The Seven Seas by Rudyard Kipling (10 best books of all time TXT) đź“–
- Author: Rudyard Kipling
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I ha' watched my arms the lee-long night,
Where five-score fighting-men would flee.
My shield is beat o' the moonlight cold;
And I won my spurs in the Middle World,
A thousand fathoms beneath the mould.
And what should I make wi' a sword so brown,
But spill the rings o' the Gentle Folk
And flyte my kin in the Fairy Town?
Wi' keep and tail and seizin and fee,
And what should I do wi' page and squire
That am a king in my own countrie?
And I send far as my will may flee,
By dawn and dusk and the drinking rain,
And syne my Sendings return to me.
They come wi' news o' the roarin' sea,
Wi' word of Spirit and Ghost and Flesh,
And man that's mazed among the three."
And smote his hand upon his knee:
"By the faith o' my soul, True Thomas," he said,
"Ye waste no wit in courtesie!
Can I make Earls by three and three,
To run before and ride behind
And serve the sons o' my body."
Or all the sons o' your body?
Before they win to the Pride o' Name,
I trow they all ask leave o' me.
As I make Shame wi' mincin' feet,
To sing wi' the priests at the market-cross,
Or run wi' the dogs in the naked street.
And some they give me the white money,
And some they give me a clout o' meal,
For they be people o' low degree.
The same I sing for the white money,
But best I sing for the clout o' meal
That simple people given me."
A silver groat o' Scots money,
"If I come with a poor man's dole," he said,
"True Thomas, will ye harp to me?"
They press me close on either hand:
And who are you," True Thomas said,
"That you should ride while they must stand?
I trow ye talk too loud and hie,
And I will make you a triple word,
And syne, if ye dare, ye shall 'noble me."
And set his back against the stone.
"Now guard you well," True Thomas said,
"Ere I rax your heart from your breast-bone!"
The fairy harp that couldna' lee,
And the first least word the proud King heard,
It harpit the salt tear out o' his ee.
I touch the hope that I may not see,
And all that I did o' hidden shame,
Like little snakes they hiss at me.
The dread o' doom has grippit me.
True Thomas, hide me under your cloak,
God wot, I'm little fit to dee!"
'Twas open field and running flood—
Where, hot on heath and dyke and wall,
The high sun warmed the adder's brood.
"The God shall judge when all is done;
But I will bring you a better word
And lift the cloud that I laid on."
That birled and brattled to his hand,
And the next least word True Thomas made,
It garred the King take horse and brand.
I see the sun on splent and spear!
I mark the arrow outen the fern!
That flies so low and sings so clear!
And bid my good knights prick and ride;
The gled shall watch as fierce a fight
As e'er was fought on the Border side!"
'Twas nodding grass and naked sky,
Where ringing up the wastrel wind
The eyass stooped upon the pye.
And turned the song on the midmost string;
And the last least word True Thomas made
He harpit his dead youth back to the King.
To love my love withouten fear;
To walk wi' man in fellowship,
And breathe my horse behind the deer.
The buck has couched beyond the burn,
My love she waits at her window
To wash my hands when I return.
(Oh! I have seen my true love's eyes!)
To stand wi' Adam in Eden-glade,
And run in the woods o' Paradise!"
'Twas blue above and bent below,
Where, checked against the wastrel wind,
The red deer belled to call the doe.
And louted low at the saddle-side;
He has taken stirrup and hauden rein,
And set the King on his horse o' pride.
"That sit so still, that muse so long;
Sleep ye or wake?—till the latter sleep
I trow ye'll not forget my song.
To stand before your face and cry;
I ha' armed the earth beneath your heel,
And over your head I ha' dusked the sky!
I ha' harpit your secret soul in three;
I ha' harpit ye down to the Hinges o' Hell,
And—ye—would—make—a Knight o' me!"
THE STORY OF UNG.
Ung, a maker of pictures, fashioned an image of snow.
Fashioned the form of a tribesman—gaily he whistled and sung,
Working the snow with his fingers. Read ye the Story of Ung!
Handled it, smelt it, and grunted: "Verily, this is a man!
Thus do we carry our lances—thus is a war-belt slung.
Ay, it is even as we are. Glory and honour to Ung!"
Pictured the sabre-tooth tiger dragging a man to his lair—
Pictured the mountainous mammoth, hairy, abhorrent, alone—
Out of the love that he bore them, scribing them clearly on bone.
Men of the berg-battered beaches, men of the boulder-hatched hill,
Hunters and fishers and trappers—presently whispering low;
"Yea, they are like—and it may be.... But how does the Picture-man know?
Spoke on the ice with the Bow-head—followed the Sabre-tooth home?
Nay! These are toys of his fancy! If he have cheated us so,
How is there truth in his image—the man that he fashioned of snow?"
"Hunters and fishers and trappers, children and fools are ye all!
Look at the beasts when ye hunt them!" Swift from the tumult he broke,
Ran to the cave of his father and told him the shame that they spoke.
Maker of pictures aforetime, he leaned on his lance and laughed:
"If they could see as thou seest they would do what thou hast done,
And each man would make him a picture, and—what would become of my son?
Nor dole of the oily timber that strands with the Baltic drift;
No store of well-drilled needles, nor ouches of amber pale;
No new-cut tongues of the bison, nor meat of the stranded whale.
Nor worked the war-boats outward, through the rush of the rock-staked seas,
Yet they bring thee fish and plunder—full meal and an easy bed—
And all for the sake of thy pictures." And Ung held down his head.
Men have no time at the houghing to count his curls aright:
And the heart of the hairy mammoth thou sayest they do not see,
Yet they save it whole from the beaches and broil the best for thee.
And a little gift in the doorway, and the praise no gift can buy:
But—sure they have doubted thy pictures, and that is a grievous stain—
Son that can see so clearly, return them their gifts again."
And Ung drew downward his mitten and looked at his naked hands;
And he gloved himself and departed, and he heard his father, behind:
"Son that can see so clearly, rejoice that thy tribe is blind!"
Ung, a maker of pictures, fell to his scribing on bone—
Even to mammoth editions. Gaily he whistled and sung,
Blessing his tribe for their blindness. Heed ye the Story of Ung!
THE THREE-DECKER.
"The three-volume novel is extinct."
It cost a watch to steer her, and a week to shorten sail;
But, spite all modern notions, I found her first and best—
The only certain packet for the Islands of the Blest.
We'd stolen wills for ballast and a crew of missing heirs;
They shipped as Able Bastards till the Wicked Nurse confessed,
And they worked the old three-decker to the Islands of the Blest.
We smoked good Corpo Bacco when our sweethearts proved unkind;
With maids of matchless beauty and parentage unguessed
We also took our
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