Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.
To the City of Bombay
T
Challenging each to each—
This from her mountain-side,
That from her burdened beach.
Their corn and oil and wine,
Derrick and loom and bale,
And rampart’s gun-flecked line;
City by City they hail:
“Hast aught to match with mine?”
They traffic up and down,
But cling to their cities’ hem
As a child to the mother’s gown.
Dazed and newly alone;
When they walk in the stranger lands,
By roaring streets unknown;
Blessing her where she stands
For strength above their own.
That stands all fame beyond,
By oath to back the same,
Most faithful-foolish-fond;
Making her mere-breathed name
Their bond upon their bond.)
Fell not in isles aside—
Waste headlands of the earth,
Or warring tribes untried—
But that she lent me worth
And gave me right to pride.
Under an alien sky,
Comfort it is to say:
“Of no mean city am I!”
Come I to mine estate—
Mother of Cities to me,
But I was born in her gate,
Between the palms and the sea,
Where the world-end steamers wait.)
And for her far-borne cheer
Must I make haste and go
With tribute to her pier.
After the use of kings
(Orderly, ancient, fit)
My deep-sea plunderings,
And purchase in all lands.
And this we do for a sign
Her power is over mine,
And mine I hold at her hands!