His drink it is Saline Pyretic,
He longs, but he shall not eat,
His soul is convulsed with emetic,
His stomach is empty of meat.
His bowels are stirred by blind motions,
His form in the flannel is bound,
He has gargles, and powders, and potions,
And walks as not feeling the ground.
For the doctor has harrowed his being,
And of medicine wondrous the might is;
He suffers in agony, seeing
He is prey to acute tonsilitis.
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One from the ends of the earth—gifts at an open door— Treason has much, but we, Mother, thy sons have more! From the whine of a dying man, from the snarl of a wolf-pack freed, Turn, and the world is thine. Mother, be proud of thy seed! Count, are we feeble or few? Hear, is our speech so rude? Look, are we poor in the land? Judge, are we men of The Blood? Those that have stayed at thy knees, Mother, go call them in— We that were bred overseas wait and would speak with our kin. Not in the dark do we fight—haggle and flout and gibe; Selling our love for a price, loaning our hearts for a bribe. Gifts have we only to-day—Love without promise or fee— Hear, for thy children speak, from the uttermost parts of the sea!
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Hear now the Song of the Dead—in the North by the torn berg-edges—
They that look still to the Pole, asleep by their hide-stripped sledges.
Song of the Dead in the South—in the sun by their skeleton horses,
Where the warrigal whimpers and bays through the dust of the sear river-courses.
Song of the Dead in the East—in the heat-rotted jungle hollows,
Where the dog-ape barks in the kloof—in the brake of the buffalo-wallows.
Song of the Dead in the West—in the Barrens, the waste that betrayed them,
Where the wolverine tumbles their packs from the camp and the grave-mound they made them;
Hear now the Song of the Dead!
I
We were dreamers, dreaming greatly, in the man-stifled town;
We yearned beyond the sky-line where the strange roads go down.
Came the Whisper, came the Vision, came the Power with the Need,
Till the Soul that is not man’s soul was lent us to lead.
As the deer breaks—as the steer breaks—from the herd where they graze,
In the faith of little children we went on our ways.
Then the wood failed—then the food failed—then the last water dried—
In the faith of little children we lay down and died.
On the sand-drift—on the veldt-side—in the fern-scrub we lay,
That our sons might follow after by the bones on the way.
Follow after—follow after! We have watered the root,
And the bud has come to blossom that ripens for fruit!
Follow after—we are waiting, by the trails that we lost,
For the sounds of many footsteps, for the tread of a host.
Follow after—follow after—for the harvest is sown:
By the bones about the wayside ye shall come to your own!
When Drake went down to the Horn
And England was crowned thereby,
’Twixt seas unsailed and shores unhailed
Our Lodge—our Lodge was born
(And England was crowned thereby!)
Which never shall close again
By day nor yet by night,
While man shall take his life to stake
At risk of shoal or main
(By day nor yet by night).
But standeth even so
As now we witness here,
While men depart, of joyful heart,
Adventure for to know
(As now bear witness here!)
II
We have fed our sea for a thousand years
And she calls us, still unfed,
Though there’s never a wave of all her waves
But marks our English dead:
We have strawed our best to the weed’s unrest
To the shark and the sheering gull.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha’ paid in full!
There’s never a flood goes shoreward now
But lifts a keel we manned;
There’s never an ebb goes seaward now
But drops our dead on the sand—
But slinks our dead on the sands forlore,
From the Ducies to the Swin.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha’ paid it in!
We must feed our sea for a thousand years,
For that is our doom and pride,
As it was when they sailed with the Golden Hind,
Or the wreck that struck last tide—
Or the wreck that lies on the spouting reef
Where the ghastly blue-lights flare.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha’ bought it fair!
