Читать книгу The Complete Poetical Works of Rudyard Kipling (570+ Poems in One Edition) - Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг - Страница 74

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King Solomon drew merchantmen,

Because of his desire

For peacocks, apes, and ivory,

From Tarshish unto Tyre:

With cedars out of Lebanon

Which Hiram rafted down,

But we be only sailormen

That use in London town.

Coastwise—cross-seas—round the world and back again— Where the flaw shall head us or the full Trade suits— Plain-sail—storm-sail—lay your board and tack again— And that's the way we'll pay Paddy Doyle for his boots!

We bring no store of ingots,

Of spice or precious stones,

But that we have we gathered

With sweat and aching bones:

In flame beneath the tropics,

In frost upon the floe,

And jeopardy of every wind

That does between them go.

And some we got by purchase,

And some we had by trade,

And some we found by courtesy

Of pike and carronade,

At midnight, 'mid-sea meetings,

For charity to keep,

And light the rolling homeward-bound

That rode a foot too deep.

By sport of bitter weather

We're walty, strained, and scarred

From the kentledge on the kelson

To the slings upon the yard.

Six oceans had their will of us

To carry all away—

Our galley 's in the Baltic,

And our boom 's in Mossel Bay!

We've floundered off the Texel,

Awash with sodden deals,

We've slipped from Valparaiso

With the Norther at our heels:

We've ratched beyond the Crossets

That tusk the Southern Pole,

And dipped our gunnels under

To the dread Agulhas roll.

Beyond all outer charting

We sailed where none have sailed,

And saw the land-lights burning

On islands none have hailed;

Our hair stood up for wonder,

But, when the night was done,

There danced the deep to windward

Blue-empty 'neath the sun!

Strange consorts rode beside us

And brought us evil luck;

The witch-fire climbed our channels,

And danced on vane and truck:

Till, through the red tornado,

That lashed us nigh to blind,

We saw The Dutchman plunging,

Full canvas, head to wind!

We've heard the Midnight Leadsman

That calls the black deep down—

Ay, thrice we've heard The Swimmer,

The Thing that may not drown.

On frozen bunt and gasket

The sleet-cloud drave her hosts,

When, manned by more than signed with us,

We passed the Isle o' Ghosts!

And north, amid the hummocks,

A biscuit-toss below,

We met the silent shallop

That frighted whalers know;

For, down a cruel ice-lane,

That opened as he sped,

We saw dead Henry Hudson

Steer, North by West, his dead.

So dealt God's waters with us

Beneath the roaring skies,

So walked His signs and marvels

All naked to our eyes:

But we were heading homeward

With trade to lose or make—

Good Lord, they slipped behind us

In the tailing of our wake!

Let go, let go the anchors;

Now shamed at heart are we

To bring so poor a cargo home

That had for gift the sea!

Let go the great bow-anchors—

Ah, fools were we and blind—

The worst we baled with utter toil,

The best we left behind!

Coastwise—cross-seas—round the world and back again, Whither the flaw shall fail us or the Trades drive down: Plain-sail—storm-sail—lay your board and tack again— And all to bring a cargo up to London Town!