Take up the White Man's burden—
Have done with childish days—
The lightly proffered laurel,

The easy, ungrudged praise.
Comes now, to search your manhood
Through all the thankless years,
Cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom,
The judgment of your peers!

Rudyard Kipling (1865-)

The following poem was written before Kipling was born; but it has as its subject an individual who bore the "white man's burden." Poems of this type are said to be occasional that is, inspired by or written for a particular incident or occasion. The author of "The Private of the Buffs" was Matthew Arnold's successor as Professor of Poetry at Oxford. The Buffs was a Kentish regiment; Lord Elgin, an Englishman prominent in Anglo-Chinese affairs about 1860.

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS

Some Sikhs and a private of the Buffs, having remained behind with the grog carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next morning they were brought before the authorities, and commanded to perform the Kotow. The Sikhs obeyed; but Moyse, the English soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate himself before any Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body thrown on a dunghill.-The Times.

Last night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaffed, and swore,

A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never looked before.

To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
He stands in Elgin's place,
Ambassador from Britain's crown,
And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered, and alone,

A heart, with English instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.
Aye, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord, or ax, or flame:

He only knows, that not through him
Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd, Like dreams, to come and go;

Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed, One sheet of living snow;

The smoke, above his father's door,

In grey soft eddyings hung:
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doom'd by himself so young?

Yes, honour calls!-with strength like steel He put the vision by.

Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;

An English lad must die.

And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,

With knee to man unbent, Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,

To his red grave he went.

Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed;
Vain, those all-shattering guns;
Unless proud England keep, untamed,
The strong heart of her sons.

So, let his name through Europe ring

A man of mean estate,

Who died, as firm as Sparta's King,

Because his soul was great.

Sir Francis Hastings Charles Doyle (1810-1888).

From the foregoing objective treatment of honor, we turn to a subjective view of the sister virtue-duty. The term ode, as used here in the loosest of its three meanings, implies a serious reflective poem of considerable length.

ODE TO DUTY

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove;
Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe;

From vain temptations dost set free;

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye

Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely

Upon the genial sense of youth:

Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot

Who do thy work, and know it not:

O! if through confidence misplaced

They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them

cast.

Serene will be our days and bright,

And happy will our nature be,

When love is an unerring light,

And joy its own security.

Even now, who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed;

Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried;
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,

Too blindly have reposed my trust:
And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred

The task, in smoother walks to stray;

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul,

Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;
But in the quietness of thought:
Me this unchartered freedom tires;

I feel the weight of chance-desires:
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face:

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee,
are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh, let my weakness have an end!