The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 10, 1900, Page 12

THE SUNDAY CALL. By Jsabel PDarling. t the crown from my head, lay the scepter aside, to this wearisome throne with these wrappings of pride. ws alonza! forlc to my sons, but my calling is vain, T scd h defeat, they sha!l bring me their pain. a g gth to infill their young yeins, dg y ali at my knez s for gains, There is blood on the desert where on-rushing feet Spurn the sands under African suns; There blood on the kop where the battle-tides meet he smoke of the bellowing guns; The moan on the sea, th rz's a wail in the air! 0 ed ones, have a care! have a care! Who us cunning ¥ d to treir heard Who have threctened the brave with their wrath? hese only werz mine, O God pity me then, pity that | hcve been mother of men! Yea, they're mine, though they sin till my sorrows are deep, And the Lion-soul nzver may yieid St he timid shall shrink from his conquering lzap, = 2 rule st of the field !’ . ® B B e eias EPY b SIS s £ Sritonnia, the bicod cf that becst in his veins - groped till the Lion is rdened with chains He that tiileth the seii hath o strong right arm That can follow the flash of his eye: @And the shepherd defendeth his iambs from harm When the hounds are in ciamorcus cry, But he scorneth the Lion’s degenerate race, The whelps that lig tamed in the marketing-place. But when earth Hath forgotten thy scepter and crown, And is shadowed no more by thy throne: E WITH THESE WRAPPINGS OF PRIDE” When thy long-vanished courts shall be sport for the clown And the grave of thine armies unknowp, Call aloud, and thy penitent sons shall again Give heed to the voice of thz Mother of Men!