Writ in Barracks

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 the
drizzling fog-mist falls.
It's a weary aching whisper, and it murmurs, 'O return
To 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, where
The 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 crown
The lonely summits of the lordly hills,
Shall look upon our laboured paths, and frown
Upon 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 blow
Across the sweep of fiery desert waste
Shall 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 wrath
Shall 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 might
Until 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 wield
Almighty power,