Writ in Barracks

WHEN LONDON CALLS!

There's a voice that calls to Mecca, there's a voice that calls to Rome.(O the Holiest of Holies! O the Temple and the Shrine!)There's a bleating from a pasture, and it calls a wand'rer home.(O the friskings of the yearlings, and the lowing of the kine!)There's a penetrating whisper that can rise above the galeFrom the cot of thatch and plaster, from the oaken-gabled hall,From the limpid lake of silver in the verdant velvet vale,From the shamrock and the heather,Hear the call!There's a voice that calls the waster, when the doors of home are shut.(O the voice of club and chamber, and the arc-light burning blue!)There's a voice that calls the trooper in his daub and wattle hut.(O the midnight cabs that rattle from the Strand to Waterloo!)There's a voice for ever calling from the Square and from the Slum,From the Hornsey Rise to Brixton, from St. Saviour's to St. Paul's.'Tis the never-changing message of the everlasting 'Come'To the brick and to the mortar.London calls!You may still the voice of conscience, and suppress the blush of shame.(O the deed that made you outlaw! O the folly and the sin!)But never man ignored it when the call to London came.(The call from belfry tower! O the clanging, banging din!)'Tis the wooded green of Greenwich with the deer among the fern.'Tis the bleak, blank streets of Lambeth, where thedrizzling fog-mist falls.It's a weary aching whisper, and it murmurs, 'O returnTo the Elegance, the Squalor.London calls!''Tis the swelling roar of Epsom, with the backers seven deep.(O the rush around the Corner, and the finish on the Straight!)'Tis the tinkling hum of Henley as it snuggles down to sleep.(O the light-lined laughing river, with its fairy-fancied féte!)'Tis the growl of Ratcliffe Highway, 'tis the lisp of Rotten Row;'Tis the beauty that entrances, 'tis the horror that appals;'Tis the firemen's horses tearing to the midnight sky aglow;It's a vague and restless – something.London calls!It is early morning Fleet Street, when the throbbing presses fly.(O the Father of the Chapel! O the ticking, talking tape!)'Tis the universal High Street, where the world may see and buy.(O the steamboat of Newcastle! O the feather of the Cape!)'Tis the heart of all creation, where the veins of commerce meet;'Tis the centre seat in gall'ry, 'tis the booked and numbered stalls;'Tis the barrow in Whitechapel, 'tis the brougham in Regent Street;'Tis the Commonplace – the Novel.London calls!'Tis the glitter and the jingle on the Foreign Office stairs.(O the starred and gartered Levee! O the Rulers of the Land!)'Tis the crowd about the stretcher and the burden that it bears.(O the ward in darkened silence! O the swiftly running sand!)'Tis the message of the letter, 'tis the message of the wire;'Tis the dainty hand that types it, 'tis the awkward fist that scrawls;'Tis the memory that sickens, 'tis the thought that burns 'like fire;'Tis the life that's worth the living!London calls!'Tis the cheering of the Commons and the cry of 'Who goes home?'(O the bell that rings Division! O the seat beneath the card!)'Tis the choir-boys' voices rising to the lofty, painted dome.(O the flutter of the pigeons in the flagged and mossy yard!)'Tis the Sabbath bells that echo down the silent city streets;'Tis the Steel inside the Velvet! 'Tis the stroking hand that mauls!'Tis the Tutor, it's the Master. It prepares and it completes!It is London – and it's LONDON!And it calls!

CAIROWARDS

Going up – and by all one man's will!Untrodden lands shall echo with our roars,Our engines' wheels shall break the mountains' still,Uncharted rivers see us by their shores;And where the lions drink, and panthers prey,Shall lie the ballast of our iron-bound way.Going up! Primæval forest, whereThe Bushman lurks with poison at his lips,Must give its best, and all its treasures bare,When our iron-monster in its hollows dips;And caves, from which the cobra issues forth,Shall be a Somewhere Junction – for the North.Going up! Eternal snows, that crownThe lonely summits of the lordly hills,Shall look upon our laboured paths, and frownUpon the girdered bridge that spans their rills;But, clinging to the slope, with scanty hold,The road shall be unfastened, fold by fold.Going up! The stifling winds that blowAcross the sweep of fiery desert wasteShall clog and cloy our workings as we go,And strive to check us in our desp'rate haste,With sand that holds us in its shifting clutch —And iron and brass shall blister to the touch.Going up! The Nile in sullen wrathShall rise and smite the sleeper from the rail,And say: 'Behold the Mistress of the North!Who does not let the work of man prevail!'But patient man shall strive against her mightUntil the palms of Cairo are in sight!

ODE TO THE OPENING OF THE SOUTHAFRICAN EXHIBITION, 1898

Father of all!Robèd in splendour,Thou who dost wieldAlmighty power,All things are thine,Fruitage and flower —Cattle and kine —Vineyard and field!Hear, when we call.Praising the Sender!Father of all!Strong to deliver!Here, do we place,Down at Thy feet,Fruits of our hands —Trophies of wheat,Won from Thy lands —Trophies of chase.Hear, when we call,Praising the Giver!Father of all!Weaver and fuller;Craftsman and herd;Chapman and knave;Worker and drone;Headman and slave,Worship a-prone —Bow to Thy word!Hear Thou our call,Praising the Ruler!Father of all!Billow and breakerSink to Thy nod!Here, have we brought,That which we found,That which we wrought,Drawn from Thy ground,Culled from Thy sod.Hear, when we call,Praising the Maker!Father of all!Thine is the storyWritten in space!What Thou hast madeKnows not of death.Let us not fade,Catching Thy breath,Live by Thy grace!Hear Thou our call,Thine is the Glory!