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Songs from Books
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Our fathers also see these things
But they do not understand.
By – they are by with mirth and tears,
Wit or the works of Desire —
Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire.
The grapes are pressed, the corn is shocked —
Standeth no more to glean;
For the Gates of Love and Learning locked
When they went out between.
All lore our Lady Venus bares,
Signalled it was or told
By the dear lips long given to theirs
And longer to the mould.
All Profit, all Device, all Truth
Written it was or said
By the mighty men of their mighty youth,
Which is mighty being dead.
The film that floats before their eyes
The Temple's Veil they call;
And the dust that on the Shewbread lies
Is holy over all.
Warn them of seas that slip our yoke
Of slow-conspiring stars —
The ancient Front of Things unbroke
But heavy with new wars?
By – they are by with mirth and tears,
Wit or the waste of Desire —
Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire.
A BRITISH-ROMAN SONG
(A.D. 406)
My father's father saw it not,
And I, belike, shall never come,
To look on that so-holy spot —
The very Rome —
Crowned by all Time, all Art, all Might,
The equal work of Gods and Man,
City beneath whose oldest height —
The Race began!
Soon to send forth again a brood,
Unshakeable, we pray, that clings,
To Rome's thrice-hammered hardihood —
In arduous things.
Strong heart with triple armour bound,
Beat strongly, for thy life-blood runs,
Age after Age, the Empire round —
In us thy Sons.
Who, distant from the Seven Hills,
Loving and serving much, require
Thee —thee to guard 'gainst home-born ills,
The Imperial Fire!
A PICT SONG
Rome never looks where she treads.
Always her heavy hooves fall,
On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads;
And Rome never heeds when we bawl.
Her sentries pass on – that is all,
And we gather behind them in hordes,
And plot to reconquer the Wall,
With only our tongues for our swords.
We are the Little Folk – we!
Too little to love or to hate.
Leave us alone and you'll see
How we can drag down the State!
We are the worm in the wood!
We are the rot at the root!
We are the germ in the blood!
We are the thorn in the foot!
Mistletoe killing an oak —
Rats gnawing cables in two —
Moths making holes in a cloak —
How they must love what they do!
Yes – and we Little Folk too,
We are busy as they —
Working our works out of view —
Watch, and you'll see it some day!
No indeed! We are not strong,
But we know Peoples that are.
Yes, and we'll guide them along,
To smash and destroy you in War!
But they do not understand.
By – they are by with mirth and tears,
Wit or the works of Desire —
Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire.
The grapes are pressed, the corn is shocked —
Standeth no more to glean;
For the Gates of Love and Learning locked
When they went out between.
All lore our Lady Venus bares,
Signalled it was or told
By the dear lips long given to theirs
And longer to the mould.
All Profit, all Device, all Truth
Written it was or said
By the mighty men of their mighty youth,
Which is mighty being dead.
The film that floats before their eyes
The Temple's Veil they call;
And the dust that on the Shewbread lies
Is holy over all.
Warn them of seas that slip our yoke
Of slow-conspiring stars —
The ancient Front of Things unbroke
But heavy with new wars?
By – they are by with mirth and tears,
Wit or the waste of Desire —
Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire.
A BRITISH-ROMAN SONG
(A.D. 406)
My father's father saw it not,
And I, belike, shall never come,
To look on that so-holy spot —
The very Rome —
Crowned by all Time, all Art, all Might,
The equal work of Gods and Man,
City beneath whose oldest height —
The Race began!
Soon to send forth again a brood,
Unshakeable, we pray, that clings,
To Rome's thrice-hammered hardihood —
In arduous things.
Strong heart with triple armour bound,
Beat strongly, for thy life-blood runs,
Age after Age, the Empire round —
In us thy Sons.
Who, distant from the Seven Hills,
Loving and serving much, require
Thee —thee to guard 'gainst home-born ills,
The Imperial Fire!
A PICT SONG
Rome never looks where she treads.
Always her heavy hooves fall,
On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads;
And Rome never heeds when we bawl.
Her sentries pass on – that is all,
And we gather behind them in hordes,
And plot to reconquer the Wall,
With only our tongues for our swords.
We are the Little Folk – we!
Too little to love or to hate.
Leave us alone and you'll see
How we can drag down the State!
We are the worm in the wood!
We are the rot at the root!
We are the germ in the blood!
We are the thorn in the foot!
Mistletoe killing an oak —
Rats gnawing cables in two —
Moths making holes in a cloak —
How they must love what they do!
Yes – and we Little Folk too,
We are busy as they —
Working our works out of view —
Watch, and you'll see it some day!
No indeed! We are not strong,
But we know Peoples that are.
Yes, and we'll guide them along,
To smash and destroy you in War!
Другие электронные книги автора Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг
Другие аудиокниги автора Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг
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