ROBERT.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE SERGEANT-AT-ARMS’ DREAM OF THE BAR OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

(If Delegates from everywhere are allowed to appear there, and air their grievances.)]

* * * * *

THE COLISEUM—­AT CHICAGO!

(IMITATED—­AT A RESPECTFUL DISTANCE—­FROM E.A.  POE.)

    ["It is stated that a Syndicate of American Capitalists has
    been formed with the object of purchasing the remains of the
    Coliseum at Rome, and transporting them to Chicago.”]

“BARTERED TO MAKE A YANKEE HOLIDAY.”

  I.

  Type of wolf-nurtured Rome!  Rich reliquary
  Of splendour (and of slaughter) left to Time,
  By centuries of ante-Yankee pomp! 
  At length—­at length—­after so many days,
  Of ruined majesty, and rotting pride
  (Pride which Chicago will transmute to dollars),
  There is a chance for you, a right smart chance,
  Of turning to some profitable end
  Thy size, thine age, thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

  II.

  Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! 
  Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! 
  Where are ye now?  POE said he felt your strength,
  But POE was but a poet.  Better far
  Be turned to “bizness” in a dime Museum,
  Or trotted out, for cents, at the World’s Fair
  Than rot away beneath Rome’s ruddy stars!

  III.

  Here a smart Syndicate shall set you up,
  Here, where we slaughter swine as Rome did slaves,
  (A sanguine carnival of sausage-meat),
  Here, where Chicago belles their braided hair
  Pile in Greek knots,—­to gaze on brawn and gristle! 
  Here, where in gilded cars the pork-kings loll,
  Driven Mammon-like unto their marble homes,
  Lit by the wan light of the electric arc,
  Swift-wheeled and silent-tyred o’er wood or stone.

  IV.

You’ll pay!  These walls—­these ivy-clad arcades—­ These mouldering plinths—­these sad and blackened shafts—­ These vague entablatures—­this wreck—­this ruin—­ Are worth the carriage o’er the Atlantic foam, And the tall price that Italy will ask,—­ If she should cell you to Porkopolis!

  V.

  “No fear!”—­Bourse Echoes answer me—­“no fear!”
  Italy is hard up, her bare Exchequer
  Forebodes financial ruin to her realm. 
  We many-dollared Syndicates rule all. 
  We rule the hearts of Ministers—­we rule
  With a despotic sway ambitious minds;
  We are omnipotent.  Shall pallid stones
  Contend for power with us?—­shall antique fame,
  Or mere word-wizardry of old renown,
  Match the gold-magic that encircles us,
  “Rings,” “Corners,” “Syndicates”?  Ridiculous! 
  Not all the mysteries that hang upon
  Old Edax Rerum like a wizard’s garment,
  May match that Master-Mage—­the Almighty Dollar!!