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1 You couldn’t pack a Broadwood half a mile— You mustn’t leave a fiddle in the damp— You couldn’t raft an organ up the Nile, And play it in an Equatorial swamp. I travel with the cooking-pots and pails— I’m sandwiched ’tween the coffee and the pork— And when the dusty column checks and tails, You should hear me spur the rear-guard to a walk! With my “Pilly-willy-winky-winky-popp!” [Oh, it’s any tune that comes into my head!] So I keep ’em moving forward till they drop; So I play ’em up to water and to bed. 2 In the silence of the camp before the fight, When it’s good to make your will and say your prayer, You can hear my strumpty-tumpty overnight, Explaining ten to one was always fair. I’m the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd, Of the Patently Impossible and Vain— And when the Thing that Couldn’t has occurred, Give me time to change my leg and go again. With my “Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tump!” In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled. There was never voice before us till I led our lonely chorus, I—the war-drum of the White Man round the world! 3 By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread, Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own,— ‘Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed, In the silence of the herder’s hut alone— In the twilight, on a bucket upside down, Hear me babble what the weakest won’t confess— I am Memory and Torment—I am Town! I am all that ever went with evening dress! With my “Tunka-tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!” [So the lights—the London Lights—grow near and plain!] So I rowel ’em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh, Till I bring my broken rankers home again. 4 In desire of many marvels over sea, Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars, I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger shores. He is blooded to the open and the sky, He is taken in a snare that shall not fail, He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die, Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale. With my “Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!” [Oh, the green that thunders aft along the deck!] Are you sick o’ towns and men? You must sign and sail again, For it’s “Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!” 5 Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear— Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel— Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer— Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal: Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow, Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine, So I lead my reckless children from below Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine! With my“Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!” [And the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!] So we ride the iron stallions down to drink, Through the cañons to the waters of the West! 6 And the tunes that mean so much to you alone— Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose, Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the groan— I can rip your very heartstrings out with those; With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun— And the lying, and the lusting, and the drink, And the merry play that drops you, when you’re done, To the thoughts that burn like irons if you think. With my “Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!” Here’s a trifle on account of pleasure past, Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes to see your sin And–the heavier repentance at the last! 7 Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof— I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man! Let the trumpets snare the foeman to the proof— I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran! My bray ye may not alter nor mistake When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things, But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make, Is it hidden in the twanging of the strings? With my “Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!” [Is it naught to you that hear and pass me by?] But the word—the word is mine, when the order moves the line And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die! 8 The grandam of my grandam was the Lyre— [Oh, the blue below the little fisher-huts!] That the Stealer stooping beachward filled with fire, Till she bore my iron head and ringing guts! By the wisdom of the centuries I speak— To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth— I, the joy of life unquestioned—I the Greek— I, the everlasting Wonder-song of Youth! With my “Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!” [What d’ye lack, my noble masters? What d’ye lack?] So I draw the world together link by link: Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back!
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1 I was Lord of Cities very sumptuously builded. Seven roaring Cities paid me tribute from afar. Ivory their outposts were—the guardrooms of them gilded, And garrisoned with Amazons invincible in war. 2 All the world went softly when it walked before my Cities— Neither King nor Army vexed my peoples at their toil, Never horse nor chariot irked or overbore my Cities, Never Mob nor Ruler questioned whence they drew their spoil. 3 Banded, mailed and arrogant from sunrise unto sunset; Singing while they sacked it, they possessed the land at large. Yet when men would rob them, they resisted, they made onset And pierced the smoke of battle with a thousand-sabred charge. 4 So they warred and trafficked only yesterday, my Cities. To-day there is no mark or mound of where my Cities stood. For the River rose at midnight and it washed away my Cities. They are evened with Atlantis and the towns before the Flood. 5 Rain on rain-gorged channels raised the water-levels round them, Freshet backed on freshet swelled and swept their world from sight, Till the emboldened floods linked arms and, flashing forward, drowned them— Drowned my Seven Cities and their peoples in one night! 6 Low among the alders lie their derelict foundations, The beams wherein they trusted and the plinths whereon they built— My rulers and their treasure and their unborn populations, Dead, destroyed, aborted, and defiled with mud and silt! 7 The Daughters of the Palace whom they cherished in my Cities, My silver-tongued Princesses, and the promise of their May— Their bridegrooms of the June-tide—all have perished in my Cities, With the harsh envenomed virgins that can neither love nor play. 8 I was Lord of Cities—I will build anew my Cities, Seven, set on rocks, above the wrath of any flood. Nor will I rest from search till I have filled anew my Cities With peoples undefeated of the dark, enduring blood. 9 To the sound of trumpets shall their seed restore my Cities Wealthy and well-weaponed, that once more may I behold All the world go softly when it walks before my Cities, And the horses and the chariots fleeing from them as of old!
