PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

"A Late Symposium! Yet they're not engaged

In compotations. Argument hath raged

Four hours by the dial;

But zealotry of party, creed, or clique

Marks not the clock, whilst of polemic pique

There's one unvoided vial."

So smiled the Shade. Dusk coat and gleaming head,

Viewed from above, before my gaze outspread

Like a black sea bespotted

With bare pink peaks of coral isles; all eyes

Were fixed on one who reeled out rhapsodies

In diction double-shotted.

A long and lofty room, with pillars cold,

And spacious walls of chocolate and gold;

The solid sombre glory

Of tint oppressive and of tasteless shine,

Dear to the modern British Philistine,

Saint, sceptic, Whig, or Tory.

"No Samson-strength of intellect or taste

Shall bow the pillars of this temple chaste

Of ugliness and unction.

What is't they argue lengthily and late?

The flame of patriot passion for the State

Fires this polemic function.

"A caitiff Government has done a thing

To make its guardian-angel droop her wing

In sickened indignation:

That is, has striven to strengthen its redoubts,

Perfidious 'Ins,' to foil the eager 'Outs.'

Hence endless execration.

"Hence all Wire-pullerdom is up in arms;

With clarion-toned excursions and alarms

The rival camp is ringing.

Hence perky commoners and pompous peers,

'Midst vehement applause and volleying cheers,

Stale platitudes are stringing.

"The British Public—some five hundred strong—

Is here to 'strangle a Gigantic Wrong,'—

So Marabout is saying.

Watch his wide waistcoat and his wandering eyes,

His stamping boots of Brobdingnagian size,

Clenched hands, and shoulders swaying.

"A great Machine-man, Marabout! He dotes

On programmes hectographed and Party votes.

For all his pasty pallor

And shifty glance, he has the mob's regard,

And he is deemed by council, club, and ward

A mi

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