'How far is St. Helena from a little child at play?'

What makes you want to wander there with all the world between?

Oh, Mother, call your son again or else he'll run away.

(_No one thinks of winter when the gra.s.s is green!_)

'How far is St. Helena from a fight in Paris street?'

I haven't time to answer now--the men are falling fast.

The guns begin to thunder, and the drums begin to beat.

(_If you take the first step you will take the last!_)

'How far is St. Helena from the field of Austerlitz?'

You couldn't hear me if I told--so loud the cannons roar.

But not so far for people who are living by their wits.

(_'Gay go up' means 'Gay go down' the wide world o'er!_)

'How far is St. Helena from an Emperor of France?'

I cannot see--I cannot tell--the crowns they dazzle so.

The Kings sit down to dinner, and the Queens stand up to dance.

(_After open weather you may look for snow!_)

'How far is St. Helena from the Capes of Trafalgar?'

A longish way--a longish way--with ten year more to run.

It's South across the water underneath a setting star.

(_What you cannot finish you must leave undone!_)

'How far is St. Helena from the Beresina ice?'

An ill way--a chill way--the ice begins to crack.

But not so far for gentlemen who never took advice.

(_When you can't go forward you must e'en come back!_)

'How far is St. Helena from the field of Waterloo?'

A near way--a clear way--the ship will take you soon.

A pleasant place for gentlemen with little left to do, (_Morning never tries you till the afternoon!_)

'How far from St. Helena to the Gate of Heaven's Grace?'

That no one knows--that no one knows--and no one ever will.

But fold your hands across your heart and cover up your face, And after all your trapesings, child, lie still!

CHIL'S SONG

These were my companions going forth by night-- _(For Chil! Look you, for Chil!)_ Now come I to whistle them the ending of the fight.

_(Chil! Vanguards of Chil!)_ Word they gave me overhead of quarry newly slain, Word I gave them underfoot of buck upon the plain.

Here's an end of every trail--they shall not speak again!

They that called the hunting-cry--they that followed fast-- _(For Chil! Look you, for Chil!)_ They that bade the sambhur wheel, or pinned him as he pa.s.sed-- _(Chil! Vanguards of Chil!)_ They that lagged behind the scent--they that ran before, They that shunned the level horn--they that overbore, Here's an end of every trail--they shall not follow more.

These were my companions. Pity 'twas they died!

(_For Chil! Look you, for Chil!_') Now come I to comfort them that knew them in their pride.

(_Chil! Vanguards of Chil!_) Tattered flank and sunken eye, open mouth and red, Locked and lank and lone they lie, the dead upon their dead.

Here's an end of every trail--and here my hosts are fed!

THE CAPTIVE

Not with an outcry to Allah nor any complaining He answered his name at the muster and stood to the chaining.

When the twin anklets were nipped on the leg-bars that held them, He brotherly greeted the armourers stooping to weld them.

Ere the sad dust of the marshalled feet of the chain-gang swallowed him, Observing him n.o.bly at ease, I alighted and followed him.

Thus we had speech by the way, but not touching his sorrow-- Rather his red Yesterday and his regal To-morrow, Wherein he statelily moved to the clink of his chains unregarded, Nowise abashed but contented to drink of the potion awarded.

Saluting aloofly his Fate, he made swift with his story, And the words of his mouth were as slaves spreading carpets of glory Embroidered with names of the Djinns--a miraculous weaving-- But the cool and perspicuous eye overbore unbelieving.

So I submitted myself to the limits of rapture-- Bound by this man we had bound, amid captives his capture-- Till he returned me to earth and the visions departed.

But on him be the Peace and the Blessing; for he was great-hearted!

THE PUZZLER

The Celt in all his variants from Builth to Ballyhoo, His mental processes are plain--one knows what he will do, And can logically predicate his finish by his start; But the English--ah, the English--they are quite a race apart.

Their psychology is bovine, their outlook crude and raw.

They abandon vital matters to be tickled with a straw, But the straw that they were tickled with--the chaff that they were fed with-- They convert into a weaver's beam to break their foeman's head with.

For undemocratic reasons and for motives not of State, They arrive at their conclusions--largely inarticulate.

Being void of self-expression they confide their views to none; But sometimes in a smoking-room, one learns why things were done.

Yes, sometimes in a smoking-room, through clouds of 'Ers' and 'Ums,'

Obliquely and by inference illumination comes, On some step that they have taken, or some action they approve-- Embellished with the _argot_ of the Upper Fourth Remove.

In telegraphic sentences, half nodded to their friends, They hint a matter's inwardness--and there the matter ends.

And while the Celt is talking from Valencia to Kirkwall, The English--ah, the English!--don't say anything at all!

HADRAMAUTI

Who knows the heart of the Christian? How does he reason?

What are his measures and balances? Which is his season For laughter, forbearance or bloodshed, and what devils move him When he arises to smite us? _I_ do not love him.

He invites the derision of strangers--he enters all places.

Booted, bareheaded he enters. With shouts and embraces He asks of us news of the household whom we reckon nameless.