COLLECTED VERSE OF KIPLING DEDICATION FROM "BARRACK ROOM BALLADS" BEYOND the path of the outmost sun through utter dark ness hurled Further than ever comet flared or vagrant star-dust swirledLive such as fought and sailed and ruled and loved and made our world. They are purged of pride because they died, they know the worth of their bays; They sit at wine with the Maidens Nine and the Gods of the Elder Days It is their will to serve or be still as fitteth Our Father's praise. 'Tis theirs to sweep through the ringing deep where Azrael's outposts are, Or buffet a path through the Pit's red wrath when God goes out to war, Or hang with the reckless Seraphim on the rein of a redmaned star. They take their mirth in the joy of the Earth- they dare not grieve for her pain They know of toil and the end of toil, they know God's Law is plain, So they whistle the Devil to make them sport who know that Sin is vain. And ofttimes cometh our wise Lord God, master of every trade, And tells them tales of His daily toil, of Edens newly made; And they rise to their feet as He passes by, gentlemen unafraid. To these who are cleansed of base Desire, Sorrow and Lust and Shame Gods for they knew the hearts of men, men for they stooped to Fame Borne on the breath that men call Death, my brother's spirit came. He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of Earth E'en as he trod that day to God so walked he from his birth, In simpleness and gentleness and honour and clean mirth. · So cup to lip in fellowship they gave him welcome high And made him place at the banquet board the Strong Men ranged thereby, Who had done his work and held his peace and had no fear to die. Beyond the loom of the last lone star, through open darkness hurled, Further than rebel comet dared or hiving star-swarm swirled, Sits he with those that praise our God for that they served His world. TO THE TRUE ROMANCE 1893 THY face is far from this our war, I shall not find Thee quick and kind, 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! 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. 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. 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 merriness The joy of all the earth. As Thou didst teach all lovers speech And Life all mystery, So shalt Thou rule by every school Till life 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. 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. 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 't was certes at Thy decrees We fashioned Heaven and Hell! 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. 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! 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. 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 't is, My Lady is not there! |