King Solomon’s Horses


 "When the horses, standing on three feet and
touching the ground with the edge of the fourth foot,
swift in the course, were set in parade before him,
King Solomon in the evening said:—
"Verily, I have I loved the love of earthly good
above the rememberance of my Lord, and I have
spent the time in viewing these horses till
the sun is hidden by the veil of night.
Bring the horses back unto me.'
And when they were brought back, he began
to cut off their legs and their necks.—Al Koran"

    The black Egyptian coursers of the sands,
    Grey stallions from the North, the beasts I love,
    Red-nostrilled, river-maned, I slew them all
    As a child smites in anger. Oh! wise King!
    And foolish past the folly of all fools.

    Not anger wholly. Hiram at the gate
    Reined in his chariot crying:—'Let them go;'
    And I, because I knew the minds of men,
    Who cannot rule my own, bade strike afresh,
    Assured the fame of such a sacrifice
    Would spread to Tyre and the isles beyond.
    My honour and not God's I sought herein—
    My honour and men's wonder. Who but I
    Dare slay a thousand horses of the best,
    As Hiram slays his score of starveling goats
    To Ashtaroth?
                             What sin was theirs who lie
    Gaunt carcasses beneath the moonlight–speed,
    Strength, and the glorious beauty of their kind?
    The thunder of the storm was in their feet;
    The lightning of the storm was in their eyes;
    The power of ten thousand men was theirs;
    And one old man, chafed at his own neglect,
    Has taken strength and beauty, speed and power.
    Yea, they fought well. My reeking spearmen ran
    Thrice from their furious onset, when we penned
    The flying hundreds in the Palace Porch,
    And I had slain the fairest steed of all-—
    The great grey stallion with the iron mane.
    I chose him for my chariot ere the dusk
    Fell and my wisdom left me. Mild was he;
    Kingly as I have been. He bowed his neck
    To the sharp point and stumbled at my feet,
    Still kingly, pleading with great liquid eyes,
    And died in silence.
                                      Then I saw my sin
    But dared not stay the slaughter. Hiram's eye
    Alight with wonder at the gate forbade;
    And some old lust of bloodshed spurred me on.
    Wherefore I loosed my spearmen, till the Porch
    Filled with the tumult of the flying steeds,
    The screams of men and horses, kicks and blows;
    The sharp, quick bubble of the stabbing-spears;
    Fall of great hoofs that splashed in pools of blood
    And the low gurgle of the dying. Last,
    Out of the press, a red horse reared himself
    Black with the sweat of horror, white with foam.
    (Accursed be my knowledge of brute speech!)
    Crying:—'What sin is ours that we die
    My brother?' Then I would have stayed the spears,
    But that none heard me till the last was slain;
    And I was left alone among the dead—
    The raw, sick smell of blood upon the air—
    And Hiram's voice across the silent court
    Crying:—'All honour to King Solomon!'
    All honour to the wisdom of the King!
    Wrath and mad lust for honour—Honour these!
    Small profit unto God the sacrifice;
    And to myself the gain of my own scorn.
    All honour to the wisdom of the King!
    The grey was beautiful above his kind,
    And Hiram's fleet has sailed, nor brings again
    Another steed as fair ... Oh! most wise King!

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King Henry VII and the Shipwrights

1 
Harry, our King in England, from London town is gone
And comen to Hamull on the Hoke in the Countie of Suthampton.
For there lay the Mary of the Tower, his ship of war so strong, 
And he would discover, certaynely, if his shipwrights did him wrong.
2 
He told not none of his setting forth, nor yet where he would go,
(But only my Lord of Arundel) and meanly did he show, 
In an old jerkin and patched hose that no man might him mark.
With his frieze hood and cloak above, he looked like any clerk.
3
He was at Hamull on the Hoke about the hour of the tide, 
And saw the Mary haled into dock, the winter to abide, 
With all her tackle and habilaments which are the King his own;
But then ran on his false shipwrights and stripped her to the bone.
4
They heaved the main-mast overboard, that was of a trusty tree,
And they wrote down it was spent and lost by force of weather at sea.
But they sawen it into planks and strakes as far as it might go, 
To maken beds for their own wives and little children also.
5
There was a knave called Slingawai, he crope beneath the deck,
Crying: " Good felawes, come and see!	The ship is nigh a wreck!
For the storm that took our tall main-mast, it blew so fierce and fell,
Alack! it hath taken the kettles and pans, and this brass pott as well!"
6
With that he set the pott on his head and hied him up the hatch,
While all the shipwrights ran below to find what they might snatch;
All except Bob Brygandyne and he was a yeoman good.
He caught Slingawai round the waist and threw him on to the mud.
7
"I have taken plank and rope and nail, without the King his leave,
After the custom of Portesmouth, but I will not suffer a thief.
Nay, never lift up thy hand at me–there's no clean hands in the trade.
Steal in measure," quo' Brygandyne. "There's measure in all things made!" 
8
"Gramercy, yeoman!" said our King. "Thy council liketh me."
And he pulled a whistle out of his neck and whistled whistles three.
Then came my Lord of Arundel pricking across the down, 
And behind him the Mayor and Burgesses of merry Suthampton town.
9
They drew the naughty shipwrights up, with the kettles in their hands,
And bound them round the forecastle to wait the King's commands.
But "Sith ye have made your beds," said the King, "ye needs must lie thereon.
For the sake of your wives and little ones – felawes, get you gone!"
10
When they had beaten Slingawai, out of his own lips
Our King appointed Brygandyne to be Clerk of all his ships.
"Nay, never lift up thy hands to me – there's no clean hands in the trade.
But steal in measure," said Harry our King. "There's measure in all things made!" 
11 
God speed the Mary of the Tower, the Sovereign, and Grace Dieu,
The Sweepstakes and the Mary Fortune, and the Henry of Bristol too!
All tall ships that sail on the sea, or in our harbours stand,
That they may keep measure with Harry our King and peace in Engeland! 

