Blessed be the English and all their ways and works. Cursed 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, 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! Blessed be the English and all that they profess. Cursed 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: 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! Blessèd be the English and everything they own. Cursed 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: 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! 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: But Himalaya heavenward-heading, sheer and vast, sheer and vast, In a million summits bedding on the last worlds past, A certain sacred mountain where the scented cedars climb, And, the feet of my Beloved hurrying back through Time!