PART II. INTERMEZZO DOLOROSO.

[Allowing time for the fall of American securities to the extent of
some odd hundred millions sterling; also for the Day of Rest.]

PART III. ANDANTE AMABILE.

Who breathed a word of war?
Why, surely we are men and Plymouth brothers!
Pray, what in thunder should we cut each other's
Carotids for?

Merciful powers forefend!
For we by gold-edged bonds are bound alway,
Besides a lot of things that never pay
A dividend!

Christmas! we cry thee _Ave_!
At such a time, when hearts with love are filled,
It seems inopportune for us to build
The needful navy.

In fact in many a church
Uprise the prayer and supplicating psalm
That Heaven would keep our spreading Eagle calm
Upon his perch.

Goodwill and peace and plenty!
Our leading congregations here agree
To vote for this arrangement, _nemine
Contradicente_.

Greatly be they extolled
Who occupied the tabernacle-chair
And put it to the meeting then and there
And passed it solid!

That print has also played
A useful part that sent an invitation
To Redmond to relieve the situation
(Answer prepaid).

Say, Sirs, and shall we sever?
And mar the fair exchange of fatted steers,
Chicago pig, and eligible peers?
No! never, never!

Shall gore be made to flow?
Like kindred Sohrabs shall we knock our Rustums,
And blast our beautiful McKinley customs?
Lord love us! no!

Then, burst the sundering bar!
Our punctured pockets yearn across the ocean;
Till now we never had the faintest notion
How dear you are!

O love of other years!
Wall Street, aweary for her broken bliss,
Waits like a loving crocodile to kiss
Again with tears!

XI. TO THE LORD OF POTSDAM.

[On sending a certain telegram.]

Majestic Monarch! whom the other gods,
For fear of their immediate removal,
Consulting hourly, seek your awful nod's
Approval;

Lift but your little finger up to strike,
And lo! 'the massy earth is riven' (Shelley),
The habitable globe is shaken like
A jelly.

By your express permission for the last
Eight years the sun has regularly risen;
And editors, that questioned this, have passed
To prison.

In Art you simply have to say, "I shall!"
Beethoven's fame is rendered transitory;
And Titian clo