Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/162

140 Calm-eyed he scoffs at sword and crown,

Or panic-blinded stabs and slays:

Blatant he bids the world bow down,

Or cringing begs a crust of praise;

Or, sombre-drunk, at mine and mart,

He dubs his dreary brethren Kings.

His hands are black with blood—his heart

Leaps, as a babe's, at little things.

But, through the shift of mood and mood,

Mine ancient humour saves him whole—

The cynic devil in his blood

That bids him mock his hurrying soul;

That bids him flout the Law he makes,

That bids him make the Law he flouts,

Till, dazed by many doubts, he wakes

The drumming guns that—have no doubts;

That checks him foolish-hot and fond,

That chuckles through his deepest ire,

That gilds the slough of his despond

But dims the goal of his desire;