Recessional

 

Winged bull from the throne room of Sargon II (Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures)

     Saturday dawned quiet.  The big pots were scrubbed and back on a high shelf.  The extra tables, back down in the basement, along with the dozen folding chairs. The living room furniture was returned to its proper place. The dishwasher, going non-stop for a while, stilled. The rain continued, off and on, and a chill gray set in, as if spring were having second thoughts.

     Friday the older boy and his growing family had departed for Michigan. The younger and his growing bride, back to their dozen daily concerns in Hyde Park. I missed them more than I savored the silence, and thought, for some reason, of a dusty line from Rudyard Kipling.

    "The tumult and the shouting dies, the captains and the kings depart." 

     From "Recessional," written after Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee in 1897. (A recessional is the hymn chanted in church after a service as the choir and clergy depart). I don't remember ever reading "Recessional," but found the poem online easy enough. It's out of copyright, and brief, so I can share the whole thing. I think it merits a read:

                              God of our fathers, known of old,

                                 Lord of our far-flung battle-line,

                              Beneath whose awful Hand we hold

                                Dominion over palm and pine—

                              Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

                              Lest we forget—lest we forget!

                             The tumult and the shouting dies;

                               The Captains and the Kings depart:

                             Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,

                               An humble and a contrite heart.

                             Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

                             Lest we forget—lest we forget!

                             Far-called, our navies melt away;

                              On dune and headland sinks the fire:

                             Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

                               Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!

                             Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,

                             Lest we forget—lest we forget!

                             If, drunk with sight of power, we loose

                              Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,

                             Such boastings as the Gentiles use,

                              Or lesser breeds without the Law—

                             Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

                             Lest we forget—lest we forget!

                             For heathen heart that puts her trust

                               In reeking tube and iron shard,

                             All valiant dust that builds on dust,

                              And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,

                             For frantic boast and foolish word—

                             Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!

         That seems an apt sentiment for Easter Sunday. Britain was at the height of its power and Kipling, the bard of colonialism and the White Man's Burden, tacked against type, invoking humility and God.

         Not entirely, of course. There's a lot to unpack in the poem. Did you notice "an humble." Correct once upon a time in England, where the "h" was unpronounced. 

         The expression "lesser breeds" pokes a 2026 reader in the eye.  But notice what makes someone a lesser breed: being "without the law." A condition that we are flirting with. Or swan diving into. Or already drowning in. Give "lesser breeds" credit — at least it's spoken plainly. We embrace the attitude while avoiding the candor. Which may be even worse.

         To his further credit, the "heathen heart" putting its faith in smoking guns and shattering shells is clearly Kipling's countrymen. And ours.

         "Drunk with sight of power." Ain't that the truth? Worth remembering, as former attorney general Pam Bondi slinks off into whatever eternal ignominy awaits those who make their devil's bargain, leap willingly into the sucking maw, serve their shameful span, then are shitted out Trump's enormous backside. As much as I'd like to let out a faint "yippee" at her being cashiered, it strangles in my throat, realizing why she was canned: for not being skilled enough at covering up Trump's crimes, nor successful enough when twisting the Justice Department to persecute his enemies. Expect her replacement to try harder.

         In critiquing the poem, I overlooked the most important part. Notice it? "Lest we forget." It must be important, he says it eight times. Lest we forget ... what? That power, like life, is fleeting, and when it ebbs all we have left is the memory of how we conducted ourselves — in honor, honesty, humanity. Or with greed, violence, shame. 

         It is worth realizing that Great Britain ain't so great anymore, yet still exists. If the United States is in decline — and the warning bells are flashing, the needles red-zoning, the sirens whirring — then we were not defeated by an outside foe, but we destroyed ourselves, by turning our backs on our supposed values and groveling before a golden calf that would embarrass the folks in Nineveh and Tyre, great cities in Biblical times. Not such a big deal anymore. It happened to them, then. It's happening to us now.