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A Year of Poetry – Day 32

Now this is the Law of the Jungle —
as old and as true as the sky;
And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper,
but the Wolf that shall break it must die.

As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk
the Law runneth forward and back —
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf,
and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.


Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip;
drink deeply, but never too deep;
And remember the night is for hunting,
and forget not the day is for sleep.


The Jackal may follow the Tiger,
but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown,
Remember the Wolf is a Hunter —
go forth and get food of thine own.


Keep peace withe Lords of the Jungle —
the Tiger, the Panther, and Bear.
And trouble not Hathi the Silent,
and mock not the Boar in his lair.


When Pack meets with Pack in the Jungle,
and neither will go from the trail,
Lie down till the leaders have spoken —
it may be fair words shall prevail.


When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack,
ye must fight him alone and afar,
Lest others take part in the quarrel,
and the Pack be diminished by war.


The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge,
and where he has made him his home,
Not even the Head Wolf may enter,
not even the Council may come.


The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge,
but where he has digged it too plain,
The Council shall send him a message,
and so he shall change it again.


If ye kill before midnight, be silent,
and wake not the woods with your bay,
Lest ye frighten the deer from the crop,
and your brothers go empty away.


Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates
,
and your cubs as they need, and ye can;
But kill not for pleasure of killing,
and seven times never kill Man!


If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker,
devour not all in thy pride;
Pack-Right is the right of the meanest;
so leave him the head and the hide.


The Kill of the Pack is the meat of the Pack.
Ye must eat where it lies;
And no one may carry away of that meat to his lair,
or he dies.


The Kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf.
He may do what he will;
But, till he has given permission,
the Pack may not eat of that Kill.


Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling.
From all of his Pack he may claim
Full-gorge when the killer has eaten;
and none may refuse him the same.


Lair-Right is the right of the Mother.
From all of her year she may claim
One haunch of each kill for her litter,
and none may deny her the same.


Cave-Right is the right of the Father —
to hunt by himself for his own:
He is freed of all calls to the Pack;
he is judged by the Council alone.


Because of his age and his cunning,
because of his gripe and his paw,
In all that the Law leaveth open,
the word of your Head Wolf is Law.


Now these are the Laws of the Jungle,
and many and mighty are they;
But the head and the hoof of the Law
and the haunch and the hump is — Obey!

— Rudyard Kipling, The Law of the Jungle

A Year of Poetry – Day 31

I. 1.

 

1‘Ruin seize thee, ruthless king!
2‘Confusion on thy banners wait,
3‘Though fanned by Conquest’s crimson wing
4‘They mock the air with idle state.
5‘Helm nor hauberk’s twisted mail,
6‘Nor even thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail
7‘To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
8‘From Cambria’s curse, from Cambria’s tears!’
9Such were the sounds, that o’er the crested pride
10Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay,
11As down the steep of Snowdon’s shaggy side
12He wound with toilsome march his long array.
13Stout Gloucester stood aghast in speechless trance:
14‘To arms!’ cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance.

 

I. 2.

 

15On a rock, whose haughty brow
16Frowns o’er old Conway’s foaming flood,
17Robed in the sable garb of woe,
18With haggard eyes the poet stood;
19(Loose his beard, and hoary hair
20Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air)
21And with a master’s hand, and prophet’s fire,
22Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
23‘Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave,
24‘Sighs to the torrent’s awful voice beneath!
25‘O’er thee, oh king! their hundred arms they wave,
26‘Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
27‘Vocal no more, since Cambria’s fatal day,
28‘To high-born Hoel’s harp, or soft Llewellyn’s lay.

 

I. 3.

 

29‘Cold is Cadwallo’s tongue,
30‘That hushed the stormy main:
31‘Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
32‘Mountains, ye mourn in vain
33‘Modred, whose magic song
34‘Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head.
35‘On dreary Arvon’s shore they lie,
36‘Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale:
37‘Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;
38‘The famished eagle screams, and passes by.
39‘Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
40‘Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes,
41‘Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
42‘Ye died amidst your dying country’s cries—
43‘No more I weep. They do not sleep.
44‘On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,
45‘I see them sit, they linger yet,
46‘Avengers of their native land:
47‘With me in dreadful harmony they join,
48‘And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.’

 

II. 1.

 

49“Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
50“The winding-sheet of Edward’s race.
51“Give ample room, and verge enough
52“The characters of hell to trace.
53“Mark the year and mark the night,
54“When Severn shall re-echo with affright
55“The shrieks of death, through Berkeley’s roofs that ring,
56“Shrieks of an agonizing King!
57“She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,
58“That tear’st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
59“From thee be born, who o’er thy country hangs
60“The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait!
61“Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,
62“And Sorrow’s faded form, and Solitude behind.

 

II. 2.

 

63“Mighty victor, mighty lord,
64“Low on his funeral couch he lies!
65“No pitying heart, no eye, afford
66“A tear to grace his obsequies.
67“Is the sable warrior fled?
68“Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
69“The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
70“Gone to salute the rising morn.
71“Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
72“While proudly riding o’er the azure realm
73“In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;
74“Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
75“Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway,
76“That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening-prey.

