If she have sent her servants in our pain If she have fought with Death and dulled his sword; If she have given back our sick again. And to the breast the waking lips restored, Is it a little thing that she has wrought? Then Life and Death and Motherhood be nought. Go forth, O wind, our message on thy wings, And they shall hear thee pass and bid thee speed, In reed-roofed hut, or white-walled home of kings, Who have been helpen by her in their need. All spring shall give thee fragrance, and the wheat Shall be a tasselled floorcloth to thy feet. Haste, for our hearts are with thee, take no rest! Loud-voiced ambassador, from sea to sea Proclaim the blessing, manifold, confessed. Of those in darkness by her hand set free. Then very softly to her presence move, And whisper: “Lady, lo, they know and love!” A BALLAD OF JAKKO HILL One moment bid the horses wait, Since tiffin is not laid till three, Below the upward path and straight You climbed a year ago with me. Love came upon us suddenly And loosed--an idle hour to kill-- A headless, armless armory That smote us both on Jakko Hill. Ah Heaven! we would wait and wait Through Time and to Eternity! Ah Heaven! we could conquer Fate With more than Godlike constancy I cut the date upon a tree-- Here stand the clumsy figures still: “10-7-85, A.D.” Damp with the mist of Jakko Hill. What came of high resolve and great, And until Death fidelity! Whose horse is waiting at your gate? Whose 'rickshaw-wheels ride over me? No Saint's, I swear; and--let me see Tonight what names your programme fill-- We drift asunder merrily, As drifts the mist on Jakko Hill. L'ENVOI. Princess, behold our ancient state Has clean departed; and we see 'Twas Idleness we took for Fate That bound light bonds on you and me. Amen! Here ends the comedy Where it began in all good will; Since Love and Leave together flee As driven mist on Jakko Hill! THE PLEA OF THE SIMLA DANCERS Too late, alas! the song To remedy the wrong;-- The rooms are taken from us, swept and garnished for their fate. But these tear-besprinkled pages Shall attest to future ages That we cried against the crime of it-- too late, alas! too late! “What have we ever done to bear this grudge?” Was there no room save only in Benmore For docket, duftar, and for office drudge, That you usurp our smoothest dancing floor? Must babus do their work on polished teak? Are ball-rooms fittest for the ink you spill? Was there no other cheaper house to seek? You might have left them all at Strawberry Hill.