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 gale
From 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,
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.
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.
'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.
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.
'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!
'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!
