Recessional

Recessional

Rudyard Kipling

God of our fathers, known of old—
Lord of our far-flung battle line—
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies—
The Captains and the Kings depart—
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away—
On dune and headland sinks the fire—
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard—
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard.
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
Amen.

If

If

Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

The Things That Are More Excellent

The Things That Are More Excellent

William Watson

As we wax older on this earth,

Till many a toy that charmed us seems

Emptied of beauty, stripped of worth,

And mean as dust and dead as dreams,--

For gauds that perished, shows that passed,

Some recompense the Fates have sent:

Thrice lovelier shine the things that last,

The things that are more excellent.

Tired of the Senate's barren brawl,

An hour with silence we prefer,

Where statelier rise the woods than all

Yon towers of talk at Westminster.

Let this man prate and that man plot,

On fame or place or title bent:

The votes of veering crowds are not

The things that are more excellent.

Shall we perturb and vex our soul

For "wrongs" which no true freedom mar,

Which no man's upright walk control,

And from no guiltless deed debar?

What odds though tonguesters heal, or leave

Unhealed, the grievance they invent?

To things, not phantoms, let us cleave--

The things that are more excellent.

Nought nobler is, than to be free:

The stars of heaven are free because

In amplitude of liberty

Their joy is to obey the laws.

From servitude to freedom's _name_

Free thou thy mind in bondage pent;

Depose the fetich, and proclaim

The things that are more excellent.

And in appropriate dust be hurled

That dull, punctilious god, whom they

That call their tiny clan the world,

Serve and obsequiously obey:

Who con their ritual of Routine,

With minds to one dead likeness blent,

And never ev'n in dreams have seen

The things that are more excellent.

To dress, to call, to dine, to break

No canon of the social code,

The little laws that lacqueys make,

The futile decalogue of Mode,--

How many a soul for these things lives,

With pious passion, grave intent!

While Nature careless-handed gives

The things that are more excellent.

To hug the wealth ye cannot use,

And lack the riches all may gain,--

O blind and wanting wit to choose,

Who house the chaff and burn the grain!

And still doth life with starry towers

Lure to the bright, divine ascent!--

Be yours the things ye would: be ours

The things that are more excellent.

The grace of friendship--mind and heart

Linked with their fellow heart and mind;

The gains of science, gifts of art;

The sense of oneness with our kind;

The thirst to know and understand--

A large and liberal discontent:

These are the goods in life's rich hand,

The things that are more excellent.

In faultless rhythm the ocean rolls,

A rapturous silence thrills the skies;

And on this earth are lovely souls,

That softly look with aidful eyes.

Though dark, O God, Thy course and track,

I think Thou must at least have meant

That nought which lives should wholly lack

The things that are more excellent.