But times are changed; the dreary lust of pelf
Blinds her old eyes to aught but dirty self:
Astonished nations with the tidings ring,
And see a pedler where they hail'd a king.
And now-God wot-but how shall I forecast
The dismal weird that mutters in the blast?
Driven from her stormy empire on the main,
England may drag, perhaps may hug a chain ;-
And why? Because like other wittols born,
'The sword she drew not ere she blew the
horn.'

So long as man shall breathe the breath of life,
So long as differences shall end in strife,
So long as Diplomats in conjuring caps
Shall bluster, threaten, and at last collapse,
So long as right shall be the butt of scorn,
When once the conquering sword be fairly drawn,
So long as Optimists shall rule the State,
Nations must start up from their dreams too late,

Surprised, bewildered, in their homes to feel That empty words can never match with steel.

You curst empirics who with one vile pill Cure States like country louts of every ill, Whose nauseous drugs by cunning gilded o'er, For all their tinsel promise stink the more; Now strength, position, prestige, all are gone, And to the gulf we all have stumbled on, Too proud to hesitate, too dull to learn— To you the country shall in vengeance turn! With all your fulsome talk, and feckless hands, Alone, before the world disarm'd she stands. And shall we mend the failures all admit By Cardwell's wisdom, or by Childers' wit? Shall the bewilder'd country tamely note The silly pranks of charlatans afloat? While one our army, one our navy guide By rules the jest of all the world beside!

No, not though Gladstone, from His Gods'* re

turning,

Should take to fiddling while our London's

burning;

Or Lowe compute, in weighty words and grave,
By non-resistance what vast sums we save.
But is there time? Oh, if there be, start up,
Ye latent wise, ere Heav'n o'erbrim the cup!
Cast to the wind these cankers of the State,
Whose shibboleth is weakness, death, and fate;
Whose instincts, innocent of sense and tact,
Collapse in trifles when they're call'd to act.
Return to men whose policy displays
Some faint resemblance to our elder ways,
And let one great alarm-cry rend the air—
England, besotted and befool'd, prepare!

* See "Juventus Mundi.”

FYTTE YE FIRST.

YE START.