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The Justice’s Tale

With them there rode a lustie Engineere
Wel skilled to handel everich waie her geere,
Hee was soe wise ne man colde showe him naught
And out of Paris was hys learnynge brought.
Frontlings mid brazen wheeles and wandes he sat,
And on hys heade he bare an leathern hat.
Hee was soe certaine of his governance,
That, by the Road, he tooke everie chaunce.
For simple people and for lordlings eke
Hee wolde not bate a del but onlie squeeke
Behinde their backés on an horné hie
Until they crope into a piggestie.
He was more wood than bull in china-shoppe,
And yet for cowes and doggés wolde hee stop,
Not out of Marcie but for Preudence-sake—
Than hys dependaunce ever was hys brake.

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Jubal and Tubal Cain

Jubal sang of the Wrath of God
    And the curse of thistle and thorn—
But Tubal got him a pointed rod,
    And scrabbled the earth for corn.
    Old—old as that early mould,
    Young as the sprouting grain—
    Yearly green is the strife between
     Jubal and Tubal Cain 

Jubal sang of the new-found sea,
    And the love that its waves divide—
But Tubal hollowed a fallen tree
    And passed to the further side.
    Black—black as the hurricane-wrack,
    Salt as the under-main—
    Bitter and cold is the hate they hold—
    Jubal and Tubal Cain! 

Jubal sang of the golden years
    When wars and wounds shall cease—
But Tubal fashioned the hand-flung spears
     And showed his neighbours peace.
    New—new as the Nine point Two,
    Older than Lamech’s slain—
    Roaring and loud is the feud avowed
    Twix’ Jubal and Tubal Cain! 

Jubal sang of the cliffs that bar
    And the peaks that none may crown—
But Tubal clambered by jut and scar
    And there he builded a town.
    High—high as the snowsheds lie,
    Low as the culverts drain—
    Wherever they be they can never agree—
    Jubal and Tubal Cain!

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Jobson’s Amen

1 
"Blesséd be the English and all their ways and works. 
Curséd  be the Infidels, Hereticks, and Turks!"
"Amen," quo' Jobson, "but where I used to lie 
Was neither Candle, Bell nor Book to curse my brethren by:
2 
"But a palm-tree in full bearing, bowing down, bowing down, 
To a surf that drove unsparing at the brown, walled town–
Conches in a temple, oil-lamps in a dome–
And a low moon out of Africa said: 'This way home!'" 
3 
"Blessèd be the English and all that they profess. 
Cursèd be the Savages that prance in nakedness!"
"Amen," quo' Jobson, "but where I used to lie 
Was neither shirt nor pantaloons to catch my brethren by:
4 
"But a well-wheel slowly creaking, going round, going round, 
By a water-channel leaking over drowned, warm ground– 
Parrots very busy in the trellised pepper-vine– 
And a high sun over Asia shouting: 'Rise and shine!'"
5 
"Blessèd be the English and everything they own. 
Cursèd be the Infidels that bow to wood and stone!" 
"Amen," quo' Jobson, "but where I used to lie 
Was neither pew nor Gospelleer to save my brethren by:
6 
"But a desert stretched and stricken, left and right, left and right, 
Where the piled mirages thicken under white-hot light– 
A skull beneath a sand-hill and a viper coiled inside–  
And a red wind out of Libya roaring: 'Run and hide!'"
7 
"Blessèd be the English and all they make or do. 
Cursèd be the Hereticks who doubt that this is true!" 
"Amen," quo' Jobson, "but where I mean to die 
Is neither rule nor calliper to judge the matter by:
8
"But Himalaya heavenward-heading, sheer and vast, sheer and vast,
In a million summits bedding on the last world's past– 
A certain sacred mountain where the scented cedars climb,
And–the feet of my Beloved hurrying back through Time!"
Singing Kipling 2025

