The Rider At The Gate

I know its been raining Poems on this blog for a very long time but forgive me, I have am totally smitten by good poetry, specially those that have the lyrical quality to it. The credit goes to the wonderful teachers I had back in Sem (St. Joseph's College Nainital) - Miss Deepa Shah and Miss Nirija Bisht (God Bless them wherever they are). 


This one is again from the Elocution Archives from Sem. Called the "The Rider at the Gate", it revolves around one of my all time favorite historical figure - Julius Caesar ( and pompous Pompey) (Again credit Ms. Shah and Ms. Bisht). This piece was recited by Swapnil (Pappi Don as we fondly knew him :D ) during the Inter-Class competition in 2004. One of the smartest kids I've known and an excellent orator, this poem and the Tummy Beast (also recited by him for which he won a Gold Medal :) ) is a dedication to all the good old times we had back there. Dude, Life at Sem wouldn't have been so easy, had it not been for all your help.

The Rider At The Gate

                         - John Masefield

 A windy night was blowing on Rome,
 The cressets guttered on Caesar's home,
 The fish-boats, moored at the bridge, were breaking
 The rush of the river to yellow foam.

 The hinges whined to the shutters shaking,
 When clip-clop-clep came a horse-hoof raking
 The stones of the road at Caesar's gate;
 The spear-butts jarred at the guard's awaking.

 'Who goes there?' said the guard at the gate.
 'What is the news, that you ride so late?'
 'News most pressing, that must be spoken
 To Caesar alone, and that cannot wait.'

 'The Caesar sleeps; you must show a token
 That the news suffice that he be awoken.
 What is the news, and whence do you come?
 For no light cause may his sleep be broken.'

 'Out of the dark of the sands I come,
 From the dark of death, with news for Rome.
 A word so fell that it must be uttered
 Though it strike the soul of the Caesar dumb.'

 Caesar turned in his bed and muttered,
 With a struggle for breath the lamp-flame guttered;
 Calpurnia heard her husband moan:
 'The house is falling,
 The beaten men come into their own.'

 'Speak your word,' said the guard at the gate;
 'Yes, but bear it to Caesar straight,
 Say, "Your murderers' knives are honing,
 Your killers' gang is lying in wait."

 'Out of the wind that is blowing and moaning,
 Through the city palace and the country loaning,
 I cry, "For the world's sake, Caesar, beware,
 And take this warning as my atoning.

 '"Beware of the Court, of the palace stair,
 Of the downcast friend who speaks so fair,
 Keep from the Senate, for Death is going
 on many men's feet to meet you there."

 'I, who am dead, have ways of knowing
 Of the crop of death that the quick are sowing.
 I, who was Pompey, cry it aloud
 From the dark of death, from the wind blowing.

 'I, who was Pompey, once was proud,
 Now I lie in the sand without a shroud;
 I cry to Caesar out of my pain,
 "Caesar beware, your death is vowed."'

 The light grew grey on the window-pane,
 The windcocks swung in a burst of rain,
 The window of Caesar flung unshuttered,
 The horse-hoofs died into wind again.

 Caesar turned in his bed and muttered,
 With a struggle for breath the lamp-flame guttered;
 Calpurnia heard her husband moan:
 'The house is falling,
 The beaten men come into their own.'