ng
At the sea's signal, scarce seems more agog.
And yet each toiler's heart lies like a log,
Sleep each tired eye is blurring.

"Feet scuttle, fingers fleet, pens work apace;
A whipt-up zeal marks every pallid face;
One voice austere, sonorous,
Chides, threatens, sometimes curses. How they flush,
Its victims silent, tame! That voice would hush
A seraph-choir in chorus.

"Strident, sardonic, stern; the harrying sound
Lashes them like a flail the long hours round,
Till to strained nerves 'twere sweeter
To silence it with one fierce passionate grip,
Than into some bland Lotos Land to slip,
And moon out life to metre.

"From early morn till midnight these poor slaves
Have 'served the public;' now, when nature craves
Rest from the strain and scurry
Of Shopdom's servitude, they still must wake
Some weary hours, though hands with fever shake
And nerves are racked with worry.

"Though the great streets are still, the shutters up,
Gas flares within, and ere they sleep or sup
These serfs of Competition
Must clean, and sort and sum. There's much to do
Behind those scenes set fair to public view
By hucksters of position.

"The shop-assistant's Sabbath has begun!
His sixteen hours long Saturday has run
Its wearing course and weary.
The last light's out, and many an aching head
At last, at last, seeks in a lonely bed
A dreamland dim and dreary.

"In roseate visions shall racked souls rejoice
Haunted by echoes of that harrying voice?
Nay, friend, uncounted numbers
Of victims to commercial strain and stress,
Seek nought more sweet than dull forgetfulness
In the short night's scant slumbers."

"Too sombre Spirit, hath the opening year
No scenes of gayer hope and gentler cheer?
Is all beneath night's curtain
In this vast city void of promise glad?
Are all the guests of midnight spectres sad,
And suffering and uncertain?"

So I addressed the Shadow. "Friend," he smiled.
"'Twas 'lurid London' that you wished 'untiled.'
Most secret things are sinister.
Innocent mirth needs no Ithuriel spear
To make its inner entity appear.
Still, to your mood I'll minister.

"Not long-drawn Labour only breaks the rest
Of London's night. Society in quest
Of Gold's sole rival, Pleasure,
Makes little of the bounds of dark and day.
Night's hours lead on a dance as glad and gay
As the