Dancing by the Light of the Moon Page 21

  By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

  And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

  As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

  A mighty fountain momently was forced:

  Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

  Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

  Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:

  And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

  It flung up momently the sacred river.

  Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

  Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

  Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

  And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:

  And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

  Ancestral voices prophesying war!

  The shadow of the dome of pleasure

  Floated midway on the waves;

  Where was heard the mingled measure

  From the fountain and the caves.

  It was a miracle of rare device,

  A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

  A damsel with a dulcimer

  In a vision once I saw:

  It was an Abyssinian maid

  And on her dulcimer she played,

  Singing of Mount Abora.

  Could I revive within me

  Her symphony and song,

  To such a deep delight ’twould win me,

  That with music loud and long,

  I would build that dome in air,

  That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

  And all who heard should see them there,

  And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

  His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

  Weave a circle round him thrice,

  And close your eyes with holy dread,

  For he on honey-dew hath fed,

  And drunk the milk of Paradise.

  Abou Ben Adhem

  by Leigh Hunt

  (1784–1859)fn3

  Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)

  Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

  And saw, within the moonlight in his room,

  Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

  An angel writing in a book of gold: –

  Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

  And to the presence in the room he said,

  ‘What writest thou?’ – The vision raised its head,

  And with a look made of all sweet accord,

  Answered, ‘The names of those who love the Lord.’

  ‘And is mine one?’ said Abou. ‘Nay, not so,’

  Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

  But cheerly still; and said, ‘I pray thee then,

  Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.’

  The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

  It came again with a great wakening light,

  And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,

  And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

  Gunga Din

  by Rudyard Kipling

  (1865–1936)fn4

  You may talk o’ gin and beer

  When you’re quartered safe out ’ere,

  An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;

  But when it comes to slaughter

  You will do your work on water,

  An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.

  Now in Injia’s sunny clime,

  Where I used to spend my time

  A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen,

  Of all them blackfaced crew

  The finest man I knew

  Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.

  He was ‘Din! Din! Din!

  ‘You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!

  ‘Hi! Slippy hitherao!

  ‘Water, get it! Panee lao!

  ‘You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.’

  The uniform ’e wore

  Was nothin’ much before,

  An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind,

  For a piece o’ twisty rag

  An’ a goatskin water-bag

  Was all the field-equipment ’e could find.

  When the sweatin’ troop-train lay

  In a sidin’ through the day,

  Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,

  We shouted ‘Harry By!’

  Till our throats were bricky-dry,

  Then we wopped ’im ’cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.

  It was ‘Din! Din! Din!

  ‘You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been?

  ‘You put some juldee in it

  ‘Or I’ll marrow you this minute

  ‘If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!’

  ’E would dot an’ carry one

  Till the longest day was done;

  An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.

  If we charged or broke or cut,

  You could bet your bloomin’ nut,

  ’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.

  With ’is mussick on ’is back,

  ’E would skip with our attack,

  An’ watch us till the bugles made ‘Retire,’

  An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide

  ’E was white, clear white, inside

  When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire!

  It was ‘Din! Din! Din!’

  With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.

  When the cartridges ran out,

  You could hear the front-ranks shout,

  ‘Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!’

  I sha’n’t forgit the night

  When I dropped be’ind the fight

  With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been.

  I was chokin’ mad with thirst,

  An’ the man that spied me first

  Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.

  ’E lifted up my ’ead,

  An’ he plugged me where I bled,

  An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water green:

  It was crawlin’ and it stunk,

  But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,

  I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

  It was ‘Din! Din! Din!

  ‘’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen;

  ‘’E’s chawin’ up the ground,

  ‘An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around:

  ‘For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!’

  ’E carried me away

  To where a dooli lay,

  An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.

  ’E put me safe inside,

  An’ just before ’e died,

  ‘I ’ope you liked your drink,’ sez Gunga Din.

  So I’ll meet ’im later on

  At the place where ’e is gone –

  Where it’s always double drill and no canteen;

  ’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals

  Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,

  An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!

  Yes, Din! Din! Din!

  You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!

  Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,

  By the livin’ Gawd that made you,

  You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

  Richard Cory

  by Edwin Arlington Robinson

  (1869–1935)fn5

  Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

  We people on the pavement looked at him:

  He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

  Clean favored, and imperially slim.

