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				Title:     The Pro-Consuls 
			    
Author: Rudyard Kipling [
More Titles by Kipling]		                
			    
_The overfaithful sword returns the user
 His heart's desire at price of his heart's blood.
 The clamour of the arrogant accuser
 Wastes that one hour we needed to make good.
 This was foretold of old at our outgoing;
 This we accepted who have squandered, knowing,
 The strength and glory of our reputations,
 At the day's need, as it were dross, to guard
 The tender and new-dedicate foundations
 Against the sea we fear--not man's award._
 They that dig foundations deep,
 Fit for realms to rise upon,
 Little honour do they reap
 Of their generation,
 Any more than mountains gain
 Stature till we reach the plain.
 With no veil before their face
 Such as shroud or sceptre lend--
 Daily in the market-place,
 Of one height to foe and friend--
 They must cheapen self to find
 Ends uncheapened for mankind.
 Through the night when hirelings rest,
 Sleepless they arise, alone,
 The unsleeping arch to test
 And the o'er-trusted corner-stone,
 'Gainst the need, they know, that lies
 Hid behind the centuries.
 Not by lust of praise or show,
 Not by Peace herself betrayed--
 Peace herself must they forego
 Till that peace be fitly made;
 And in single strength uphold
 Wearier hands and hearts acold.
 On the stage their act hath framed
 For thy sports, O Liberty!
 Doubted are they, and defamed
 By the tongues their act set free,
 While they quicken, tend and raise
 Power that must their power displace.
 Lesser men feign greater goals,
 Failing whereof they may sit
 Scholarly to judge the souls
 That go down into the pit,
 And, despite its certain clay,
 Heave a new world towards the day.
 These at labour make no sign,
 More than planets, tides or years
 Which discover God's design,
 Not our hopes and not our fears;
 Nor in aught they gain or lose
 Seek a triumph or excuse.
 _For, so the Ark be borne to Zion, who
 Heeds how they perished or were paid that bore it?
 For, so the Shrine abide, what shame--what pride--
 If we, the priests, were bound or crowned before it?_
[The end]
Rudyard Kipling's poem: Pro-consuls
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