’Tiger-Tiger!’

* * * * *

Veil them, cover them, wall them round—­
  Blossom, and creeper, and weed—­
Let us forget the sight and the sound,
  The smell and the touch of the breed!

Fat black ash by the altar-stone. 
  Here is the white-foot rain,
And the does bring forth in the fields unsown,
  And none shall affright them again;
And the blind walls crumble, unknown, o’erthrown,
  And none shall inhabit again!

    Letting in the Jungle.

* * * * *

These are the Four that are never content, that have never been filled since the Dews began—­ Jacala’s mouth, and the glut of the Kite, and the hands of the Ape, and the Eyes of Man.

    The King’s Ankus.

* * * * *

For our white and our excellent nights—­for the nights of swift running,
    Fair ranging, far-seeing, good hunting, sure cunning! 
For the smells of the dawning, untainted, ere dew has departed! 
For the rush through the mist, and the quarry blind-started! 
For the cry of our mates when the sambhur has wheeled and is standing at bay! 
      For the risk and the riot of night! 
      For the sleep at the lair-mouth by day! 
        It is met, and we go to the fight. 
                Bay!  O bay!

    Red Dog.

* * * * *

Man goes to Man!  Cry the challenge through the Jungle! 
  He that was our Brother goes away. 
Hear, now, and judge, O ye People of the Jungle,—­
  Answer, who shall turn him—­who shall stay?

Man goes to Man!  He is weeping in the Jungle: 
  He that was our Brother sorrows sore! 
Man goes to Man! (Oh, we loved him in the Jungle!)
  To the Man-Trail where we may not follow more.

    The Spring Running.

* * * * *

At the hole where he went in
Red-Eye called to Wrinkle-Skin. 
Hear what little Red-Eye saith: 
‘Nag, come up and dance with death!’

Eye to eye and head to head,
  (Keep the measure, Nag.)
This shall end when one is dead;
  (At thy pleasure, Nag.)

Turn for turn and twist for twist—­
  (Run and hide thee, Nag.)
Hah!  The hooded Death has missed!
  (Woe betide thee, Nag!)

    ’Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.’

* * * * *

Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,
  And black are the waters that sparkled so green. 
The moon, o’er the combers, looks downward to find us
  At rest in the hollows that rustle between. 
Where billow meets billow, there soft be thy pillow;
  Ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease! 
The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,
  Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas.