They have wakened the timeless Things; they have killed their father
Time;
Joining hands in the gloom, a league from the last of the sun.
Hush! Men talk to-day o'er the waste of the ultimate slime,
And a new Word runs between: whispering, "Let us be one!"

The Song of the Sons.

One from the ends of the earth--gifts at an open door--
Treason has much, but we, Mother, thy sons have more!
From the whine of a dying man, from the snarl of a wolf-pack freed,
Turn, for the world is thine. Mother, be proud of thy seed!
Count, are we feeble or few? Hear, is our speech so rude?
Look, are we poor in the land? Judge, are we men of The Blood?

Those that have stayed at thy knees, Mother, go call them in--
We that were bred overseas wait and would speak with our kin.
Not in the dark do we fight--haggle and flout and gibe;
Selling our love for a price, loaning our hearts for a bribe.
Gifts have we only to-day--Love without promise or fee--
Hear, for thy children speak, from the uttermost parts of the sea:

The Song of the Cities.

_Bombay._

Royal and Dower-royal, I the Queen
Fronting thy richest sea with richer hands--
A thousand mills roar through me where I glean
All races from all lands.

_Calcutta._

Me the Sea-captain loved, the River built,
Wealth sought and Kings adventured life to hold.
Hail, England! I am Asia--Power on silt,
Death in my hands, but Gold!

_Madras._

Clive kissed me on the mouth and eyes and brow,
Wonderful kisses, so that I became
Crowned above Queens--a withered beldame now,
Brooding on ancient fame.

_Rangoon._

Hail, Mother! Do they call me rich in trade?
Little care I, but hear the shorn priest drone,
And watch my silk-clad lovers, man by maid,
Laugh 'neath my Shwe Dagon.

_Singapore._

Hail, Mother! East and West must seek my aid
Ere the spent gear shall dare the ports afar.
The second doorway of the wide world's trade
Is mine to loose or bar.

_Hong-Kong._

Hail, Mother! Hold me fast; my Praya sleeps
Under innumerable keels to-day.
Yet guard (and landward) or to-morrow sweeps
Thy warships down the bay.

_Halifax._

Into the mist my guardian prows put forth,
Behind the mist my virgin ramparts lie,
The Warden of the Honour of the North,