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,
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 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 fete! ) ‘ 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!
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