Classic Poem

Here in the middle of London,
Here on the heart of the world
Gray hang the skies in smoke-wreath
And the sun sinks fog-enfurl'd;
Without is the slush and the traffic —
Within, for an hour or two,
Is the sun on the aloed kopje
And the sweep of the great Karroo.

Here is the toil of the winepress,
And the golden yield of the Rand;
The golden fruit of the cornfield,
And the fruit of the orchard-land;
The baled white snow of Rhodesia,
The baled gray snow of the Cape;
The sheen of the piled karosses
And the purple glow of the grape.

Here, cheek by jowl with locusts
(Red flame-dried food of the wild)
Is the price of a dozen princes
In the size of the hand of a child;
And here by the priceless feathers
Gold-chased for the hand of a Queen
Are the bark of the wild mimosa
And Boer-wrought cloth-stuffs seen.

Fibre of ramie and buckhorn
At " thirty seven a ton";
Pines from Natal and the coastline,
And forage still warm with the sun;
Coal from Dundee and the Wankies,
Tobacco and mealies and soil;
Silk, and asbestos sheeting,
From the worm and the workman's toil.

Yea, there is wealth in Ophir;
But here is a greater sign
Than the mere gain of the gold-reef
Or the mere fruit of the vine:
For Briton and Boer are brothers
(With the yield of their toiling hand)
In the fear of a Common Peril,
And the love of a common land.

For a brother is good to a brother,
He sees the fault but allows;
And the hate dies with the gun-smoke,
And the love grows with the ploughs.
And mightier ties are bounden,
And keener efforts spring,
When the fruit of his toil is honour'd
At the hands of the Human King.