Archives: Poems

'The merry devil of some idle mood 
Prompted me to it, else it had not been—
This tale I tell you of.
                                   Some years ago 
They sent me to a College in the north,
Large, low, and rambling, set in purple moor, 
Heather and ling, banked pine-trees thick in front; 
Behind, the belted woodland—every  shade
Of darkest green-and far away the sea, 
A thin grey line—not as we have it here,
Almost beneath the windows. Here, I say, 
They sent me, and I liked it well enough
As all things go. The grim preceptors ground 
Dry husks of learning hot from many mills
Ere theirs, and forced them down unwilling throats 
Agape for something sweeter, drew and proved
Then proved and drew again, how this and that 
Were equal or not equal, round or square,
Or else how many bones our bodies bore 
Embedded in the flesh they smote upon. 
And so the terms passed.
                                            Then there came to us
A youth lean-bodied, marvellously spare, 
Raw-wristed,  angular,—the precious son 
Of some thick-headed  county squireling,—
Nurtured amid the hedgerows, taught i' the field,
For so he seemed to me—a very clown, 
As unsuspecting as the three-weeks lamb 
In spring anemones—Fit prey for me
You  reckon,  therefore—Ay,  but there was one 
Whose ways were wilder by the half than mine, 
Whose brains were quicker at the jest than mine, 
Whose laugh was readier on his lips than mine,
And  he was  my companion—Thus we  two
Met him disconsolate one autumn day
And spoke to him. Some pity at the first,
But thrice as much of mischief in our voice: 
"And did he know the legends of the place? 
And had he heard the customs of the place? 
And if he had not, we would shew the place 
Ourselves, and tell him." The red gratitude
Flushed through his sallow visage to the hair,—
Then, as we two still queried, wide he ope'd 
he stiff portcullis of his rustic speech,
But spoke no word; and thereupon he grinned. 
We waited silent, till the silence grew 
Oppressive, for his soul was ill at ease.
And lastly we laid hold on him by force
And dragged him with us—laughter and light jest 
To soothe him, as one soothes the late-caught colt, 
Between the forehead, lest the quick heels fly.
So we—'
               The night-light fading flickered out. 
And he that told the story cried 'Let be,
The tale is long and all our eyes are dull,
Sleep therefore'—So we turned away and slept.
                                     (To be continued) 

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I have made for you a song, 
And it may be right or wrong, 
But only you can tell me if it's true. 
I have tried for to explain 
Both your pleasure and your pain, 
And, Thomas, here's my best respects to you!  

O there'll surely come a day 
When they'll give you all your pay, 
And treat you as a Christian ought to do; 
So, until that day comes round,
Heaven keep you safe and sound, 
And, Thomas, here's my best respects to you!  

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1 
Will you conquer my heart with your beauty; my soul going out from afar?
Shall I fall to your hand as a victim of crafty and cautions shikar?
2 
Have I met you and passed you already, unknowing, unthinking and blind?
Shall I meet you next session at Simla, O sweetest and best of your kind?
3 
Does the P. and O. bear you to meward, or, clad in short frocks in the West,
Are you growing the charms that shall capture and torture the heart in my breast?
4 
Will you stay in the Plains till September—my passion as warm as the day?
Will you bring me to book on the Mountains, or where the thermantidotes play?
5 
When the light of your eyes shall make pallid the mean lesser lights I pursue,
And the charm of your presence shall lure me from love of the gay "thirteen-two";
6 
When the peg and the pig-skin shall please not; when I buy me Calcutta-build clothes;
When I quit the Delight of Wild Asses; foreswearing the swearing of oaths ;
7 
As a deer to the hand of the hunter when I turn 'mid the gibes of my friends;
When the days of my freedom are numbered, and the life of the bachelor ends.
8 
Ah, Goddess! child, spinster, or widow—as of old on Mars Hill when they raised
To the God that they knew not an altar—so I, a young Pagan, have praised
9 
The Goddess I know not nor worship; yet, if half that men tell me be true,
You will come in the future, and therefore these verses are written to you.

