Ranged around by rank and years,
Oh goodly was the sight,
Square shouldered—spare—with muscles bare
Coiled in their knotted might—
And little serpent eyes that gleamed
In glittering, primal hate,
Like adders, that beneath the leaves
The coming foot falls wait.
The shrunken heads about their belts
Stared with senseless grin,
As though in voiceless mummery
They mocked him in his sin.
As though in sightless greeting—
To make his entry good
To th’ lost and leering legion
Of the martyred brotherhood.
. . . . . . . . . .
We rubbed his lips with costly salt—
(You know how far it comes)—
And when he called for drink—we laughed—
And rolled the Sick-man’s Drums.
. . . . . . . . . .
They beckoned me unto his side—
The blood-stench filled the dell—
They asked me—“Ye are satisfied?”
And I answered—“It is well.”
The final glaze was settling fast—
The weary struggles ceased—
And on his breath was the moan of death
That prayed for life released.
So we propped his mouth wide open
With a knob of rotten vine,
And the leeches entered greedily
As white men to their wine.
Palate and roof and tongue and gums,
They gushed in rivers gay—
And gasping—his own blood choked him—
And his Spirit passed away.
This is the tale the old chief tells
When the western gold-belt dies,
And the jungle trees in the evening breeze
Tower against the skies,
And the good-wife bakes the greasy cakes
Where the kampong hearth-fires rise.