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1 The God of Fair Beginnings Hath prospered here my hand— The cargoes of my lading, And the keels of my command. For out of many ventures That sailed with hope as high, My own have made the better trade, And Admiral am I. 2 To me my King’s much honour, To me my people’s love— To me the pride of Princes And power all pride above; To me the shouting cities, To me the mob’s refrain:— “Who knows not noble Valdez, Hath never heard of Spain.” 3 But I remember comrades— Old playmates on new seas— When as we traded orpiment Among the savages— A thousand leagues to south’ard And thirty years removed— They knew not noble Valdez, But me they knew and loved. 4 Then they that found good liquor, They drank it not alone, And they that found fair plunder, They told us every one, About our chosen islands Or secret shoals between, When, weary from far voyage, We gathered to careen. 5 There burned our breaming-fagots All pale along the shore: There rose our worn pavilions— A sail above an oar; As flashed each yearning anchor Through mellow seas afire, So swift our careless captains Rowed each to his desire. 6 Where lay our loosened harness? Where turned our naked feet? Whose tavern ’mid the palm-trees? What quenchings of what heat? Oh fountain in the desert! Oh cistern in the waste! Oh bread we ate in secret! Oh cup we spilled in haste! 7 The youth new-taught of longing The widow curbed and wan, The goodwife proud at season, And the maid aware of man— All souls unslaked, consuming, Defrauded in delays, Desire not more their quittance Than I those forfeit days! 8 I dreamed to wait my pleasure Unchanged my spring would bide: Wherefore, to wait my pleasure, I put my spring aside Till, first in face of Fortune, And last in mazed disdain, I made Diego Valdez High Admiral of Spain. 9 Then walked no wind ’neath Heaven Nor surge that did not aid— I dared extreme occasion, Nor ever one betrayed. They wrought a deeper treason— (Led seas that served my needs!) They sold Diego Valdez To bondage of great deeds. 10 The tempest flung me seaward, And pinned and bade me hold The course I might not alter— And men esteemed me bold! The calms embayed my quarry, The fog-wreath sealed his eyes; The dawn-wind brought my topsails— And men esteemed me wise! 11 Yet, ’spite my tyrant triumphs, Bewildered, dispossessed— My dream held I before me— My vision of my rest; But, crowned by Fleet and People, And bound by King and Pope— Stands here Diego Valdez To rob me of my hope. 12 No prayer of mine shall move him, No word of his set free The Lord of Sixty Pennants And the Steward of the Sea. His will can loose ten thousand To seek their loves again— But not Diego Valdez, High Admiral of Spain. 13 There walks no wind ’neath Heaven Nor wave that shall restore The old careening riot And the clamorous, crowded shore— The fountain in the desert, The cistern in the waste, The bread we ate in secret, The cup we spilled in haste. 14 Now call I to my Captains— For council fly the sign, Now leap their zealous galleys, Twelve-oared, across the brine. To me the straiter prison, To me the heavier chain— To me Diego Valdez, High Admiral of Spain!
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Ere Mor the Peacock flutters, ere the Monkey People cry,
Ere Chil the Kite swoops down a furlong sheer,
Through the jungle very softly flits a shadow and a sigh—
He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!
Very softly down the glade runs a waiting, watching shade,
And the whisper spreads and widens far and near.
And the sweat is on thy brow, for he passes even now—
He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!
Ere the moon has climbed the mountain, ere the rocks are ribbed with light,
When the downward-dipping trails are dank and drear,
Comes a breathing hard behind thee—snuffle-snuffle through the night—
It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
On thy knees and draw the bow; bid the shrilling arrow go;
In the empty, mocking thicket plunge the spear!
But thy hands are loosed and weak, and the blood has left thy cheek—
It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
When the heat-cloud sucks the tempest, when the slivered pinetrees fall,
When the blinding, blaring rain-squalls lash and veer,
Through the war-gongs of the thunder rings a voice more loud than all—
It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
Now the spates are banked and deep; now the footless boulders leap—
Now the lightning shows each littlest leaf-rib clear—
But thy throat is shut and dried, and thy heart against thy side
Hammers: Fear, O Little Hunter—this is Fear!
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"Wait for a little—and if my woe Be greater than I can bear alone, By the sign of the flower shall you know— By the sign of the withered violet, When the time is come to reseek your own" So spake she, as parting our two mouths met. And the grey sea sighed "She is sick to death— Go swiftly and comfort the heart of her"— "Go swiftly" I heard in the breeze's breath. But without the sign I dared not stir, For I waited the withered violet. And the grey cloud hurried low to the land, And he called—"Go swiftly"—but I was still Waiting the sign of the withered flower, That I might be certain and understand, Lest I missed the fortunate day and hour, And thro' too much Love, Love came to ill. And the night came down and cried aloud, Whenever the night winds 'gan to blow "Go swiftly, while time remaineth yet". But I listened neither to night or cloud, For I waited the sign of the violet And without the sign, I dared not go.
