THE SETTLER.

Press, Volume LX, Issue 11551, 6 April 1903, Page 6

THE SETTLER.

In the London "Times" of February 27th there appeared a poem by Mr Kipling, telegraphed from Capetown. Commenting on the poem the London "Spectator" cays— "It is by majestic patriotic verse cif this kind that Mr Kipling lias earned himself tho laurel crown of tlie Empire. We uo not wish, to say a word in depreciation of uMr Auostin or his verso, but would it not be possible, just an every parUli has a vicars churchwarden, to have a Kings Laureate and a pcople'p Laureate?—and who could fill the latter post better than Mr Kipling.' Below arc extracts from the poem-

"I leave this shoro more convinced than ever that the forces—tho natural forces—that are drawing you together aro more potent than thoso evil influences which would tend to separate you . . Above all. South Africa needs tho best capacities of all of its children."—Mr Chamberlain, February 24th. "Whcro my fresh-turned furrows run and the deep awl glistens red, I will repair the wrong that was done to the living and the dead: Here where the senseless bullet fell, and the barren shrapnel burst, I will plant a tree. I will dig a well against tho beat and thir3t.

Here in a largo and' a sunlit land, where no wrong bites to the bone, I will lay my hand in my neighbour's hand, and together vre will atone For tho set folly and the red breach and tho black waste of it all; Giving and taking counsel each over tho cattlo-kraal. Hera will we league against our foes—the hail-stroke and the storm— And tbe rod and rustling cloud that blows the locusts' mile-deop swarm: Frost and murrain and floods let loose shall launch us side by side In tho holy wars that hove no truco 'twixt seed and harvest-tide. Earth where wo rode to slay or bo slain our love shall redeem unto life; Wo will gather and Icr.d to her lips again tho waters of ancient strifo From the far and the fiercely-guarded streams and the pools where we lay in wait, Till the corn cover our evil dreams, and tho young corn our hate. And when wo brine; old fights to mind wo will not remember tho sin— If there bo blood on his head of my kind, or blood on my head of hi 9 kin'— For the ungrazed upland, tho untitled lea cry, and l the fields forlorn: — "The dead must bury their dead, but ye— yo servo an host unborn."

Bless then, our God, the plough, and tho good beasts that draw, And the bread wo eat in tho sweat of our brow according to thy law: After us comoth a multitude—prosper the work of our hands That -wo may feed with emr land's food the folk of all our lands!

Here in tha waves and tho troughs of the plains where tho healing stillness lies, And the vast benignant sky restrains, and thb long days mako wise— Bless to our use the rnin and tbe sun and the blind seed ir» its bod, That w« may repair tho wrong thait wa3 dono to tba living and tho dead. R.UDYARD KIPLING.