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1 
Thy face is far from this our war,
   Our call and counter-cry,
 I shall not find Thee quick and kind,
  Nor know Thee till I die,
 Enough for me in dreams to see
  And touch Thy garments’ hem:
 Thy feet have trod so near to God
   I may not follow them. 
2
Through wantonness if men profess
  They weary of Thy parts,
 E'en let them die at blasphemy
    And perish with their arts;
 But we that love, but we that prove
   Thine excellence august,
 While we adore discover more
  Thee perfect, wise, and just. 
3
Since spoken word Man’s Spirit stirred
   Beyond his belly-need,
 What is is Thine of fair design
  In thought and craft and deed;
 Each stroke aright of toil and fight,
  That was and that shall be,
 And hope too high, wherefore we die,
  Has birth and worth in Thee. 
4
Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee
  To gild his dross thereby,
 And knowledge sure that he endure
  A child until he die—
For to make plain that man’s disdain
  Is but new Beauty’s birth—
For to possess in loneliness
  The joy of all the earth. 
5
As Thou didst teach all lovers speech
  And Life all mystery,
 So shalt Thou rule by every school
  Till love and longing die,
 Who wast or yet the Lights were set,
   A whisper in the Void,
 Who shalt be sung through planets young
  When this is clean destroyed. 
6
Beyond the bounds our staring rounds,
   Across the pressing dark,
 The children wise of outer skies
  Look hitherward and mark
 A light that shifts, a glare that drifts,
   Rekindling thus and thus,
 Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne
  Strange tales to them of us. 
7
Time hath no tide but must abide
  The servant of Thy will;
 Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme
   The ranging stars stand still—
Regent of spheres that lock our fears,
  Our hopes invisible,
 Oh ’twas certes at Thy decrees
  We fashioned Heaven and Hell! 
8
Pure Wisdom hath no certain path
  That lacks thy morning-eyne,
 And captains bold by Thee controlled
  Most like to Gods design;
 Thou art the Voice to kingly boys
   To lift them through the fight,
 And Comfortress of Unsuccess,
  To give the dead good-night — 
9
A veil to draw ’twixt God His Law
  And Man’s infirmity,
 A shadow kind to dumb and blind
  The shambles where we die;
 A rule to trick th’ arithmetic
  Too base of leaguing odds —
The spur of trust, the curb of lust,
  Thou handmaid of the Gods! 
10
O Charity, all patiently
   Abiding wrack and scaith!
 O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats
  Yet drops no jot of faith!
 Devil and brute Thou dost transmute
  To higher, lordlier show,
 Who art in sooth that lovely Truth
  The careless angels know! 
Thy face is far from this our war,
   Our call and counter-cry,
 I may not find Thee quick and kind,
  Nor know Thee till I die. 
11
 Yet may I look with heart unshook
  On blow brought home or missed —
Yet may I hear with equal ear
  The clarions down the List;
 Yet set my lance above mischance
  And ride the barriere —
Oh, hit or miss, how little ’tis,
  My Lady is not there! 

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Seven Watchmen sitting in a tower,
    Watching what had come upon mankind,
Showed the Man the Glory and the Power,
    And bade him shape the Kingdom to his mind,
‘All things on Earth your will shall win you.’
    (’Twas so their counsel ran)
‘But the Kingdom—the Kingdom is within you,’
    Said the Man’s own mind to the man.
    For time, and some time—
As it was in the bitter years before,
    So it shall be in the over-sweetened hour—
That a man’s mind is wont to tell him more
    Than Seven Watchmen sitting in a tower.

