The Five Nations

Front matter

THE FIVE NATIONS

{| style="border:1px solid; padding:0em; margin:auto;" | | The Five Nations | By Rudyard Kipling | NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO. 1903

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Dedication

Dedication

DEDICATION

Before a midnight breaks in storm, Or herded sea in wrath, Ye know what wavering gusts inform The greater tempest's path; Till the loosed wind Drive all from mind, Except Distress, which, so will prophets cry, O'ercame them, houseless, from the unhinting sky.

The Sea And the Hills

THE SEA AND THE HILLS

Who hath desired the Sea?—the sight of salt water unbounded— The heave and the halt and the hurl and the crash of the comber wind-hounded? The sleek-barrelled swell before storm, grey, foamless, enormous, and growing— Stark calm on the lap of the Line or the crazy-eyed hurricane blowing— His Sea is no showing the same—his Sea and the same 'neath each showing— His Sea as she slackens or thrills? So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise hillmen desire their Hills!

Who hath desired the Sea?—the immense and contemptuous surges? The shudder, the stumble, the swerve, as the star-stabbing bowsprit emerges? The orderly clouds of the Trades, and the ridged, roaring sapphire thereunder— Unheralded cliff-haunting flaws and the headsail's low-volleying thunder— His Sea in no wonder the same—his Sea and the same through each wonder: His Sea as she rages or stills? So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise hillmen desire their Hills.

Who hath desired the Sea? Her menaces swift as her mercies, The in-rolling walls of the fog and the silver-winged breeze that disperses? The unstable mined berg going South and the calvings and groans that declare it; White water half-guessed overside and the moon breaking timely to bear it; His Sea as his fathers have dared—his Sea as his children shall dare it— His Sea as she serves him or kills? So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise hillmen desire their Hills.

Who hath desired the Sea? Her excellent loneliness rather Than forecourts of kings, and her outermost pits than the streets where men gather Inland, among dust, under trees—inland where the slayer may slay him Inland, out of reach of her arms, and the bosom whereon he must lay him— His Sea at the first that betrayed—at the last that shall never betray him— His Sea that his being fulfils? So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise hillmen desire their Hills.

The Bell Buoy

THE BELL BUOY

They christened my brother of old— And a saintly name he bears— They gave him his place to hold At the head of the belfry-stairs, Where the minster-towers stand And the breeding kestrels cry. Would I change with my brother a league inland? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

In the flush of the hot June prime, O'er smooth flood-tides afire, I hear him hurry the chime To the bidding of checked Desire; Till the sweated ringers tire And the wild bob-majors die. Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

When the smoking scud is blown, When the greasy wind-rack lowers, Apart and at peace and alone, He counts the changeless hours. He wars with darkling Powers (I war with a darkling sea); Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not he!

There was never a priest to pray, There was never a hand to toll, When they made me guard of the bay, And moored me over the shoal. I rock, I reel, and I roll— My four great hammers ply— Could I speak or be still at the Church's will? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

The landward marks have failed, The fog-bank glides unguessed, The seaward lights are veiled, The spent deep feigns her rest: But my ear is laid to her breast, I lift to the swell—I cry! Could I wait in sloth on the Church's oath? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

At the careless end of night I thrill to the nearing screw, I turn in the nearing light And I call to the drowsy crew; And the mud boils foul and blue As the blind bow backs away. Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not they!

The beach-pools cake and skim, The bursting spray-heads freeze, I gather on crown and rim The grey, grained ice of the seas, Where, sheathed from bitt to trees, The plunging colliers lie. Would I barter my place for the Church's grace? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

Through the blur of the whirling snow, Or the black of the inky sleet, The lanterns gather and grow, And I look for the homeward fleet. Rattle of block and sheet— "Ready about—stand by!" Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

I dip and I surge and I swing In the rip of the racing tide, By the gates of doom I sing, On the horns of death I ride. A ship-length overside, Between the course and the sand, Fretted and bound I bide Peril whereof I cry. Would I change with my brother a league inland? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

Cruisers

CRUISERS

As our mother the Frigate, bepainted and fine, Made play for her bully the Ship of the Line; So we, her bold daughters by iron and fire, Accost and decoy to our masters' desire.

