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Poem: The Call

The Call

        Come from the slum and the hovel,

        From the depth of your dumb despair;

        From the hell where you writhe and grovel

        Crushed by the woes you bear;

        There are joys that are yours for the taking,

        There are hopes of a height unknown,

        A harvest of life in the making

        From the sorrows the past has sown.

 

        Come from the dust of the battle,

        Where your blood, like a river, runs,

        Where helpless as driven cattle

        You feed the insatiable guns.

        You fight when your masters bid you,

        Now fight that yourselves be free,

        In the last great fight that shall rid you

        Of your age-long slavery.

 

        There's a murmur of many voices

        That shall roll like thunder at last;

        The shout of a world that rejoices

        In a harvest ripening fast.

        For the slaves their shackles are breaking

        With wonder and ecstasy;

        There is life, new life, in the making

        In a new-won world made free.

 

        F.J. Webb