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1 
"Oh, Hunter, and Oh blower of the horn, 
    Harper ... and thou hast been a rover too."
Out of Sir Tristram of old days is born
    Sir Bors in big burgeois; but we, we knew 
You in the past and, therefore, laughter–torn,
    Admire the patent stereoscopic view 
Of Krishna tootling dirges; but, you bet, 
We catch the wink above the flageolet.
2 
Our 'pard–like spirit', beautifully bland— 
    Proteus most passionate of Peterhoff'—
Our dear delightful humbug—so you stand,
    Kutcha Cassandra–wise five oceans off, 
And preach your latest gospel to the land!
    Are you in earnest? Pardon if we scoff.
We took your measure by the foot–rule grim!—  
"Who hath no faith, men have no faith in him."
3 
We know that—bless you—but they do not know 
    Who take you for a sort of Simla Sphinx
Across the water. Shall we tell them so?
    That would be cruel. Gracious! When one thinks
Of all the somersaults you used to throw
    To set the land agiggling, printers' inks 
Pale on the roller.—"Viceroy's sympathy"  
"More English than the English." Doctor, fie!
4 
How dare you bluff the British public thus?
    You know as well as we the inner meaning 
Of all this demos—demonstration stuff—
    The Oriental's sudden liberal leaning 
To ballot–blatherumskite picked up from us—
    You know exactly what the veils are screening.
You know which side your roti–oti's buttered—
Let's seek the reason of the words you've uttered.
5 
You saw that London town was very large—
    That men might splash therein and make no sound, 
That lighted matches on the Thames's marge
    Were by the sullen tide untimely drowned, 
And all the splendours of your star–bossed targe
    Drew small attention from the folks around.
Through Fleet–Street fog, methinks, your sun loomed pale— 
What price the crooning pines of Ann–nd–le?' 
6 
You mused upon the radiant Kulu snows
    That rim with cream the Heaven's turquoise bowl, 
You mused upon the window–tapping rose,
    Fresh born that morning for your button–hole, 
And the long downward sweep all Simla knows,
    Where the red Arab tittupped to his goal, 
And you, delighting twenty willing ears,
Did stately prance to Council with your peers.
7 
Fresh fame you sought. But of all roads to Fame
    Why choose the worst—the Press? You knew the trade 
Too well, too well, when in old days you came
    To  wield a lambent and most courteous blade.
(It smashed my cutlass once). And did the game 
    Repay the lamp–oil? Answer, now 'tis played—
Hunter, by shouk and kam, by cult and ism, 
I charge thee, flee the Sink of Journalism!
8 
Observe! One rabid dog—one King with cancer— 
    Three islands hoisted Heavenward in red flame—
Two blown–on frauds—one burnt–up ballet–dancer 
    (With illustrations) Mrs Some One's shame—
Ten only roads to peace–the last Bonanza— 
    Gladstone and Naldire's tablets—all the same:
Pepsine from porkers—Nervine brewed by Bunter; 
And there's your daily Rag Now why add Hunter?
9 
You're far too good! Ask L—ng, ask Arn—ld, ask
    The S—e and the S—ge where men call
Who nightly gibber 'neath the penny mask,
    And scribble crudities on Time's blank wall, 
How golden is the guerdon of their task.
    Hark! From the weltering Strand the news–boys bawl:— 
'Murder in Paddin'ton! Revoltin' Story!!
'Untin' in Injia!' Hunter is this glory? 
10 
You wrote as Statesman? There are scores of fools 
    To pole the yawing buggalow of State
And, summing up the average of their rules,
    They don't do too much harm, for God is great; 
And, somehow something always skids and cools
    A crazy ticca. Let the Empire wait,
'T will never take you au grand serieux. Think! 
Your record? Insincerity and ink.
11 
You skirmished on the outskirts of the show— 
    You beat the big side–drum (it was your own)
For twenty years. Aha! you know we know.
    Climb down before that gorgeous gaff is blown.
But to no meaner level—ten times no!
    You have the Talents in the napkin stown— 
The Three Great Gifts, beyond all gifts of earth,
To move men's hearts to sorrow or to mirth.
12 
The Eye that sees, the Golden Pen, the Touch 
    Keen as the whip–thong on a leader's ear,
Light as a woman's granted kiss—so much
    And twice so much is yours. But, Doctor dear,
There's not a single Stunt twixt Prome and Cutch
    Would take your word for aught save Gazetteer; 
And that not wholly. Yet you have the power 
To make us all your bond–slaves in an hour.
13 
Shifty and sunshine–loving child of Ayr—
    Iavata, you have japed your little jest.
Hands that could paint us Sinai's trumpet-blare, 
    Lips that would sneer at Sinai's quivering crest,
Come out o' that! Your work lies other where, 
    And leads to Power the brightest and the best.
Rule—what is Rule? Let statesmen pose and grovel,
Doctor doctissimus bring out your novel!

