The Seven Seas. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       Till the Soul that is not man's soul was lent us to lead.

       As the deer breaks—as the steer breaks—from the herd where they graze,

       In the faith of little children we went on our ways.

       Then the wood failed—then the food failed—then the last water dried—

       In the faith of little children we lay down and died.

       On the sand-drift—on the veldt-side—in the fern-scrub we lay,

       That our sons might follow after by the bones on the way.

       Follow after—follow after! We have watered the root,

       And the bud has come to blossom that ripens for fruit!

       Follow after—we are waiting by the trails that we lost

       For the sound of many footsteps, for the tread of a host.

       Follow after—follow after—for the harvest is sown:

       By the bones about the wayside ye shall come to your own!

      When Drake went down to the Horn And England was crowned thereby, 'Twixt seas unsailed and shores unhailed Our Lodge—our Lodge was born (And England was crowned thereby).

      Which never shall close again By day nor yet by night, While man shall take his life to stake At risk of shoal or main (By day nor yet by night),

      But standeth even so As now we witness here, While men depart, of joyful heart, Adventure for to know. (As now bear witness here).

      II.

      We have fed our sea for a thousand years

       And she calls us, still unfed,

       Though there's never a wave of all her waves

       But marks our English dead:

       We have strawed our best to the weed's unrest

       To the shark and the sheering gull.

       If blood be the price of admiralty,

       Lord God, we ha' paid in full!

      There's never a flood goes shoreward now

       But lifts a keel we manned;

       There's never an ebb goes seaward now

       But drops our dead on the sand—

       But slinks our dead on the sands forlore,

       From The Ducies to the Swin.

       If blood be the price of admiralty,

       If blood be the price of admiralty,

       Lord God, we ha' paid it in!

      We must feed our sea for a thousand years,

       For that is our doom and pride,

       As it was when they sailed with the Golden Hind Or the wreck that struck last tide— Or the wreck that lies on the spouting reef Where the ghastly blue-lights flare. If blood be the price of admiralty, If blood be the price of admiralty, If blood be the price of admiralty, Lord God, we ha' bought it fair!

The Deep-sea Cables.

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      The wrecks dissolve above us; their dust drops down from afar—

       Down to the dark, to the utter dark, where the blind white sea-snakes are.

       There is no sound, no echo of sound, in the deserts of the deep,

       Or the great gray level plains of ooze where the shell-burred cables creep.

      Here in the womb of the world—here on the tie-ribs of earth

       Words, and the words of men, flicker and flutter and beat—

       Warning, sorrow and gain, salutation and mirth—

       For a Power troubles the Still that has neither voice nor feet.

      They have wakened the timeless Things; they have killed their father Time;

       Joining hands in the gloom, a league from the last of the sun.

       Hush! Men talk to-day o'er the waste of the ultimate slime,

       And a new Word runs between: whispering, "Let us be one!"

The Song of the Sons.

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      One from the ends of the earth—gifts at an open door—

       Treason has much, but we, Mother, thy sons have more!

       From the whine of a dying man, from the snarl of a wolf-pack freed,

       Turn, for the world is thine. Mother, be proud of thy seed!

       Count, are we feeble or few? Hear, is our speech so rude?

       Look, are we poor in the land? Judge, are we men of The Blood?

      Those that have stayed at thy knees, Mother, go call them in—

       We that were bred overseas wait and would speak with our kin.

       Not in the dark do we fight—haggle and flout and gibe;

       Selling our love for a price, loaning our hearts for a bribe.

       Gifts have we only to-day—Love without promise or fee—

       Hear, for thy children speak, from the uttermost parts of the sea:

The Song of the Cities.

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      Bombay.

      Royal and Dower-royal, I the Queen

       Fronting thy richest sea with richer hands—

       A thousand mills roar through me where I glean

       All races from all lands.

      Calcutta.

      Me the Sea-captain loved, the River built,

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