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1 Sez the Junior Orderly Sergeant To the Senior Orderly Man: “Our Orderly Orf’cer’s hokee-mut, You ’elp ’im all you can. For the wine was old and the night is cold, An’ the best men may go wrong, So, ’fore ’e gits to the sentry-box, You pass the word along.” So it was “Rounds! What Rounds?” at two of a frosty night, ’E’s ’oldin’ on by the sergeant’s sash, but, sentry, shut your eye. An’ it was “Pass! All’s well!” Oh, ain’t ’e drippin’ tight! ’E’ll need an affidavit pretty badly by-an’-by. 2 The moon was white on the barricks, The road was white an’ wide, An’ the Orderly Orf’cer took it all, An’ the ten-foot ditch beside. An’ the corporal pulled an’ the sergeant pushed, An’ the three they danced along, But I’d shut my eyes in the sentry-box, So I didn’t see nothin’ wrong. Though it was “Rounds! What Rounds?” O corporal, ’old ’im up! ’E’s usin’ ’is cap as it shouldn’t be used, but, sentry, shut your eye. An’ it was “Pass! All’s well!” Ho, shun the foamin’ cup! ’E’ll need an affidavit pretty badly by-an’-by. 3 ’Twas after four in the mornin’; We ’ad to stop the fun, An’ we sent ’im ’ome on a bullock-cart, With ’is belt an’ stock undone; But we sluiced ’im down an’ we washed ’im out, An’ a first-class job we made, When we saved ’im, smart as a bombardier, For six-o’clock parade. It ’ad been “Rounds! What Rounds?” Oh, shove ’im straight again! ’E’s usin’ ’is sword for a bicycle, but, sentry, shut your eye. An’ it was “Pass! All’s well!” ’E’s called me “Darlin’ Jane”! ’E’ll need an affidavit pretty badly by-an’-by. 4 The drill was long an’ ’eavy, The sky was ’ot an’ blue, An’ ’is eye was wild an’ ’is ’air was wet, But ’is sergeant pulled ’im through. Our men was good old trusties— They’d done it on their ’ead; But you ought to ’ave ’eard ’em markin’ time To ’ide the things ’e said! For it was “Right flank—wheel!” for “’Alt, an’ stand at ease!” An’ “Left extend!” for “Centre close!” O marker, shut your eye! An’ it was, “’Ere, sir, ’ere! before the Colonel sees!” So he needed affidavits pretty badly by-an’-by. 5 There was two-an’-thirty sergeants, There was corp’rals forty-one, There was just nine ’undred rank an’ file To swear to a touch o’ sun. There was me ’e’d kissed in the sentry-box, As I ’ave not told in my song, But I took my oath, which were Bible truth, I ’adn’t seen nothin’ wrong. 6 There’s them that’s ’ot an’ ’aughty, There’s them that’s cold an’ ’ard, But there comes a night when the best gets tight, And then turns out the Guard. I’ve seen them ’ide their liquor In every kind o’ way, But most depends on makin’ friends With Privit Thomas A.! When it is “Rounds! What Rounds?” ’E’s breathin’ through ’is nose. ’E’s reelin’, rollin’, roarin’ tight, but, sentry, shut your eye. An’ it is “Pass! All’s well!” An’ that’s the way it goes: We’ll ’elp ’im for ’is mother, an’ ’e’ll ’elp us by-an’-by!
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Yusuf the potter told me this today,
In the cool shadow of the Bhatti Gate,
When a red scorpion stung me and I railed,
Breaking his mid-day slumber. Yusuf knows
The tales of all men's tongues.
'Not His the fault
Who fashioned all things fair and fit for man
In those six days He laboured. That thy hand
Fell on the worn, reh–rotten brick which hid
The evil thing, this much was God's design,
The beast was fashioned otherwise.'
'I wrapped
Fresh melon-rind above my palm and laughed,
Because I doubted Yusuf; being young
And, so my brother hulwaies tell me, proud.
'In the beginning there were seven days',
Growled Yusuf from behind his lime-dyed beard,
'And seven nights. God laboured in the Light,
Who is the Light of All Things. By His will,
Who is the Power, Eblis from the Pit
Had power to labour in the night and make
All things for our discomfort. God is great!
Alone, afar, at noon-tide Eblis watched,
Jealous of God, the All Sustainer's work:
Saw the Great Darkness rent in twain and lit
With Sun and Moon and Stars—beheld the Earth
Heaved upward from beneath the Waters, green
And trampled by the Cattle—watched the Sea
Foam with the Children of the Waters—heard
The voices of the Children of the Woods
Across the branches. Saw and heard and feared,
And strove throughout those Seven Nights of Sin
To mar with evil toil God's handiwork.
