TIGER

To the barking of the monkeys, to the shrieking of the birds; To the bellow of the bison and stampeding of the herds; At fiery edge of sunset, from the jungle to the wold, Death stalks in shining ebony and orange-tawny gold. He slouched with loose, low shamble from the glade, And as he flung his feet along the track, Machine-like glided each great shoulder-blade Under his pelt. He stopped and scratched his back Against a stump; then sat a little while, Curling his ring-straked tail around his paws, Yawning with a gigantic, sleepy smile That showed the ruddy gulf between his jaws. The fangs were white and sound, for he was young— A male of four full years, in all his pride, Perfect, lean, knit of rubber and steel, and strung With sinews taut; content and satisfied, Since the twice five great, crooked daggers set Deep in his awful pads had never failed To win his belly all it wanted yet— A tiger who unfailingly prevailed. And no beast kinglier than himself he knew, For he had tracked and hunted, caught and slain All that his fellow-tigers caught and slew, Though horns might miss by inches eye and brain. A forthright beast and huge, his yellow eyes Glowered steadfast into life; he felt no ill Of heart or conscience, or the pang that flies Through higher mammals, plagued with choice of will And all the handicaps of consciousness. He knew not right nor wrong; no evil thought Sullied his wits; his task no more or less Than faithfully to do all he was taught. While the dread smeech and terror of his breath Down a hot wind at dusk, to fearful flocks Threatened the unknown, unnamed horror, death, And sent them hurtling to the plains and rocks, To him they stood for life and all it meant Of being—food and sport and work and play, Love and prosperity and full content, With strength to solve the problems of each day. His brain began to brood and meditate, Thinking on action, while the red sun set, For he had come from far with a new mate To a new valley. She was sleeping yet In the bamboos behind him, great with young, Where prickly cactus hemmed the lair and palm Over their couch its sombre frondage hung. There would she bide a little safe from harm, While he must go afield and do his part And fetch a tender antelope, or goat, To win her praise and glad her weary heart With a hot supper for a hungry throat. He pondered now within his broad, flat skull, Then stretched and with his lifted nose and ear Winnowed the silence of the evening lull To learn if grass-eaters were stirring near; When down the wind, though not a lizard ran And no hoof thudded on the dusty bent, He smelt a something fragrant and began To twitch his nostrils at the ravishment. A subtle scent and new! His whiskers pricked; His body huddled flat and seemed to shrink; His great nape bristled up; his jowl he licked; Then, like a banded snake, began to sink And trickle through the spear grass. By a stone He sudden lifted, then he set and stilled, While footfall of some game, that went alone, Came innocently pattering, to be killed. Couchant, like a set trap, with head out-thrust, The hunter crouched, quivering his black tail-tip, Until it drew a fan upon the dust Behind him. Then his jaws began to drip, As though a gargoyle, where red lichens grew, Was dribbling. Now the thing that he had heard Approached—a little creature, strange and new— That went not on four feet, nor yet a bird. He strung himself to spring, while at a trot, The Indian runner on his lonely road Jogged forward, dreaming of a supper-pot. Bound was he for a village, where abode One, passing fair, the runner’s master meant To wed ere long—a radiant maid to whom, By fleet-foot messenger, the suitor sent Two poems of his own writing. Then the gloom, Where a first firefly winked her golden spark Upon the deepening purple, broke and tore— The twilight stillness ended on a stark, Harsh, grating, deep-mouthed, solitary roar, Hollow as death; while from his secret place The tiger loosed the lightning of his thighs, Leapt on the man and with unwitting grace Struck him to instant nothing. Levin flies Less merciful. A huddled, crumpled clout, Brown, oozing red, dissolved beneath the mass Of living teeth and brawn. The brains were out; Head, a cracked egg-shell leaking on the grass. Thus in a heap to mother earth they came, Both quick and dead; and then the great cat sought His grim, familiar, ghastly after-game; But he had hit too hard and spoiled his sport. He drew and coaxed with hooked and playful paws, Hoping to find the life had not quite gone, And moved by those infernal, feline laws, That made him frolic when his work was done. For oft his perishing food would feebly strive, Driven by life’s undying hope, and led To struggle still from death while yet alive; But his first man the tiger found was dead. And when the conqueror tasted, his rough tongue Thrilled a new, joyous lust into his brain, For the soft, furless stuff his palate stung With mad, delicious twang—oft, oft again Would he smell up the wind for such another. He hoped the dainty creatures went in packs, And that his prey had kids and many a brother To steal at cool of evening on his tracks. He gaped and gripped the mangled clod of earth Under its ribs, heaved up a muzzle white, Sounded a grunt, that seemed akin to mirth, And bore his dripping coolie out of sight. So to his mate, and as the cross-cut saws Bite upon teak with backward, forward hiss, He purred, then dropped the banquet from his jaws And woke the tigress with a bloody kiss. Eyes shut, heads sideway, cheek by cheek they ate, To sound of squash and gulch and cracking bone, Deciding swiftly, as they fed, the fate Of the two love songs. They were deftly sewn Within the compass of a gold-cloth bag, Tied with a silken cord, stamped with a seal. The tiger crunched and gulped the sodden rag With all the other mysteries of his meal. For, while a poem himself, he was no poet, Being devoid of vision, wit, or ruth; But many who live poetry, never know it And would be much surprised to learn the truth. Sated at last, they sauntered forth to find A water-hole; but as they washed their jowls And cleaned their whiskers, sudden on the wind Broke din of brass and drums and human howls. For there had gone another runner by, And smelt the blood and seen the reeking trail, And flown, and shouted “Bagh!” and raised the cry That tiger were again upon the vale. From jungle edge they peered and torches red Turned each bewildered eye into a gem Of glinting emerald—then sudden dread Awoke at flash of fire, unknown to them. Fear touched their primitive hearts; they ran and roared, Awakening old echoes down the glade; Shoulder to shoulder from the gleam abhorred They padded, wondering to be afraid. Until no blink of the accursed thing Tortured the night, they galloped, sweating hot, Then, all unknowing what the day would bring, They stopped and sulked and snarled; and so forgot. Anon they sleep, nor guess the dawn shall see, Of hunters white and beaters brown, some score Surround them in a circle steadfastly, To set the cosmos on its feet once more. They sleep, nor dream the pangs of “dum-dum” lead That wait on sunrise, when they two shall feel All they have measured to uncounted dead, And suffer sentences without appeal. Upon their mighty necks will dance the feet Of the unpelted things that lay them low; For of the fruit forbidden did they eat And both must go where the bad tigers go. To the trumpeting of elephants and blaze of morning light, To the nosing rifle barrels, to the stinking of cordite, With a crash and smash and struggle and a yell their tale is told; Death blots the shining ebony and orange-tawny gold.