  And he was always quietly arrayed,

  And he was always human when he talked;

  But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

  ‘Good-morning,’ and he glittered when he walked.

  And he was rich – yes, richer than
a king –

  And admirably schooled in every grace:

  In fine, we thought that he was everything

  To make us wish that we were in his place.

  So on we worked, and waited for the light,

  And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

  And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

  Went home and put a bullet through his head.

  Lord Lundy

  Who Was Too Freely Moved to Tears, and

  Thereby Ruined His Political Career

  by Hilaire Belloc

  (1870–1953)

  Lord Lundy from his earliest years

  Was far too freely moved to Tears.

  For instance if his Mother said,

  ‘Lundy! It’s time to go to Bed!’

  He bellowed like a Little Turk.

  Or if his father, Lord Dunquerque,

  Said, ‘Hi!’ in a Commanding Tone,

  ‘Hi, Lundy! Leave the Cat alone!’

  Lord Lundy, letting go its tail,

  Would raise so terrible a wail

  As moved his Grandpapa the Duke

  To utter the severe rebuke:

  ‘When I, Sir! was a little Boy,

  An Animal was not a Toy!’

  His father’s Elder Sister, who

  Was married to a Parvenoo,

  Confided to Her Husband, ‘Drat!

  The Miserable, Peevish Brat!

  Why don’t they drown the Little Beast?’

  Suggestions which, to say the least,

  Are not what we expect to hear

  From Daughters of an English Peer.

  His grandmamma, His Mother’s Mother,

  Who had some dignity or other,

  The Garter, or no matter what,

  I can’t remember all the Lot!

  Said, ‘Oh! That I were Brisk and Spry

  To give him that for which to cry!’

  (An empty wish, alas! for she

  Was Blind and nearly ninety-three).

  The Dear Old Butler thought – but there!

  I really neither know nor care

  For what the Dear Old Butler thought!

  In my opinion, Butlers ought

  To know their place, and not to play

  The Old Retainer night and day.

  I’m getting tired and so are you,

  Let’s cut the poem into two!

  Second Canto

  It happened to Lord Lundy then,

  As happens to so many men:

  Towards the age of twenty-six,

  They shoved him into politics;

  In which profession he commanded

  The income that his rank demanded

  In turn as Secretary for

  India, the Colonies, and War.

  But very soon his friends began

  To doubt if he were quite the man:

  Thus if a member rose to say

  (As members do from day to day),

  ‘Arising out of that reply …!’

  Lord Lundy would begin to cry.

  A Hint at harmless little jobs

  Would shake him with convulsive sobs.

  While as for Revelations, these

  Would simply bring him to his knees,

  And leave him whimpering like a child.

  It drove his Colleagues raving wild!

  They let him sink from Post to Post,

  From fifteen hundred at the most

  To eight, and barely six – and then

  To be Curator of Big Ben! …

  And finally there came a Threat

  To oust him from the Cabinet!

  The Duke – his aged grand-sire – bore

  The shame till he could bear no more.

  He rallied his declining powers,

  Summoned the youth to Brackley Towers,

  And bitterly addressed him thus –

  ‘Sir! you have disappointed us!

  We had intended you to be

  The next Prime Minister but three:

  The stocks were sold; the Press was squared:

  The Middle Class was quite prepared.

  But as it is! … My language fails!

  Go out and govern New South Wales!’

  The Aged Patriot groaned and died:

  And gracious! how Lord Lundy cried!

  Matilda

  Who Told Lies and Was Burned to Death

  by Hilaire Belloc

  Matilda told such Dreadful Lies,

  It made one Gasp and Stretch one’s Eyes;

  Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth,

  Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth,

  Attempted to Believe Matilda:

  The effort very nearly killed her,

  And would have done so, had not She

  Discovered this Infirmity.

  For once, towards the Close of Day,

  Matilda, growing tired of play,

  And finding she was left alone,

  Went tiptoe to the Telephone

  And summoned the Immediate Aid

  Of London’s Noble Fire-Brigade.

  Within an hour the Gallant Band

  Were pouring in on every hand,

  From Putney, Hackney Downs, and Bow

  With Courage high and Hearts a-glow

  They galloped, roaring though the Town,

  ‘Matilda’s House is Burning Down!’