Now pray you consider what toils we endure, Night-walking wet sea-lanes, a guard and a lure; Since half of our trade is that same pretty sort As mettlesome wenches do practise in port.

For this is our office: to spy and make room, As hiding yet guiding the foe to their doom; Surrounding, confounding, to bait and betray And tempt them to battle the seas' width away.

The pot-bellied merchant foreboding no wrong With headlight and sidelight he lieth along, Till, lightless and lightfoot and lurking, leap we To force him discover his business by sea.

And when we have wakened the lust of a foe, To draw him by flight toward our bullies we go, Till, 'ware of strange smoke stealing nearer, he flies— Or our bullies close in for to make him good prize.

So, when we have spied on the path of their host, One flieth to carry that word to the coast; And, lest by false doubling they turn and go free, One lieth behind them to follow and see.

Anon we return, being gathered again, Across the sad valleys all drabbled with rain— Across the grey ridges all crispèd and curled— To join the long dance round the curve of the world.

The bitter salt spindrift: the sun-glare likewise: The moon-track a-quiver bewilders our eyes, Where, linking and lifting, our sisters we hail 'Twixt wrench of cross-surges or plunge of head-gale.

As maidens awaiting the bride to come forth Make play with light jestings and wit of no worth, So, widdershins circling the bride-bed of death, Each fleereth her neighbour and signeth and saith:—

"What see ye? Their signals, or levin afar? "What hear ye? God's thunder, or guns of our war? "What mark ye? Their smoke, or the cloud-rack outblown? "What chase ye? Their lights, or the Daystar low down?"

So, times past all number deceived by false shows, Deceiving we cumber the road of our foes, For this is our virtue: to track and betray; Preparing great battles a sea's width away.

Now peace is at end and our peoples take heart, For the laws are clean gone that restrained our art; Up and down the near headlands and against the far wind We are loosed (O be swift!) to the work of our kind!

The Destroyers

THE DESTROYERS

The strength of twice three thousand horse That seek the single goal; The line that holds the rending course, The hate that swings the whole: The stripped hulls, slinking through the gloom, At gaze and gone again— The Brides of Death that wait the groom— The Choosers of the Slain!

Offshore where sea and skyline blend In rain, the daylight dies; The sullen, shouldering swells attend Night and our sacrifice. Adown the stricken capes no flare— No mark on spit or bar,— Girdled and desperate we dare The blindfold game of war.

Nearer the up-flung beams that spell The council of our foes; Clearer the barking guns that tell Their scattered flank to close. Sheer to the trap they crowd their way From ports for this unbarred. Quiet, and count our laden prey The convoy and her guard!

On shoal with scarce a foot below, Where rock and islet throng, Hidden and hushed we watch them throw Their anxious lights along. Not here, not here your danger lies— (Stare hard, O hooded eyne!) Save where the dazed rock-pigeons rise The lit cliffs give no sign.

Therefore—to break the rest ye seek, The Narrow Seas to clear— Hark to the syren's whimpering shriek— The driven death is here! Look to your van a league away,— What midnight terror stays The bulk that checks against the spray Her crackling tops ablaze?

Hit, and hard hit! The blow went home, The muffled, knocking stroke— The steam that overruns the foam— The foam that thins to smoke— The smoke that clokes the deep aboil— The deep that chokes her throes Till, streaked with ash and sleeked with oil, The lukewarm whirlpools close!

A shadow down the sickened wave Long since her slayer fled: But hear their chattering quick-fires rave Astern, abeam, ahead! Panic that shells the drifting spar— Loud waste with none to check— Mad fear that rakes a scornful star Or sweeps a consort's deck!

Now, while their silly smoke hangs thick, Now ere their wits they find, Lay in and lance them to the quick— Our gallied whales are blind! Good luck to those that see the end, Good-bye to those that drown— For each his chance as chance shall send— And God for all! Shut down!

The strength of twice three thousand horse That serve the one command; The hand that heaves the headlong force, The hate that backs the hand: The doom-bolt in the darkness freed, The mine that splits the main; The white-hot wake, the 'wildering speed— The Choosers of the Slain!