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Jane’s Marriage

1 
Jane went to Paradise:
  That was only fair.
Good Sir Walter followed her,
  And armed her up the stair.
Henry and Tobias,
  And Miguel of Spain,
Stood with Shakespeare at the top
  To welcome Jane— 
2
Then the Three Archangels
  Offered out of hand
Anything in Heaven's gift
  That she might command.
Azrael's eyes upon her,
  Raphael's wings above,
Michael's sword against her heart,
  Jane said: "Love." 
3
Instantly the under-
  Standing Seraphim
Laid their fingers on their lips
  And went to look for him.
Stole across the Zodiac,
  Harnessed Charles's Wain,
  And whispered round the Nebulae
  "Who loved Jane?" 
4
In a private limbo
  Where none had thought to look,
Sat a Hampshire gentleman 
  Reading of a book.
It was called Persuasion 
  And it told the plain
Story of the love between
  Him and Jane. 
5
He heard the question,
  Circle Heaven through—
Closed the book and answered:
    "I did—and do!"
Quietly but speedily
  (As Captain Wentworth moved)
Entered into Paradise
  The man Jane loved! 

Jane lies in Winchester, blessed be her shade!
Praise the Lord for making her, and her for all she made.
And while the stones of Winchester—or Milsom Street—remain,
Glory, Love, and Honour unto England's Jane!

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James I

The child of Mary Queen of Scots,
   A shifty mother’s shiftless son,
Bred up among intrigues and plots,
      Learnèd in all things, wise in none.
Ungainly, babbling, wasteful, weak,
     Shrewd, clever, cowardly, pedantic,
The sight of steel would blanch his cheek.
     The smell of baccy drive him frantic.
He was the author of his line–
      He wrote that witches should be burnt;
He wrote that monarchs were divine,
      And left a son who–proved they weren’t!

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Inscription in a copy of ‘Wee Willie Winkie’ presented to Mrs Hill

I cannot write, I cannot think
I only eat and sleep and drink—
They say I was an author once
I know I am a happy dunce
Who snores along the deck and waits
To catch  the rattle of the  plates,
Who drowns ambition in a sea
Of Lager or of Tivoli
I cannot write, I cannot sing—
I long to hear the meal–bell ring—
I cannot sing—I cannot write
I am a Walking Appetite.
But you insist and I obey.
Here Goes!
                   In steamer Madura
Now rolling through a tepid sea
March 10th
                    To Mrs Hill
                                     From
                                              me.
A journalist unkempt and inky
With all regards, WEE WILLIE WINKIE.

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In the Neolithic Age

1 
In the Neolithic Age savage warfare did I wage 
  For food and fame and woolly horses' pelt.
I was singer to my clan in that dim, red Dawn of Man,
     And I sang of all we fought and feared and felt. 
2 
Yea, I sang as now I sing, when the Prehistoric spring
  Made the piled Biscayan ice-pack split and shove;
And the troll and gnome and dwerg, and the Gods of Cliff and Berg
  Were about me and beneath me and above. 
3 
But a rival, of Solutré, told the tribe my style was outré—
  'Neath a tomahawk, of diorite, he fell
And I left my views on Art, barbed and tanged, below the heart
  Of a mammothistic etcher at Grenelle. 
4 
Then I stripped them, scalp from skull, and my hunting-dogs fed full,
  And their teeth I threaded neatly on a thong;
And I wiped my mouth and said, "It is well that they are dead,
  For I know my work is right and theirs was wrong." 
5 
But my Totem saw the shame; from his ridgepole-shrine he came,
  And he told me in a vision of the night:–
"There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,
  "And every single one of them is right!" 

                    *          *          *         *          *  
6 
Then the silence closed upon me till They put new clothing on me
  Of whiter, weaker flesh and bone more frail;         .
And I stepped beneath Time's finger, once again a tribal singer,
  And a minor poet certified by Traill! 
7 
Still they skirmish to and fro, men my messmates on the snow
  When we headed off the aurochs turn for turn;
When the rich Allobrogenses never kept amanuenses,
  And our only plots were piled in lakes at Berne. 
8 
Still a cultured Christian age sees us scuffle, squeak, and rage,
  Still we pinch and slap and jabber, scratch and dirk;
Still we let our business slide—as we dropped the half-dressed hide—
  To show a fellow-savage how to work. 
9 
Still the world is wondrous large,—seven seas from marge to marge—
  And it holds a vast of various kinds of man;
And the wildest dreams of Kew are the facts of Khatmandhu
  And the crimes of Clapham chaste in Martaban. 
10 
Here's my wisdom for your use, as I learned it when the moose
  And the reindeer roamed where Paris roars to-night:—
"There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,
  "And—every—single—one—of—them—is—right!"

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