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Home  »  Rudyard Kipling’s Verse  »  A Tale of Two Cities

Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.

A Tale of Two Cities

WHERE the sober-coloured cultivator smiles

On his byles;

Where the cholera, the cyclone, and the crow

Come and go;

Where the merchant deals in indigo and tea,

Hides and ghi;

Where the Babu drops inflammatory hints

In his prints;

Stands a City—Charnock chose it—packed away

Near a Bay—

By the sewage rendered fetid, by the sewer

Made impure,

By the Sunderbunds unwholesome, by the swamp

Moist and damp;

And the City and the Viceroy, as we see,

Don’t agree.

Once, two hundred years ago, the trader came

Meek and tame.

Where his timid foot first halted, there he stayed,

Till mere trade

Grew to Empire, and he sent his armies forth

South and North,

Till the country from Peshawar to Ceylon

Was his own.

Thus the midday halt of Charnock—more’s the pity!—

Grew a City.

As the fungus sprouts chaotic from its bed,

So it spread—

Chance-directed, chance-erected, laid and built

On the silt—

Palace, byre, hovel—poverty and pride—

Side by side;

And, above the packed and pestilential town,

Death looked down.

But the Rulers in that City by the Sea

Turned to flee—

Fled, with each returning Spring-tide from its ills

To the Hills.

From the clammy fogs of morning, from the blaze

Of the days,

From the sickness of the noontide, from the heat,

Beat retreat;

For the country from Peshawar to Ceylon

Was their own.

But the Merchant risked the perils of the Plain

For his gain.

Now the resting-place of Charnock, ’neath the palms,

Asks an alms,

And the burden of its lamentation is,

Briefly, this:—

“Because, for certain months, we boil and stew,

“So should you.

“Cast the Viceroy and his Council, to perspire

“In our fire!”

And for answer to the argument, in vain

We explain

That an amateur Saint Lawrence cannot cry:—

“All must fry!”

That the Merchant risks the perils of the Plain

For his gain.

Nor can Rulers rule a house that men grow rich in,

From its kitchen.

Let the Babu drop inflammatory hints

In his prints;

And mature—consistent soul—his plan for stealing

To Darjeeling:

Let the Merchant seek, who makes his silver pile,

England’s isle;

Let the City Charnock pitched on—evil day!—

Go Her way.

Though the argosies of Asia at Her doors

Heap their stores,

Though her enterprise and energy secure

Income sure,

Though “out-station orders punctually obeyed”

Swell Her trade—

Still, for rule, administration, and the rest,

Simla’s best!