The Song Of The Sword - To Rudyard Kipling

Author: William Ernest Henley

    The Sword
    Singing -
    The voice of the Sword from the heart of the Sword
    Clanging imperious
    Forth from Time's battlements
    His ancient and triumphing Song.

    In the beginning,
    Ere God inspired Himself
    Into the clay thing
    Thumbed to His image,
    The vacant, the naked shell
    Soon to be Man:
    Thoughtful He pondered it,
    Prone there and impotent,
    Fragile, inviting
    Attack and discomfiture;
    Then, with a smile -
    As He heard in the Thunder
    That laughed over Eden
    The voice of the Trumpet,
    The iron Beneficence,
    Calling his dooms
    To the Winds of the world -
    Stooping, He drew
    On the sand with His finger
    A shape for a sign
    Of his way to the eyes
    That in wonder should waken,
    For a proof of His will
    To the breaking intelligence.
    That was the birth of me:
    I am the Sword.

    Bleak and lean, grey and cruel,
    Short-hilted, long shafted,
    I froze into steel;
    And the blood of my elder,
    His hand on the hafts of me,
    Sprang like a wave
    In the wind, as the sense
    Of his strength grew to ecstasy;
    Glowed like a coal
    In the throat of the furnace;
    As he knew me and named me
    The War-Thing, the Comrade,
    Father of honour
    And giver of kingship,
    The fame-smith, the song-master,
    Bringer of women
    On fire at his hands
    For the pride of fulfilment,
    PRIEST (saith the Lord)
    OF HIS MARRIAGE WITH VICTORY
    Ho! then, the Trumpet,
    Handmaid of heroes,
    Calling the peers
    To the place of espousals!
    Ho! then, the splendour
    And glare of my ministry,
    Clothing the earth
    With a livery of lightnings!
    Ho! then, the music
    Of battles in onset,
    And ruining armours,
    And God's gift returning
    In fury to God!
    Thrilling and keen
    As the song of the winter stars,
    Ho! then, the sound
    Of my voice, the implacable
    Angel of Destiny! -
    I am the Sword.

    Heroes, my children,
    Follow, O, follow me!
    Follow, exulting
    In the great light that breaks
    From the sacred Companionship!
    Thrust through the fatuous,
    Thrust through the fungous brood,
    Spawned in my shadow
    And gross with my gift!
    Thrust through, and hearken
    O, hark, to the Trumpet,
    The Virgin of Battles,
    Calling, still calling you
    Into the Presence,
    Sons of the Judgment,
    Pure wafts of the Will!
    Edged to annihilate,
    Hilted with government,
    Follow, O, follow me,
    Till the waste places
    All the grey globe over
    Ooze, as the honeycomb
    Drips, with the sweetness
    Distilled of my strength,
    And, teeming in peace
    Through the wrath of my coming,
    They give back in beauty
    The dread and the anguish
    They had of me visitant!
    Follow, O follow, then,
    Heroes, my harvesters!
    Where the tall grain is ripe
    Thrust in your sickles!
    Stripped and adust
    In a stubble of empire,
    Scything and binding
    The full sheaves of sovranty:
    Thus, O, thus gloriously,
    Shall you fulfil yourselves!
    Thus, O, thus mightily,
    Show yourselves sons of mine -
    Yea, and win grace of me:
    I am the Sword!

    I am the feast-maker:
    Hark, through a noise
    Of the screaming of eagles,
    Hark how the Trumpet,
    The mistress of mistresses,
    Calls, silver-throated
    And stern, where the tables
    Are spread, and the meal
    Of the Lord is in hand!
    Driving the darkness,
    Even as the banners
    And spears of the Morning;
    Sifting the nations,
    The slag from the metal,
    The waste and the weak
    From the fit and the strong;
    Fighting the brute,
    The abysmal Fecundity;
    Checking the gross,
    Multitudinous blunders,
    The groping, the purblind
    Excesses in service
    Of the Womb universal,
    The absolute drudge;
    Firing the charactry
    Carved on the World,
    The miraculous gem
    In the seal-ring that burns
    On the hand of the Master -
    Yea! and authority
    Flames through the dim,
    Unappeasable Grisliness
    Prone down the nethermost
    Chasms of the Void! -
    Clear singing, clean slicing;
    Sweet spoken, soft finishing;
    Making death beautiful,
    Life but a coin
    To be staked in the pastime
    Whose playing is more
    Than the transfer of being;
    Arch-anarch, chief builder,
    Prince and evangelist,
    I am the Will of God:
    I am the Sword.

    The Sword
    Singing -
    The voice of the Sword from the heart of the Sword
    Clanging majestical,
    As from the starry-staired
    Courts of the primal Supremacy,
    His high, irresistible song.
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Type of Poem: Narrative Poem

Date Written:

Date Published:

Language: English

Keywords: Public Domain

Source: Public Domain Collection

Publisher:

Rights/Permissions: Public Domain

Comments/Notes: This poem, a captivating monologue, personifies the Sword as a herald of divine will, an instrument of destruction, and a symbol of power, authority, and judgement. The Sword's voice, singing its "ancient and triumphing song," suggests an elevated tone, and the repeated personification underscores the Sword's active role in shaping history.

The poet uses vivid imagery and powerful metaphors throughout the poem to underscore the Sword's dual nature: it is both a tool of destruction and a symbol of divine will. The Sword is described as "short-hilted, long shafted," "frozen into steel," and a "bringer of women on fire at his hands." These descriptions imbue the Sword with a sense of brutality and violence, but also a sense of authority, power, and even allure.

However, the Sword is not merely a tool of violence but also an instrument through which God's will is enacted. It is God who first forms the Sword, and the Sword continually echoes the divine command, calling heroes to follow it, to enact judgement, and to establish sovereignty. This divine association is further emphasized with religious language such as "PRIEST (saith the Lord) OF HIS MARRIAGE WITH VICTORY" and "I am the Will of God."

The poem's structure, a series of declarative and imperative statements, underscores the Sword's commanding voice. It also employs a repetition of the phrase "I am the Sword," reinforcing the Sword's identity and purpose. The poem's rhythm and meter contribute to a sense of grandeur and power, fitting for a monologue delivered by such a potent symbol.

In terms of literary devices, the poet uses alliteration ("short-hilted, long shafted," "fame-smith, the song-master"), metaphor ("I am the feast-maker"), and personification throughout the poem. The Sword's voice being described as "singing" is a striking example of personification, suggesting

Exploring Narrative Poetry

Narrative poetry is a form of poetry that tells a story, often making use of the voices of a narrator and characters as well. Unlike lyric poetry, which focuses on emotions and thoughts, narrative poetry is dedicated to storytelling, weaving tales that captivate readers through plot and character development.

Narrative poems are unique in their ability to combine the depth of storytelling with the expressive qualities of poetry. Here are some defining characteristics:

  • Structured Plot: Narrative poems typically have a clear beginning, middle, and end, following a plot that might involve conflict, climax, and resolution, much like a short story or novel.
  • Character Development: Characters in narrative poems are often well-developed, with distinct voices and personalities that drive the story forward.
  • Descriptive Language: The language used in narrative poetry is vivid and descriptive, painting a clear picture of the scenes and events, while also conveying the emotions and atmosphere of the story.

From ancient epics like "The Iliad" and "The Odyssey" to more modern narrative poems, this form continues to engage readers by blending the art of storytelling with the beauty and rhythm of poetry.