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| Rudyard Kipling’s poetry
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Born at Bombay, India, December 30, 1865, Rudyard Kipling, the author of a dozen contemporaryclassics, was educated in England. He returned, however, to India and took a position on the staff of “The Lahore Civil and Military Gazette,” writing for the Indian press until about 1890, when he went to England, where he has lived ever since, with the exception of a short sojourn in America.
These tales, however, display only one side of Kipling’s extraordinary talents. As a writer of children’s stories, he has few living equals. Wee Willie Winkie, which contains that stirring and heroic fragment “Drums of the Fore and Aft,” is only a trifle less notable than his more obviously juvenile collections. Just-So Stories and the two Jungle Books (prose interspersed with lively rhymes) are classics for young people of all ages. Kim, the novel of a super-Mowgli grown up, is a more mature masterpiece.
Kipling won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1907. His varied poems have finally been collectedin a remarkable one-volume Inclusive Edition (1885-1918), an indispensable part of any student’s library. This gifted and prolific creator, whose work was affected by the war, has frequently lapsed into bombast and a journalistic imperialism. At his best he is unforgettable, standing mountain-high above his host of imitators. His home is at Burwash, Sussex. 9
But she ain’t! Before my gappin’ mouth could speak I ‘eard it in my comrade’s tone; I saw it on my neighbour’s cheek Before I felt it flush my own. An’ last it come to me–not pride, Nor yet conceit, but on the ‘ole (If such a term may be applied), The makin’s of a bloomin’ soul. Rivers at night that cluck an’ jeer, Plains which the moonshine turns to sea, Mountains that never let you near, An’ stars to all eternity; An’ the quick-breathin’ dark that fills The ‘ollows of the wilderness, When the wind worries through the ‘ills– These may ‘ave taught me more or less. Towns without people, ten times took, An’ ten times left an’ burned at last; An’ starvin’ dogs that come to look For owners when a column passed; An’ quiet, ‘omesick talks between Men, met by night, you never knew Until–‘is face–by shellfire seen– Once–an’ struck off. They taught me, too. The day’s lay-out–the mornin’ sun Beneath your ‘at-brim as you sight; The dinner-‘ush from noon till one, An’ the full roar that lasts till night; An’ the pore dead that look so old An’ was so young an hour ago, An’ legs tied down before they’re cold– These are the things which make you know. Also Time runnin’ into years– A thousand Places left be’ind– An’ Men from both two ’emispheres Discussin’ things of every kind; So much more near than I ‘ad known, So much more great than I ‘ad guessed– An’ me, like all the rest, alone– But reachin’ out to all the rest! So ‘ath it come to me–not pride, Nor yet conceit, but on the ‘ole (If such a term may be applied), The makin’s of a bloomin’ soul. But now, discharged, I fall away To do with little things again…. Gawd, ‘oo knows all I cannot say, Look after me in Thamesfontein! If England was what England seems An’ not the England of our dreams, But only putty, brass, an’ paint, ‘Ow quick we’d chuck ‘er!But she ain’t! Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mold; And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart, Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: “It’s pretty, but is it Art?” Wherefore he called to his wife and fled to fashion his work anew– The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review; And he left his lore to the use of his sons–and that was a glorious gain When the Devil chuckled: “Is it Art?” in the ear of the branded Cain. They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart, Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: “It’s striking, but is it Art?” The stone was dropped by the quarry-side, and the idle derrick swung, While each man talked of the aims of art, and each in an alien tongue. They fought and they talked in the north and the south, they talked and they fought in the west, Till the waters rose on the jabbering land, and the poor Red Clay had rest– Had rest till the dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start, And the Devil bubbled below the keel: “It’s human, but is it Art?” The tale is old as the Eden Tree–as new as the new-cut tooth– For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth; And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart, The Devil drum on the darkened pane: “You did it, but was it Art?” We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg, We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk of an addled egg, We know that the tail must wag the dog, as the horse is drawn by the cart; But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: “It’s clever, but is it Art?” When the flicker of London’s sun falls faint on the club-room’s green and gold, The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mold– They scratch with their pens in the mold of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start When the Devil mutters behind the leaves: “It’s pretty, but is it art?” Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the four great rivers flow, And the wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago, And if we could come when the sentry slept, and softly scurry through, By the favor of God we might know as much–as our father Adam knew. O look and behold The Planets that love us All harnessed in gold! What chariots, what horses Against us shall bide While the Stars in their courses Do fight on our side? All thought, all desires, That are under the sun, Are one with their fires, As we also are one: All matter, all spirit, All fashion, all frame, Receive and inherit Their strength from the same. (Oh, man that deniest All power save thine own, Their power in the highest Is mightily shown. Not less in the lowest That power is made clear. Oh, man, if thou knowest, What treasure is here!) Earth quakes in her throes And we wonder for why! But the blind planet knows When her ruler is nigh; And, attuned since Creation To perfect accord, She thrills in her station And yearns to her Lord. The waters have risen, The springs are unbound– The floods break their prison, And ravin around. No rampart withstands ’em, Their fury will last, Till the Sign that commands ’em Sinks low or swings past. Through abysses unproven And gulfs beyond thought, Our portion is woven, Our burden is brought. Yet They that prepare it, Whose Nature we share, Make us who must bear it Well able to bear. Though terrors o’ertake us We’ll not be afraid. No power can unmake us Save that which has made. Nor yet beyond reason Or hope shall we fall– All things have their season, And Mercy crowns all! Then, doubt not, ye fearful– The Eternal is King– Up, heart, and be cheerful, And lustily sing:– What chariots, what horses Against us shall bide While the Stars in their courses Do fight on our side?
1. The bhisti, or water-carrier, attached to regiments in India, is often one of the most devoted of the Queen’s servants. He is also appreciated by the men. [back] |
