The Beginnings
It was not part of their blood,
It came to them very late
With long arrears to make good,
When the English began to hate.
They were not easily moved,
They were icy-willing to wait
Till every count should be proved,
Ere the English began to hate.
Their voices were even and low,
Their eyes were level and straight.
There was neither sign nor show,
When the English began to hate.
It was not preached to the crowd,
It was not taught by the State.
No man spoke it aloud,
When the English began to hate.
It was not suddenly bred,
It will not swiftly abate,
Through the chill years ahead,
When Time shall count from the date
That the English began to hate.
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