When London Calls

They leave us — artists, singers, all — When London calls aloud. Commanding to her Festival The gifted crowd.

She sits beside the ship-choked Thames, Sad, weary, cruel, grand; Her crown imperial gleams with gems From many a land.

From overseas, and far away, Come crowded ships and ships — Grim-faced she gazes on them; yea, With scornful lips.

The garden of the earth is wide; Its rarest blooms she picks To deck her board, this haggard-eyed Imperatrix.

Sad, sad is she, and yearns for mirth; With voice of golden guile She lures men from the ends of earth To make her smile.

The student of wild human ways In wild new lands; the sage With new great thoughts; the bard whose lays Bring youth to age;

The painter young whose pictures shine With colours magical, The singer with the voice divine — She lures them all.

But all their new is old to her Who bore the Anakim; She gives them gold or Charon's fare As suits her whim.

Crowned Ogress — old, and sad, and wise - She sits with painted face And hard, imperious, cruel eyes In her high place.

To him who for her pleasure lives, And makes her wish his goal, A rich Tarpeian gift she gives — That slays his soul.

The story-teller from the Isles Upon the Empire's rim, With smiles she welcomes — and her smiles Are death to him.

For Her, whose pleasure is her law, In vain the shy heart bleeds — The Genius with the Iron Jaw Alone succeeds.

And when the Poet's lays grow bland, And urbanised, and prim - She stretches forth a jewelled hand And strangles him.

She sits beside the ship-choked Thames "With Sphinx-like lips apart — Mistress of many diadems -  Death in her heart!