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True patriots, let us now begin 
To curse our ruler Dufferin.
The British rifle guards our skin, 
But prey for all is Dufferin.
Iswasti, on enlightened prin– 
ciples demolish Dufferin.
The Tree of Power we strove to shin, 
Who thrust us from it?—Dufferin.
Who sowed dissension 'twixt the Hin–
du Muslim peoples?—Dufferin.
Who killed our kine, who taxed our tin,
Who  butchered  Burma?—Dufferin.
With fawning speech and eye–glassed grin
Who swindled Asia?—Dufferin.
Who sinned the Last, the Nameless Sin, 
Nor heard our clamour?—Dufferin.
 Who failed our high regard to win?— 
The 'mediocre'  Dufferin.	
Collinga turned him outside in,
And Bow Bazar scorned Dufferin.
Today, the nations, piebald, brin–
dled, rise to spit at Dufferin.
Thrice thirty million crore Divin– 
ities assist them, Dufferin!
From fat Ganesh''  to Kali thin 
The High Gods yelp at Dufferin.
The curse of Hume and Budrudin 
Tyabji wither Dufferin.
From Boileaugunge to high 'Knockdhrin' 
May houses fall on Dufferin;
May Oriental and Penin–
sular ships sink with Dufferin;
And every blotch on Naaman's  skin
Defile the flesh of Dufferin.
His wife that helped our women kin 
Whelm in the Doom of Dufferin.
She wrought our cloked zenanas  in, 
Then damned be Lady Dufferin!
Oh blast 'em all, hoof, hide and fin, 
The progeny of Dufferin!
Six Sixty-six—the Man of Sin 
Das—wue—the It—the Dufferin!
By sap and mine, by pit and gin,
Befoul the fame of Dufferin,
Let 'Albions'  clack and 'Harrilds' spin
Pye—dis—and dele Dufferin!
Till English voters hear the din
And love us loathing Dufferin:
Till all the earth from Hull to Minn–
eapolis damns Dufferin;
For flying pen and wagging chin 
Shall surely ruin Dufferin.
Thus, lowly walking, may we win 
To freedom—free of Dufferin.
We love the Queen, but not a pin 
Our loyal breed loves Dufferin!
He would not worship Us— to flin– 
ders smash, and bury Dufferin!
And  write above that reeking bin:
'Here lies our shame and Dufferin!'

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Since ye distemper and defile
Sweet Herè by the measured mile,
Nor aught on jocund highways heed
Except the evidence of speed;
And bear about your dreadful task
Faces beshrouded ’neath a mask;
Great goblin eyes and gluey hands
And souls enslaved to gears and bands;
Here shall no graver curse be said
Than, though y’are quick, that ye are dead!

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The Wop of Asia—that lordly Beast— 
Writes from His Lair in the burning East 
To the Wop of Europe:— 'Peace and Rest,
From Allah who giveth Them be in your Breast.

"Behold it was writ on our Brows at Birth
"We should sing in the East of the Sons of Earth:
(And how shall a Man, be He ne'er so wise 
Escape that Sentence between his Eyes?) 
Wherefore We sang, and the Songs We send
May serve to amuse you in far North End.

"Now the Gnat sings gaily at Eventide, 
"And the Bullfrog sings by the Waterside, 
"And the Wind of the Desert across the Sands 
"Singeth what no Man understands— 
"But whether We sing as These or worse, 
"Behold it is written here in our Verse.

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