White Horses

WHITE HORSES

Where run your colts at pasture? Where hide your mares to breed? 'Mid bergs about the Ice-cap Or wove Sargasso weed; By chartless reef and channel, Or crafty coastwise bars, But most the ocean-meadows All purple to the stars!

Who holds the rein upon you? The latest gale let free. What meat is in your mangers? The glut of all the sea. 'Twixt tide and tide's returning Great store of newly dead,— The bones of those that faced us, And the hearts of those that fled.

Afar, off-shore and single, Some stallion, rearing swift, Neighs hungry for new fodder, And calls us to the drift. Then down the cloven ridges— A million hooves unshod— Break forth the mad White Horses To seek their meat from God!

Girth-deep in hissing water Our furious vanguard strains— Through mist of mighty tramplings Roll up the fore-blown manes— A hundred leagues to leeward, Ere yet the deep is stirred, The groaning rollers carry The coming of the herd!

Whose hand may grip your nostrils— Your forelock who may hold? E'en they that use the broads with us The riders bred and bold, That spy upon our matings, That rope us where we run— They know the strong White Horses From father unto son.

We breathe about their cradles, We race their babes ashore, We snuff against their thresholds, We nuzzle at their door; By day with stamping squadrons, By night in whinnying droves, Creep up the wise White Horses, To call them from their loves.

And come they for your calling? No wit of man may save. They hear the loosed White Horses Above their father's grave; And, kin of those we crippled, And, sons of those we slew, Spur down the wild white riders To school the herds anew.

What service have ye paid them, Oh jealous steeds and strong? Save we that throw their weaklings, Is none dare work them wrong; While thick around the homestead Our snow-backed leaders graze— A guard behind their plunder, And a veil before their ways.

With march and countermarchings— With weight of wheeling hosts— Stray mob or bands embattled— We ring the chosen coasts: And, careless of our clamour That bids the stranger fly, At peace within our pickets The wild white riders lie.

Trust ye the curdled hollows— Trust ye the neighing wind— Trust ye the moaning groundswell— Our herds are close behind!

To bray your foeman's armies— To chill and snap his sword— Trust ye the wild White Horses, The Horses of the Lord!

The Second Voyage

THE SECOND VOYAGE

We've sent our little Cupids all ashore— They were frightened, they were tired, they were cold; Our sails of silk and purple go to store, And we've cut away our mast of beaten gold (Foul weather!) Oh 'tis hemp and singing pine for to stand against the brine, But Love he is the master as of old!

The sea has shorn our galleries away, The salt has soiled our gilding past remede; Our paint is flaked and blistered by the spray, Our sides are half a fathom furred in weed (Foul weather!) And the doves of Venus fled and the petrels came instead. But Love he was our master at our need!

'Was Youth would keep no vigil at the bow, 'Was Pleasure at the helm too drunk to steer— We've shipped three able quartermasters now, Men call them Custom, Reverence, and Fear (Foul weather!) They are old and scarred and plain, but we'll run no risk again From any Port o' Paphos mutineer!

We seek no more the tempest for delight, We skirt no more the indraught and the shoal— We ask no more of any day or night Than to come with least adventure to our goal (Foul weather!) What we find we needs must brook, but we do not go to look, Nor tempt the Lord our God that saved us whole!

Yet, caring so, not overly we care To brace and trim for every foolish blast, If the squall be pleased to sweep us unaware, He may bellow off to leeward like the last (Foul weather!) We will blame it on the deep (for the watch must have their sleep), And Love can come and wake us when 'tis past.

Oh launch them down with music from the beach, Oh warp them out with garlands from the quays— Most resolute—a damsel unto each— New prows that seek the old Hesperides! (Foul weather!) Though we know the voyage is vain, yet we see our path again In the saffroned bridesails scenting all the seas! (Foul weather!)

The Dykes

THE DYKES

We have no heart for the fishing, we have no hand for the oar— All that our fathers taught us of old pleases us now no more; All that our own hearts bid us believe we doubt where we do not deny— There is no proof in the bread we eat or rest in the toil we ply.

