Collected Poems - Sri Aurobindo Ashram

268 Calcutta and Chandernagore, 1907 – 1910
“Have sympathy, great Minto, or we die”?
If he’ll not hear, let then our humble oration
Travel with Gokhale to the British nation.
To be industrious, prayerful, tearful, meek
Is the sole end for which we meet this week.
Yet are there men, misunderstanding whites,
Who much misconstrue these our holy rites
Deeming it a bad criminal consultation
How best to free — O horrid thought! — our nation,
And send the English packing bag and baggage,
Polo and hockey stick, each scrap of luggage.
They think we are rank and file and proletariat
Fit to be throttled with the hangman’s lariat.
Fie, sirs! that we should be confused with the mob,
We who with Viceroys and great men hobnob!
To be mistook, — Oh faugh! for the mere people,
Things that eat common food and water tipple,
Mere men, mere flesh and blood! — we, the elect,
The aristocracy of intellect
To be thus levelled with the stinking crowd!
No, sirs, I dare pronounce it very loud,
We are the sober, moderate wise men, needing
Scope only to be famed for light and leading,
Full of co-operative amorous loyalty
To Minto, Morley and Britannic Royalty.
O some there are impatient and too wild,
To that Curzonian lash unreconciled,
Repudiate with violence unchancy
Our gospel proud of futile mendicancy.
Strange that they can’t perceive the utility
And nobleness of absolute futility!
O sirs, be moderate, patient, persevering;
Shun, shun the extremists and their horrid sneering.
O sirs, from loyalty budge not an inch;
What if your masters love your throats to pinch?
It’s pure affection. Even if they kick,
Is that sufficient reason to feel sick?