Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 161

864. The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight 's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the sh.o.r.e; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Rudyard Kipling. b. 1865

865. A Dedication

MY new-cut ashlar takes the light Where crimson-blank the windows flare; By my own work, before the night, Great Overseer, I make my prayer.

If there be good in that I wrought, Thy hand compell'd it, Master, Thine; Where I have fail'd to meet Thy thought I know, through Thee, the blame if mine.

One instant's toil to Thee denied Stands all Eternity's offence; Of that I did with Thee to guide To Thee, through Thee, be excellence.

Who, lest all thought of Eden fade, Bring'st Eden to the craftsman's brain, G.o.dlike to muse o'er his own trade And manlike stand with G.o.d again.

The depth and dream of my desire, The bitter paths wherein I stray, Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire, Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay.

One stone the more swings to her place In that dread Temple of Thy worth-- It is enough that through Thy grace I saw naught common on Thy earth.

Take not that vision from my ken; O, whatsoe'er may spoil or speed, Help me to need no aid from men, That I may help such men as need!

Rudyard Kipling. b. 1865

866. L'Envoi

THERE 's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield And the ricks stand gray to the sun, Singing:--'Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover And your English summer 's done.'

You have heard the beat of the off-sh.o.r.e wind And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song--how long! how long!

Pull out on the trail again!

Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear la.s.s, We've seen the seasons through, And it 's time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

It 's North you may run to the rime-ring'd sun, Or South to the blind Horn's hate; Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, Or West to the Golden Gate; Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear la.s.s, And the wildest tales are true, And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And life runs large on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old, And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll Of a black Bilbao tramp; With her load-line over her hatch, dear la.s.s, And a drunken Dago crew, And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, Or the way of a man with a maid; But the sweetest way to me is a s.h.i.+p's upon the sea In the heel of the North-East Trade.

Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear la.s.s, And the drum of the racing screw, As she s.h.i.+ps it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new?

See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, And the fenders grind and heave, And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate, And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; It 's 'Gang-plank up and in,' dear la.s.s, It 's 'Hawsers warp her through!'

And it 's 'All clear aft' on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're backing down on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, And the sirens hoot their dread!

When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless viewless deep To the sob of the questing lead!

It 's down by the Lower Hope, dear la.s.s, With the Gunfleet Sands in view, Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

O the blazing tropic night, when the wake 's a welt of light That holds the hot sky tame, And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powder'd floors Where the scared whale flukes in flame!

Her plates are scarr'd by the sun, dear la.s.s, And her ropes are taut with the dew, For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We're sagging south on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, And the shouting seas drive by, And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing, And the Southern Cross rides high!

Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear la.s.s, That blaze in the velvet blue.

They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, They're G.o.d's own guides on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start-- We're steaming all too slow, And it 's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle Where the trumpet-orchids blow!

You have heard the call of the off-sh.o.r.e wind And the voice of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song--how long! how long!

Pull out on the trail again!

The Lord knows what we may find, dear la.s.s, And the deuce knows what we may do-- But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're down, hull down on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

Rudyard Kipling. b. 1865

867. Recessional June 22, 1897

G.o.d of our fathers, known of old-- Lord of our far-flung battle-line-- Beneath whose awful Hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord G.o.d of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies-- The captains and the kings depart-- Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart.

Lord G.o.d of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!

Far-call'd 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, Lest we forget, lest we forget!

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-- Lord G.o.d of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard-- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

Richard Le Gallienne. b. 1866

868. Song

SHE 's somewhere in the sunlight strong, Her tears are in the falling rain, She calls me in the wind's soft song, And with the flowers she comes again.

Yon bird is but her messenger, The moon is but her silver car; Yea! sun and moon are sent by her, And every wistful waiting star.

Richard Le Gallienne. b. 1866