Look you, our foreshore stretches far through sea-gate, dyke, and groin— Made land all, that our fathers made, where the flats and the fairway join. They forced the sea a sea-league back. They died, and their work stood fast. We were born to peace in the lee of the dykes, but the time of our peace is past.

Far off, the full tide clambers and slips, mouthing and testing all, Nipping the flanks of the water-gates, baying along the wall; Turning the shingle, returning the shingle, changing the set of the sand ... We are too far from the beach, men say, to know how the outworks stand.

So we come down, uneasy, to look, uneasily pacing the beach. These are the dykes our fathers made: we have never known a breach. Time and again has the gale blown by and we were not afraid; Now we come only to look at the dykes—at the dykes our fathers made.

O'er the marsh where the homesteads cower apart, the harried sunlight flies. Shifts and considers, wanes and recovers, scatters and sickens and dies— An evil ember bedded in ash—a spark blown west by the wind ... We are surrendered to night and the sea—the gale and the tide behind!

At the bridge of the lower saltings the cattle gather and blare, Roused by the feet of running men, dazed by the lantern glare. Unbar and let them away for their lives—the levels drown as they stand, Where the flood-wash forces the sluices aback and the ditches deliver inland.

Ninefold deep to the top of the dykes the galloping breakers stride, And their overcarried spray is a sea—a sea on the landward side. Coming, like stallions they paw with their hooves, going they snatch with their teeth, Till the bents and the furze and the sand are dragged out, and the old-time wattles beneath!

Bid men gather fuel for fire, the tar and the oil and the tow— Flame we shall need, not smoke, in the dark if the riddled seabanks go. Bid the ringers watch in the tower (who knows what the dawn shall prove?) Each with his rope between his feet and the trembling bells above.

Now we can only wait till the day, wait and apportion our shame! These are the dykes our fathers left, but we would not look to the same. Time and again were we warned of the dykes, time and again we delayed: Now, it may fall, we have slain our sons as our fathers we have betrayed.

Walking along the wreck of the dykes, watching the work of the seas, These were the dykes our fathers made to our great profit and ease; But the peace is gone and the profit is gone, and the old sure day withdrawn ... That our own houses show as strange when we come back in the dawn!

The Song of Diego Valdez

THE SONG OF DIEGO VALDEZ

The God of Fair Beginnings Hath prospered here my hand— The cargoes of my lading, And the keels of my command. For out of many ventures That sailed with hope as high, My own have made the better trade, And Admiral am I!

To me my King's much honour, To me my people's love— To me the pride of Princes And power all pride above; To me the shouting cities, To me the mob's refrain:— "Who knows not noble Valdez, Hath never heard of Spain."

But I remember comrades— Old playmates on new seas— Whenas we traded orpiment Among the savages— A thousand leagues to south'ard And thirty years removed— They knew not noble Valdez, But me they knew and loved.

Then they that found good liquor, They drank it not alone, And they that found fair plunder, They told us every one, About our chosen islands Or secret shoals between, When, walty from far voyage, We gathered to careen.

There burned our breaming-fagots All pale along the shore: There rose our worn pavilions— A sail above an oar: As flashed each yearning anchor Through mellow seas afire, So swift our careless captains Rowed each to his desire!

Where lay our loosened harness? Where turned our naked feet? Whose tavern 'mid the palm-trees? What quenchings of what heat? Oh fountain in the desert! Oh cistern in the waste! Oh bread we ate in secret! Oh cup we spilled in haste!

The youth new-taught of longing, The widow curbed and wan— The goodwife proud at season, And the maid aware of man; All souls unslaked, consuming, Defrauded in delays, Desire not more than quittance Than I those forfeit days!

I dreamed to wait my pleasure Unchanged my spring would bide: Wherefore, to wait my pleasure, I put my spring aside Till, first in face of Fortune, And last in mazed disdain, I made Diego Valdez High Admiral of Spain.

Then walked no wind 'neath Heaven Nor surge that did not aid— I dared extreme occasion, Nor ever one betrayed, They wrought a deeper treason— (Led seas that served my needs!) They sold Diego Valdez To bondage of great deeds.

