And many an Afghan chief, who lies Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees, Clutches his sword in fierce surmise When on the mountain-side he sees The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes For southern wind and east wind meet Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire, England with bare and bloody feet Climbs the steep road of wide empire. O lonely Himalayan height, Gray pillar of the Indian sky, Where saw'st thou last in clanging fight The almond groves of Samarcand, The grave white-turbaned merchants go; And on from thence to Ispahan, And that dread city of Cabul Set at the mountain's scarpèd feet, Whose marble tanks are ever full With water for the noonday heat; Where through the narrow straight Bazaar A little maid Circassian Is led, a present from the Czar Unto some old and bearded Khan,— Here have our wild war-eagles flown, In England-she hath no delight. In vain the laughing girl will lean And many a moon and sun will see Pale women who have lost their lord For not in quiet English fields Are these, our brothers, lain to rest, Where we might deck their broken shields With all the flowers the dead love best. For some are by the Delhi walls, Through seven mouths of shifting sand. And some in Russian waters lie, And others in the seas which are The portals to the East, or by The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar. O wandering graves! O restless sleep! O still ravine! O stormy deep! Give up your prey! Give up your prey! And thou whose wounds are never healed, O Cromwell's England! must thou yield Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head, Wave and wild wind and foreign shore What profit now that we have bound The whole round world with nets of gold, If hidden in our heart is found The care that groweth never old? What profit that our galleys ride, Ruin and wreck are at our side, Grim warders of the House of Pain. Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet? Wild grasses are their burial-sheet, O loved ones lying far away, What word of love can dead lips send! O wasted dust! O senseless clay! Is this the end? Is this the end? Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head, Up the steep road must England go, Yet when this fiery web is spun, Rise from these crimson seas of war. RECESSIONAL GOD of our fathers, known of old— The tumult and the shouting dies- An humble and a contrite heart. Far-called, our navies melt away— On dune and headland sinks the fire Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law- For heathen heart that puts her trust And guarding calls not Thee to guard, For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! AMEN. Rudyard Kipling [1865 THE WEARIN' O' THE GREEN O, PADDY dear, an' did ye hear the news that's goin' round? seen, For there's a cruel law agin the wearin' o' the Green! I met wid Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand, And he said, "How's poor Ould Ireland, and how does she stand?" She's the most disthressful country that iver yet was seen, For they're hangin' men and women there for wearin' o' the Green. An' if the color we must wear is England's cruel Red, Then pull the shamrock from your hat, and throw it on the sod,— And never fear, 'twill take root there, though under foot 'tis trod! When law can stop the blades of grass from growin' as they grow, And when the leaves in summer-time their color dare not show, Then I will change the color, too, I wear in my caubeen, DARK ROSALEEN O My dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green, They march along the deep. Upon the ocean green, And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! |