The Gods of the Copybook Heading

AS I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,

I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place.

Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn.

That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:

But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breath of Mind,

So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,

Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market-Place;

But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come

That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch.

They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch.

They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings.

So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.

They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.

But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life

(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)

Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,

And the Gods of the Copybook Heading said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,

By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;

But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,

And the Gods of the Copybook Heading said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,

And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true

That All is not God that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four-

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man-

There are only four things certain since Social Progress began:-

That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,

And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins

When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,

As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,

The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

Rudyard Kipling

The Female of the Species

WHEN the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,

He shouts to scare the monster who will often turn aside.

But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail,

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag, the wayside cobra, hears the careless foot of man,

He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can,

But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail -

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,

They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws -

'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale -

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,

For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;

But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the others tale -

The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations, worm and savage otherwise,

Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise;

Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact

To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,

To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.

Mirth obscene diverts his anger; Doubt and Pity oft perplex

Him in dealing with an issue - to the scandal of the Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame

Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same,

And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,

The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast

May not deal in doubt or pity - must not swerve for fact or jest.

These be purely male diversions - not in these her honor dwells -

She, the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else!

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great

As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate;

And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim

Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions - in default of grosser ties;

Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him, who denies!

He will meet no cool discussion, but the instant, white-hot wild

Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges - even so the she-bear fights;

Speech that drips, corrodes and poisons - even so the cobra bites;

Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw,

And the victim writhes with anguish - like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer

With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her

Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands

To some God of abstract justice - which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him

Must command but may not govern; shall enthrall but not enslave him.

And She knows, because She warns him and Her instincts never fail,

That the female of Her species is more deadly than the male!

Rudyard Kipling

H2> The Sons of Martha

This poem refers in large part to the following passage in the Bible (Luke 10:38--42, Revised Standard Version):

38. Now as they went on their way, he entered a village; and a woman named Martha received him into her house. 39. And she had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet and listened to his teaching. 40. But Martha was distracted with much serving; and she went to him and said, ``Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Tell her then to help me.'' 41. But the Lord answered her, ``Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things; 42. one thing is needful. Mary has chosen the good portion, which shall not be taken away from her.''

THE Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part;

But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.

And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,

Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.

It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.

It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.

It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,

Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.

They say to mountains ``Be ye removèd.'' They say to the lesser floods ``Be dry.''

Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd---they are not afraid of that which is high.

Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit---then is the bed of the deep laid bare,

That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.

They finger Death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires.

He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.

Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,

And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.

To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.

They are concerned with matters hidden---under the earthline their altars are---

The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,

And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.

They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.

They do not preach that His Pity allows them to drop their job when they damn-well choose.

As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,

Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's ways may be long in the land.

Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat;

Lo, it is black already with the blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!

Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,

But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.

And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd---they know the Angels are on their side.

They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.

They sit at the feet---they hear the Word---they see how truly the Promise runs.

They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and---the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons!

Rudyard Kipling

A Pilgrim's Way

I DO not look for holy saints to guide me on my way,

Or male and female devilkins to lead my feet astray.

If these are added, I rejoice---if not, I shall not mind,

So long as I have leave and choice to meet my fellow-kind.

For as we come and as we go (and deadly-soon go we!)

The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!

Thus I will honour pious men whose virtue shines so bright

(Though none are more amazed than I when I by chance do right),

And I will pity foolish men for woe their sins have bred

(Though ninety-nine per cent. of mine I brought on my own head).

And, Amorite or Eremite, or General Averagee,

The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!

And when they bore me overmuch, I will not shake mine ears,

Recalling many thousand such whom I have bored to tears.

And when they labour to impress, I will not doubt nor scoff;

Since I myself have done no less and---sometimes pulled it off.

Yea, as we are and we are not, and we pretend to be,

The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!

And when they work me random wrong, as oftentimes hath been,

I will not cherish hate too long (my hands are none too clean).

And when they do me random good I will not feign surprise.

No more than those whom I have cheered with wayside charities.

But, as we give and as we take---whate'er our takings be---

The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!

But when I meet with frantic folk who sinfully declare

There is no pardon for their sin, the same I will not spare

Till I have proved that Heaven and Hell which in our hearts we have

Show nothing irredeemable on either side of the grave.

For as we live and as we die---if utter Death there be---

The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!

Deliver me from every pride---the Middle, High, and Low---

That bars me from a brother's side, whatever pride he show.

And purge me from all heresies of thought and speech and pen

That bid me judge him otherwise than I am judged. Amen!

That I may sing of Crowd or King or road-borne company,

That I may labour in my day, vocation and degree,

To prove the same in deed and name, and hold unshakenly

(Where'er I go, whate'er I know, whoe'er my neighbor be)

This single faith in Life and Death and to Eternity:

``The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!''

Rudyard Kipling

The Vampire

A FOOL there was and he made his prayer

(Even as you or I!)

To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair,

(We called her the woman who did not care),

But the fool he called her his lady fair--

(Even as you or I!)

Oh, the years we waste and the tears we waste,

And the work of our head and hand

Belong to the woman who did not know

(And now we know that she never could know)

And did not understand!

A fool there was and his goods he spent,

(Even as you or I!)

Honour and faith and a sure intent

(And it wasn't the least what the lady meant),

But a fool must follow his natural bent

(Even as you or I!)

Oh, the toil we lost and the spoil we lost

And the excellent things we planned

Belong to the woman who didn't know why

(And now we know that she never knew why)

And did not understand!

The fool was stripped to his foolish hide,

(Even as you or I!)

Which she might have seen when she threw him aside--

(But it isn't on record the lady tried)

So some of him lived but the most of him died--

(Even as you or I!)

``And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame

That stings like a white-hot brand--

It's coming to know that she never knew why

(Seeing, at last, she could never know why)

And never could understand!''

Rudyard Kipling

Song of the Galley-Slaves

WE pulled for you when the wind was against us and the sails were low.

     Will you never let us go?

We ate bread and onions when you took towns, or ran aboard

quickly when you were beaten back by the foe.

The Captains walked up and down the deck in fair weather

singing songs, but we were below.

We fainted with our chins on the oars and you did not see

that we were idle, for we still swung too and fro.

     Will you never let us go?

The salt made the oar-handles like shark-skin; our knees were

cut to the bone with salt cracks; out hair was stuck to

our foreheads; and our lips were cut to the gums, and

you whipped us because we could not row.

     Will you never let us go?

But, in a little time, we shall run out of the port holes as the

water runs along the oar-blade, and though you tell the

others to row after us you will never catch us till you

catch the oar thresh and tie up the winds in the belly of

the sail. Aho!

     Will you never let us go?

Rudyard Kipling

Cities and Thrones and Powers

CITIES and Thrones and Powers,

Stand in Time's eye,

Almost as long as flowers,

Which daily die:

But, as new buds put forth,

To glad new men,

Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth,

The Cities rise again.

This season's Daffodil,

She never hears

What change, what chance, what chill,

Cut down last year's:

But with bold countenance,

And knowledge small,

Esteems her seven days' continuance

To be perpetual.

So time that is o'er kind,

To all that be,

Ordains us e'en as blind,

As bold as she:

That in our very death,

And burial sure,

Shadow to shadow, well-persuaded, saith,

"See how our works endure!"

Rudyard Kipling