The tempest flung me seaward, And pinned and bade me hold The course I might not alter— And men esteemed me bold! The calms embayed my quarry, The fog-wreath sealed his eyes; The dawn-wind brought my topsails— And men esteemed me wise!

Yet 'spite my tyrant triumphs Bewildered, dispossessed— My dream held I before me— My vision of my rest; But, crowned by Fleet and People, And bound by King and Pope— Stands here Diego Valdez To rob me of my hope!

No prayer of mine shall move him, No word of his set free The Lord of Sixty Pennants And the Steward of the Sea. His will can loose ten thousand To seek their loves again— But not Diego Valdez, High Admiral of Spain.

There walks no wind 'neath Heaven Nor wave that shall restore The old careening riot And the clamorous, crowded shore— The fountain in the desert, The cistern in the waste, The bread we ate in secret, The cup we spilled in haste!

Now call I to my Captains— For council fly the sign, Now leap their zealous galleys Twelve-oared across the brine. To me the straiter prison, To me the heavier chain— To me Diego Valdez, High Admiral of Spain!

The Broken Men

THE BROKEN MEN

For things we never mention, For Art misunderstood— For excellent intention That did not turn to good; From ancient tales' renewing, From clouds we would not clear— Beyond the Law's pursuing We fled, and settled here.

We took no tearful leaving, We bade no long good-byes; Men talked of crime and thieving, Men wrote of fraud and lies. To save our injured feelings 'Twas time and time to go— Behind was dock and Dartmoor, Ahead lay Callao!

The widow and the orphan That pray for ten per cent., They clapped their trailers on us To spy the road we went. They watched the foreign sailings (They scan the shipping still), And that's your Christian people Returning good for ill!

God bless the thoughful islands Where never warrants come! God bless the just Republics That give a man a home, That ask no foolish questions, But set him on his feet; And save his wife and daughters From the workhouse and the street!

On church and square and market The noonday silence falls; You'll hear the drowsy mutter Of the fountain in our halls. Asleep amid the yuccas The city takes her ease— Till twilight brings the land-wind To our clicking jalousies.

Day long the diamond weather, The high, unaltered blue— The smell of goats and incense And the mule-bells tinkling through. Day long the warder ocean That keeps us from our kin, And once a month our levee When the English mail comes in.

You'll find us up and waiting To treat you at the bar; You'll find us less exclusive Than the average English are. We'll meet you with our carriage, Too glad to show you round. But—we do not lunch on steamers, For they are English ground.

We sail o' nights to England And join our smiling Boards; Our wives go in with Viscounts And our daughters dance with Lords. But behind our princely doings, And behind each coup we make, "We feel there's Something Waiting, And—we meet It when we wake.

Ah God! One sniff of England— To greet our flesh and blood— To hear the hansoms slurring Once more through London mud! Our towns of wasted honour— Our streets of lost delight! How stands the old Lord Warden? Are Dover's cliffs still white?

The Feet of the Young Men

THE FEET OF THE YOUNG MEN

Now the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the Hunting Winds are loose— Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain; Now the Young Men's hearts are troubled for the whisper of the Trues, Now the Red Gods make their medicine again! Who hath seen the beaver busied? Who hath watched the black-tail mating? Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry? Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche is waiting, Or the sea-trout's jumping-crazy for the fly?

He must go—go—go away from here! On the other side the world he's overdue. 'Send your road is clear before you when the old Spring-fret comes o'er you And the Red Gods call for you!

So for one the wet sail arching through the rainbow round the bow, And for one the creak of snow-shoes on the crust; And for one the lakeside lilies where the bull-moose waits the cow, And for one the mule-train coughing in the dust. Who hath smelt wood-smoke at twilight? Who hath heard the birch-log burning? Who is quick to read the noises of the night? Let him follow with the others, for the Young Men's feet are turning To the camps of proved desire and known delight!

Let him go—go, etc.

