THE WAGE-SLAVES

Wherefore to these the Fates shall bend

(And all old idle things-)

Wherefore on these shall Power attend
Beyond the grasp of kings:

Each in his place, by right, not grace,
Shall rule his heritage-

The men who simply do the work
For which they draw the wage.

Not such as scorn the loitering street,
Or waste, to earn its praise,
Their noontide's unreturning heat

About their morning ways:

But such as dower each mortgaged hour Alike with clean courage

Even the men who do the work

For which they draw the wage

Men like to Gods that do the work
For which they draw the wage-
Begin-continue-close the work
For which they draw the wage!

THE BURIAL

C. J. RHODES, buried in the Matoppos, April 10, 1902

WHEN that great Kings return to clay,
Or Emperors in their pride,
Grief of a day shall fill a day,

Because its creature died.

But we-we reckon not with those

Whom the mere Fates ordain,

This Power that wrought on us and goes
Back to the Power again.

Dreamer devout, by vision led

Beyond our guess or reach,

The travail of his spirit bred

Cities in place of speech.

So huge the all-mastering thought that
drove-

So brief the term allowed

Nations, not words, he linked to prove

His faith before the crowd.

The granite of the ancient North-
Great spaces washed with sun.
There shall he patient make his seat
(As when the Death he dared),
And there await a people's feet
In the paths that he prepared.

There, till the vision he foresaw
Splendid and whole arise,
And unimagined Empires draw

To council 'neath his skies,

The immense and brooding Spirit still Shall quicken and control.

Living he was the land, and dead,

His soul shall be her soul!

GENERAL JOUBERT

(Died March 27, 1900)

WITH those that bred, with those that loosed the

strife,

He had no part whose hands were clear of gain; But subtle, strong, and stubborn, gave his life To a lost cause, and knew the gift was vain.

Later shall rise a people, sane and great,

Forged in strong fires, by equal war made one; Telling old battles over without hate

Not least his name shall pass from sire to son.

He may not meet the onsweep of our van

In the doomed city when we close the score. Yet o'er his grave-his grave that holds a manOur deep-tongued guns shall answer his once

more!

Copyright, 1900, by Rudyard Kipling.

THE PALACE

WHEN I was a King and a Mason-a Master proven and skilled

I cleared me ground for a palace such as a King

should build.

I decreed and dug down to my levels. Presently, under the silt,

I came on the wreck of a palace such as a King had built.

There was no worth in the fashion-there was no wit

in the plan

Hither and thither, aimless, the ruined footings

ran

Masonry, brute, mishandled, but carven on every

stone:

"After me cometh a Builder. Tell him, I too have

known."