 

II. 3.

 

77“Fill high the sparkling bowl,
78“The rich repast prepare,
79“Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
80“Close by the regal chair
81“Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
82“A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
83“Heard ye the din of battle bray,
84“Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
85“Long years of havoc urge their destined course,
86“And through the kindred squadrons mow their way.
87“Ye towers of Julius, London’s lasting shame,
88“With many a foul and midnight murther fed,
89“Revere his consort’s faith, his father’s fame,
90“And spare the meek usurper’s holy head.
91“Above, below, the rose of snow,
92“Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
93“The bristled Boar in infant-gore
94“Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
95“Now, brothers, bending o’er the accursed loom,
96“Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

 

III. 1.

 

97“Edward, lo! to sudden fate
98“(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun)
99“Half of thy heart we consecrate.
100“(The web is wove. The work is done.)”
101‘Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
102‘Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn:
103‘In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
104‘They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
105‘But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon’s height
106‘Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
107‘Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,
108‘Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
109‘No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.
110‘All-hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia’s issue, hail!

 

III. 2.

 

111‘Girt with many a baron bold
112‘Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
113‘And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old
114‘In bearded majesty, appear.
115‘In the midst a form divine!
116‘Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line;
117‘Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,
118‘Attempered sweet to virgin-grace.
119‘What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
120‘What strains of vocal transport round her play!
121‘Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
122‘They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
123‘Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,
124‘Waves in the eye of heaven her many-coloured wings.

 

III. 3.

 

125‘The verse adorn again
126‘Fierce war and faithful love,
127‘And truth severe, by fairy fiction dressed.
128‘In buskined measures move
129‘Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,
130‘With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
131‘A voice, as of the cherub-choir,
132‘Gales from blooming Eden bear;
133‘And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
134‘That lost in long futurity expire.
135‘Fond impious man, think’st thou, yon sanguine cloud,
136‘Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day?
137‘Tomorrow he repairs the golden flood,
138‘And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
139‘Enough for me: with joy I see
140‘The different doom our fates assign.
141‘Be thine despair and sceptered care;
142‘To triumph, and to die, are mine.’
143He spoke, and headlong from the mountain’s height
144Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.
— Thomas Gray, The Bard. A Pindaric Ode

A Year of Poetry – Day 30

Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a might man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawney arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns what’er he can,
And looks the whole word in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear the bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his might sledge,
With measure beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar.
And catch the flaming sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like his mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hands he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiing, — rejoicing, — sorrowing,
Onward in life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned his night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou has taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, The Village Blacksmith

A Year of Poetry – Day 29

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

— William Henry Davies, Leisure

A Year of Poetry – Day 28

What makes a nation’s pillars high
And its foundations strong?
What makes it mighty to defy
The foes that round it throng?

It is not gold. Its kingdoms grand
Go down in battle shock;
Its shafts are laid on sinking sand,
Not on abiding rock.

Is it the sword? Ask the red dust
Of empires passed away;
The blood has turned their stones to rust,
Their glory to decay.

And is it pride? Ah, that bright crown
Has seemed to nations sweet;
But God has struck its luster down
In ashes at his feet.

Not gold but only men can make
A people great and strong;
Men who for truth and honor’s sake
Stand fast and suffer long.

Brave men who work while others sleep,
Who dare while others fly…
They build a nation’s pillars deep
And lift them to the sky.

— Ralph Waldo Emerson, A Nation’s Strength

A Year of Poetry – Day 27

There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry –
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll –
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human Soul

A Year of Poetry – Day 26

The wind blew high, the waters raved,
A ship drove on the land,
A hundred human creatures saved
Kneel’d down upon the sand.
Threescore were drown’d, threescore were thrown
Upon the black rocks wild,
And thus among them, left alone,
They found one helpless child.

A seaman rough, to shipwreck bred,
Stood out from all the rest,
And gently laid the lonely head
Upon his honest breast.
And travelling o’er the desert wide
It was a solemn joy,
To see them, ever side by side,
The sailor and the boy.

In famine, sickness, hunger, thirst,
The two were still but one,
Until the strong man droop’d the first
And felt his labors done.
Then to a trusty friend he spake,
‘Across the desert wide,
Oh, take this poor boy for my sake!’
And kiss’d the child and died.

Toiling along in weary plight
Through heavy jungle, mire,
These two came later every night
To warm them at the fire.
Until the captain said one day
‘O seaman, good and kind,
To save thyself now come away,
And leave the boy behind!’

The child was slumbering near the blaze:
‘O captain, let him rest
Until it sinks, when God’s own ways
Shall teach us what is best!’
They watch’d the whiten’d, ashy heap,
They touch’d the child in vain;
They did not leave him there asleep,
He never woke again.

— Charles Dickens, The Song of the Wreck

A Year of Poetry – Day 25

It came with the threat of a waning moon
And the wail of an ebbing tide,
But many a woman has lived for less,
And many a man has died;
For life upon life took hold and passed,
Strong in a fate set free,
Out of the deep into the dark
On for the years to be.

Between the gloom of a waning moon
And the song of an ebbing tide,
Chance upon chance of love and death
Took wing for the world so wide.
O, leaf out of leaf is the way of the land,
Wave out of wave of the sea
And who shall reckon what lives may live
In the life that we bade to be?

— William Ernest Henley, It Came With The Threat of a Waning Moon

A Year of Poetry – Day 24

Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

— Robert Louis Stevenson, Requiem

A Year of Poetry – Day 22

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n’t go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather.
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen,
Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back
Between the night and morrow;
They thought she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite?
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n’t go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather.

 

— William Allingham – The Fairies