I

Do you know the blackened timber—do you know that racing stream With the raw, right-angled log-jam at the end; And the bar of sun-warmed shingle where a man may bask and dream To the click of shod canoe-poles round the bend? It is there that we are going with our rods and reels and traces, To a silent, smoky Indian that we know— To a couch of new-pulled hemlock with the starlight on our faces, For the Red Gods call us out and we must go!

They must go—go, etc.

II

Do you know the shallow Baltic where the seas are steep and short, Where the bluff, lee-boarded fishing-luggers ride? Do you know the joy of threshing leagues to leeward of your port On a coast you've lost the chart of overside? It is there that I am going, with an extra hand to bale her— Just one able 'long-shore loafer that I know. He can take his chance of drowning, while I sail and sail and sail her, For the Red Gods call me out and I must go!

He must go—go, etc.

III

Do you know the pile-built village where the sago-dealers trade— Do you know the reek of fish and wet bamboo? Do you know the steaming stillness of the orchid-scented glade When the blazoned, bird-winged butterflies flap through? It is there that I am going with my camphor, net, and boxes, To a gentle, yellow pirate that I know— To my little wailing lemurs, to my palms and flying-foxes, For the Red Gods call me out and I must go!

He must go—go, etc.

IV

Do you know the world's white roof-tree—do you know that windy rift Where the baffling mountain-eddies chop and change? Do you know the long day's patience, belly-down on frozen drift, While the head of heads is feeding out of range? It is there that I am going, where the boulders and the snow lie, With a trusty, nimble tracker that I know. I have sworn an oath, to keep it on the Horns of Ovis Poli, And the Red Gods call me out and I must go!

He must go—go, etc.

Now the Four-way Lodge is opened—now the Smokes of Council rise— Pleasant smokes, ere yet 'twixt trail and trail they choose— Now the girths and ropes are tested: now they pack their last supplies: Now our Young Men go to dance before the Trues! Who shall meet them at those altars—who shall light them to that shrine? Velvet-footed, who shall guide them to their goal? Unto each the voice and vision: unto each his spoor and sign— Lonely mountain in the Northland, misty sweat-bath 'neath the Line— And to each a man that knows his naked soul!

White or yellow, black or copper, he is waiting, as a lover, Smoke of funnel, dust of hooves, or beat of train— Where the high grass hides the horseman or the glaring flats discover— Where the steamer hails the landing, or the surf-boat brings the rover— Where the rails run out in sand-drift ... Quick! ah, heave the camp-kit over! For the Red Gods make their medicine again!

And we go—go—go away from here! On the other side the world we're overdue! 'Send the road is clear before you when the old Spring-fret comes o'er you. And the Red Gods call for you!

The Truce of the Bear

THE TRUCE OF THE BEAR

Yearly, with tent and rifle, our careless white men go By the pass called Muttianee, to shoot in the vale below. Yearly by Muttianee he follows our white men in— Matun, the old blind beggar, bandaged from brow to chin.

Eyeless, noseless, and lipless—toothless, broken of speech, Seeking a dole at the doorway he mumbles his tale to each; Over and over the story, ending as he began: "Make ye no truce with Adam-zad—the Bear that walks like a man!

"There was a flint in my musket—pricked and primed was the pan, When I went hunting Adam-zad—the Bear that stands like a man. I looked my last on the timber, I looked my last on the snow, When I went hunting Adam-zad fifty summers ago!

"I knew his times and his seasons, as he knew mine, that fed By night in the ripened maizefield and robbed my house of bread; I knew his strength and cunning, as he knew mine, that crept At dawn to the crowded goat-pens and plundered while I slept.

"Up from his stony playground—down from his well-digged lair— Out on the naked ridges ran Adam-zad the Bear; Groaning, grunting, and roaring, heavy with stolen meals, Two long marches to northward, and I was at his heels!

"Two full marches to northward, at the fall of the second night, I came on mine enemy Adam-zad all panting from his flight. There was a charge in the musket—pricked and primed was the pan— My finger crooked on the trigger—when he reared up like a man.

"Horrible, hairy, human, with paws like hands in prayer, Making his supplication rose Adam-zad the Bear! I looked at the swaying shoulders, at the paunch's swag and swing, And my heart was touched with pity for the monstrous, pleading thing.