O Hassan! Saving Allah there is none
More strong than Eblis. Foul marsh lights he made
To wander and perplex us—errant stars,
Wild devil-ridden meteors bringing plague—
Deserts of restless sand-drifts-icebound seas
Wherein is neither Life nor power to live—
Bound Devils to the snow-capped peaks (These vex
Earth with their struggles)—poured undying fire
Into the bosoms of the tortured hills,
And filled the belly of the Deep with life
Unnameable and awful at his will—
Sent forth his birds, the owl, the kite, the crow—
Grey wolves that haunt our village-gates at dusk:
Made he his horses and his councillor
The hooded snake-in darkness wove the grass
That kills our cattle—made the flowers that suck
Man's life like dew drops—evil seeds and shrub
That turn the sons of Adam into beasts
Whom Eblis snatches from the sword-wide Bridge
The thing that stung thee and its kind his hands
Fashioned in mockery and bitter hate—
Dread beasts by land and water all are his.
Each bears the baser likeness of God's work,
Distorted, as the shadow of thy face
In water troubled by the breeze.'
But here
An Ape from off the chuppar thatch that hangs
Above my stall, dropped swiftly down and stole
A double handful of sweet balushai,
Then gibbered overhead among his kin.
I laughed (albeit half my stall was wrecked).
'Is he the work of Eblis?' Yusuf stretched
One lean forefinger to the painted shrine
Where Hanuman the idol leaped and grinned
And all his living brethren frisked above:—
'Eblis made Man—behold him-dung and filth
And refuse of the Pit. O Hassan! See
The men of Eblis worshipped by his sons!
Alone, afar, at noon-tide Eblis watched
The Seven Soils slow moulded into Man,
And feared the living clay God made his lord.
Then the last Night of Sin came down and cloaked
The young and tender world while Eblis wrought.
None knew the secrets of that Night but God.
"Tis writ the angels shuddered when they heard
Clamour and lamentation through the dark;
Cries of huge beasts whom Eblis slew to make
His Man more perfect; thunders from the Pit
And voices of the Devils and the Djinns
Rejoicing. It is written Eblis called
Three times to God to stay the flying Night.
Allah Al Bari heard him (He is great!).
And held three times Her pinions till the cries
Ceased and the work was perfect.'
Mocking the apes with pellets from his wheel:—
Perfect. Then Eblis turned and saw his work
When the Great Darkness lifted. Thus he cried
Amid the laughter of the Sons of God:—
"Lo! what is this I make. Are these his limbs
Bent inward tottering 'neath the body's weight?
The body crutched by hairy spider arms,
Surmounted by a face as who should say
Mourning:—Why hast thou made me, wherefore breathed
Spirit in this vile body? Let me be:—
The strange black lips are working with a cry,
A cry and protest while the wrinkled palms
Are put forth helplessly and beat the dusk.
So did not my great foe when he was made.
I saw his eye quicken with sense of power,
I saw all wild things crouch beneath that eye;
God gave him great dominion over all,
And blessed him. Shall I bless my handiwork?
After thy kind be fruitful, lust and eat,
All things I give thee in the Earth and Air
Only . . . depart and hide thee in the trees.
He rises from the ground to do my will
Dumb, limping, crippled. Can the being speak?
Stay, Thing, and thank me for thy quickening.
The great eyes roll—my meaning is not there
Reflected, as God's word was in the Man's.
I, Maker, bid thee speak in Adam's tongue,
Unto my glory and the scorn of God.
* * * *
He plucks the grass-tufts aimlessly, and works
Palm within palm; then, for a moment's space
Breaks off rough bark and casts it on the ground!
Accursed, e'en as I am.
Yet one curse
Shall sink him lower than the lowest. Stay!
Man! Inasmuch as thou art made my Man,
From all communion in the woodland tongue
With beast and bird for ever be debarred.
The Oxen bellow in a thousand keys,
There is one bellow to the ear of man:
The Lion from the rock-rift calls his mate,
And Adam hastening folds the fearless flocks,
Saying:—He roars for hunger. He is wroth
Alas! the light
Is flaring forth to mock me. He, my Man,
Helpless, uprooting grass. While all the world
Is thick with life renewed that fills my ears
My last, my greatest work is mockery.
Depart O Ape! Depart and leave me foiled!'
This tale told Yusuf by the Bhatti Gate,
Mocking the Apes with pellets from his wheel.
He bade me wrap the melon-rind anew,
And trust in God the Fashioner of Good,
Seeing the mighty works of Eblis brought
A half day's torment at the most—or stole
A double handful of sweet balushai.
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