  Inspired by British Cheers and Loud

  Proceeding from the Frenzied Crowd,

  They ran their ladders through a score

  Of windows on the Ball Room Floor;

  And took Peculiar Pains to Souse

  The Pictures up and down the House,

  Until Matilda’s Aunt succeeded

  In showing them they were not needed;

  And even then she had to pay

  To get the Men to go away!

  . . . . .

  It happened that a few Weeks later

  Her Aunt was off to the Theatre

  To see that Interesting Play

  The Second Mrs Tanqueray.

  She had refused to take her Niece

  To hear this Entertaining Piece:

  A Deprivation Just and Wise

  To Punish her for Telling Lies.

  That Night a Fire did break out –

  You should have heard Matilda Shout!

  You should have heard her Scream and Bawl,

  And throw the window up and call

  To People passing in the Street –

  (The rapidly increasing Heat

  Encouraging her to obtain

  Their confidence) – but it was all in vain!

  For every time She shouted ‘Fire!’

  They only answered ‘Little Liar’!

  And therefore when her Aunt returned,

  Matilda, and the House, were burned.

  The Lion and Albert

  by Marriott Edgar

  (1880–1951)fn6

  There’s a famous seaside place called Blackpool,

  That’s noted for fresh air and fun,

  And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom

  Went there with young Albert, their son.

  A grand little lad was young Albert,

  All dressed in his best; quite a swell

  With a stick with an ’orse’s ’ead ’andle,

  The finest that Woolworth’s could sell.

  They didn’t think much to the Ocean;:

  The waves, they were fiddlin’ and small,

  There was no wrecks and nobody drownded,

  Fact, nothing to laugh at at all.

  So, seeking for further amusement,

  They paid and went into the Zoo,

  Where they’d Lions and Tigers and Camels

  And old ale and sandwiches, too.

  There was one great big Lion called Wallace;

  His nose were all covered with scars –

  He lay in a somnolent posture

  With the side of his face on the bars.

  Now Albert had heard about Lions,

  Ho
w they was ferocious and wild –

  To see Wallace lying so peaceful,

  Well, it didn’t seem right to the child.

  So straightway the brave little feller,

  Not showing a morsel of fear,

  Took his stick with its ’orse’s ’ead ’andle

  And pushed it in Wallace’s ear.

  You could see that the Lion didn’t like it,

  For giving a kind of a roll,

  He pulled Albert inside the cage with ’im,

  And swallowed the little lad ’ole.

  Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence,

  And didn’t know what to do next,

  Said ‘Mother! Yon lion’s ’et Albert,’

  And Mother said ‘Well, I am vexed!’

  Then Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom –

  Quite rightly, when all’s said and done –

  Complained to the Animal Keeper

  That the Lion had eaten their son.

  The keeper was quite nice about it;

  He said ‘What a nasty mishap.

  Are you sure that it’s your boy he’s eaten?’

  Pa said ‘Am I sure? There’s his cap!’

  The manager had to be sent for.

  He came and he said ‘What’s to do?’

  Pa said ‘Yon Lion’s ’et Albert,

  And ’im in his Sunday clothes, too.’

  Then Mother said, ‘Right’s right, young feller;

  I think it’s a shame and a sin

  For a lion to go and eat Albert,

  And after we’ve paid to come in.’

  The manager wanted no trouble,;

  He took out his purse right away,

  Saying ‘How much to settle the matter?’

  And Pa said ‘What do you usually pay?’

  But Mother had turned a bit awkward

  When she saw where her Albert had gone.

  She said ‘No! someone’s got to be summonsed’ –

  So that was decided upon.

  Then off they all went to the P’lice Station,

  In front of the Magistrate chap;

  They told ’im what happened to Albert,

  And proved it by showing his cap.

  The Magistrate gave his opinion

  That no one was really to blame

  And he said that he hoped the Ramsbottoms

  Would have further sons to their name.

  At that Mother got proper blazing,

  ‘And thank you, sir, kindly,’ said she.

  ‘What, waste all our lives raising children

  To feed ruddy lions? Not me!’

  Miranda

  by Reginald Arkell

  (1881–1959)fn7

  Miranda was the nicest child,

  Perhaps at times a little wild;

  She loved the parents she had got,

  And liked ‘Old Grumpy’ quite a lot.