From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir,
From level to upland, from upland to crest,
From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to
spur,
Fly the soft sandalled feet, strains the
brawny brown chest.
From rail to ravine—to the peak from the
vale—
Up, up through the night goes the Overland Mail.
There’s a speck on the hillside, a dot on the
road—
A jingle of bells on the foot-path below—
There’s a scuffle above in the monkey’s
abode—
The world is awake, and the clouds are
aglow.
For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail:
“In the name of the Empress the Overland Mail!”
By the well, where the bullocks go
Silent and blind and slow—
By the field where the young corn dies
In the face of the sultry skies,
They have heard, as the dull Earth hears
The voice of the wind of an hour,
The sound of the Great Queen’s voice:
“My God hath given me years,
Hath granted dominion and power:
And I bid you, O Land, rejoice.”
And the ploughman settles the share
More deep in the grudging clod;
For he saith: “The wheat is my care,
And the rest is the will of God.
“He sent the Mahratta spear
As He sendeth the rain,
And the Mlech, in the fated year,
Broke the spear in twain.
“And was broken in turn. Who knows
How our Lords make strife?
It is good that the young wheat grows,
For the bread is Life.”
Then, far and near, as the twilight drew,
Hissed up to the scornful dark
Great serpents, blazing, of red and blue,
That rose and faded, and rose anew.
That the Land might wonder and mark
“Today is a day of days,” they said,
“Make merry, O People, all!”
And the Ploughman listened and bowed his head:
“Today and tomorrow God’s will,”
he said,
As he trimmed the lamps on the wall.
“He sendeth us years that are good,
As He sendeth the dearth,
He giveth to each man his food,
Or Her food to the Earth.
“Our Kings and our Queens are afar—
On their peoples be peace—
God bringeth the rain to the Bar,
That our cattle increase.”
And the Ploughman settled the share
More deep in the sun-dried clod:
“Mogul Mahratta, and Mlech from the North,
And White Queen over the Seas—
God raiseth them up and driveth them forth
As the dust of the ploughshare flies in the breeze;
But the wheat and the cattle are all my care,
And the rest is the will of God.”
“To-tschin-shu is condemned to death.
How can he drink tea with the Executioner?”
Japanese Proverb.
The eldest son bestrides him,
And the pretty daughter rides him,
And I meet him oft o’ mornings on the Course;
And there kindles in my bosom
An emotion chill and gruesome
As I canter past the Undertaker’s Horse.
