The New Knighthood – Rudyard Kipling

Who gives him the Bath?

“I,” said the wet,

Rank-Jungle-sweat,

“I’ll give him the Bath!” 
Who’ll sing the psalms?

“We,” said the Palms.

“Ere the hot wind becalms,

“We’ll sing the psalms.”
Who lays on the sword ?

“I,” said the Sun,

Before he has done,

“I’ll lay on the sword.”
“Who fastens his belt?

“I,” said Short-Rations,

” I know all the fashions

“Of tightening a belt!”
Who gives him his spur?

“I,” said his Chief,

Exacting and brief,

“I’ll give him the spur.”
Who’ll shake his hand?

“I,” said the Fever,

“And I’m no deceiver,

“I’ll shake his hand.”
Who brings him the wine?

“I,” said Quinine,

“It’s a habit of mine.

“I’11 come with his wine.”
Who’ll put him to proof?

“I,” said All Earth.

“Whatever he’s worth,

“I’ll put to the proof.”
Who’ll choose him for Knight?

“I,” said his Mother,

“Before any other,

“My very own Knight.”
And after this fashion, adventure to seek,

Sir Galahad was made–as it might be last week! 

The Naulakha – Rudyard Kipling

There was a strife ‘twixt man and maid–

 Oh, that was at the birth of time! 

But what befell ‘twixt man and maid, 

Oh, that’s beyond the grip of rhyme. 

‘Twas “Sweet, I must not bide with you,” 

And, “Love, I cannot bide alone”; 

For both were young and both were true. 

And both were hard as the nether stone. 
Beware the man who’s crossed in love; 

For pent-up steam must find its vent. 

Stand back when he is on the move, 

And lend him all the Continent. 
Your patience, Sirs. The Devil took me up 

To the burned mountain over Sicily 

(Fit place for me) and thence I saw my Earth– 

(Not all Earth’s splendour, ’twas beyond my need–) 

And that one spot I love–all Earth to me, 

And her I love, my Heaven. What said I? 

My love was safe from all the powers of Hell- 

For you–e’en you–acquit her of my guilt– 

But Sula, nestling by our sail–specked sea, 

My city, child of mine, my heart, my home– 

Mine and my pride–evil might visit there! 

It was for Sula and her naked port, 

Prey to the galleys of the Algerine, 

Our city Sula, that I drove my price– 

For love of Sula and for love of her. 

The twain were woven–gold on sackcloth–twined 

Past any sundering till God shall judge 

The evil and the good. 

Now it is not good for the Christian’s health to hustle the Aryan 

brown, 

For the Christian riles, and the Aryan smiles and he weareth the 

Christian down; 

And the end of the fight is a tombstone white with the name of 

the late deceased, 

And the epitaph drear: “A Fool lies here who tried to hustle the 

East.” 
There is pleasure in the wet, wet clay 

When the artist’s hand is potting it. 

There is pleasure in the wet, wet lay — 

When the poet’s pad is blotting it. 

There is pleasure in the shine of your picture on the line 

At the Royal Acade-my; 

But the pleasure felt in these is as chalk to Cheddar cheese 

When it comes to a well-made Lie– 
To a quite unwreckable Lie, 

To a most impeccable Lie! 

To a water-right, fire-proof, angle-iron, sunk-hinge, time-lock, 

steel-faced Lie! 

Not a private handsome Lie, 

But a pair-and-brougham Lie, 

Not a little-place-at-Tooting, but a country-house-with-shooting 

And a ring-fence-deer-park Lie. 
When a lover hies abroad 

Looking for his love, 

Azrael smiling sheathes his sword, 

Heaven smiles above. 

Earth and sea 

His servants be, 

And to lesser compass round, 

That his love be sooner found! 
We meet in an evil land 

That is near to the gates of Hell. 

I wait for thy command 

To serve, to speed or withstand. 

And thou sayest I do not well? 
Oh Love, the flowers so red 

Are only tongues of flame, 

The earth is full of the dead, 

The new-killed, restless dead. 

There is danger beneath and o’erhead, 

And I guard thy gates in fear 

Of words thou canst not hear, 

Of peril and jeopardy, 

Of signs thou canst not see– 

. And thou sayest ’tis ill that I came? 
This I saw when the rites were done, 

And the lamps were dead and the Gods alone, 

And the grey snake coiled on the altar stone– 

Ere I fled from a Fear that I could not see, 

And the Gods of the East made mouths at me. 
Beat off in our last fight were we? 

The greater need to seek the sea. 

For Fortune changeth as the moon 

To caravel and picaroon. 

Then Eastward Ho! or Westward Ho! 

Whichever wind may meetest blow. 

Our quarry sails on either sea, 

Fat prey for such bold lads as we, 

And every sun-dried buccaneer 

Must hand and reef and watch and steer, 

And bear great wrath of sea and sky 

Before the plate-ships wallow by. 

Now, as our tall bows take the foam, 

Let no man turn his heart to home, 

Save to desire plunder more 

And larger warehouse for his store, 

When treasure won from Santos Bay 

Shall make our sea-washed village gay. 
Because I sought it far from men, 

In deserts and alone, 

I found it burning overhead, 

The jewel of a Throne. 
Because I sought–I sought it so 

And spent my days to find– 

It blazed one moment ere it left 

The blacker night behind. 
We be the Gods of the East– 

Older than all– 

Masters of Mourning and Feast– 

How shall we fall? 
Will they gape for the husks that ye proffer 

Or yearn to your song 

And we–have we nothing to offer 

Who ruled them so long– 

In the fume of incense, the clash of the cymbals, the blare of 

the conch and the gong? 

Over the strife of the schools 

Low the day burns– 

Back with the kine from the pools 

Each one returns 

To the life that he knows where the altar-flame glows and the 

tulsi is trimmed in the urns.