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THE LITTLE GERMANIA MAGNATE;

OR, TRYING TO SWAY THE SCEPTRE.

    ["Suprema lex regis voluntas.” Words reported to have been
    written by the German Emperor in the Visitors’ Book of the
    City Council at Munich.]

  No more let men chatter of such a small matter
    As Ladies Magnetic, with mystical forces,
  Whose billiard-cue business strikes with sheer dizziness
    Muscular Miloes who’re game to lift horses. 
  As MITCHELL the bulky was made to look sulky
    By slight Mrs. ABBOTT, the Georgian Mystery,
  She is struck silly by Behemoth BILLY,
    That young Teuton Titan, the toughest in history.

  O Oracle Mighty (though vocally flighty),
    Great Creature, omniscient (if a bit youthful),
  Panjandrum-plus-CAESAR, Herculean Teaser
    Of tendencies vicious, or tame, or untruthful! 
  You mastered the Moral while sucking your coral—­
    You set the world right—­in idea—­in your cradle. 
  Omnipotent Bumble, our pride let us humble,
    And take our opinions—­like soup—­from your ladle!

  You are such a fellow!  The sages turn yellow,
    The wits all go pallid, and so do the heroes;
  Big Brontes grow jealous when you blow the bellows,
    A fig for your CAESARS, ISKANDERS, and NEROS! 
  You lick them all hollow, great Vulcan-Apollo,
    Sole lord of our consciences, lives, arts, and armies! 
  But (like Mrs. A., Sir) ’twould floor you to say, Sir,
    Where, what, in the mischief the source of your charm is!

  Say, how do you do it?  That Georgian’s cue, it,
    Compared with your sceptre, is just a mere withy. 
  You quietly front in with that calm “Voluntas,”
    (Expressed for our guidance in epigrams pithy)
  You hint you can rule us, and guide us, and school us,
    “All off your own bat,” without Clergy or Minister,
  Giving swift gruel to stage-prank, or duel,
    Or any thing else you think stupid or sinister.

  O Autocrat fateful, we ought to be grateful
    For such an infallible, all-potent party,
  At this time of day too, to show us the way to—­
    Wherever you’d lead us, with confidence hearty. 
  And as for those duffers, your confidence suffers
    To tug at the sceptre, with vain thoughts of swaying it,
  What can it matter?  “The Magnet” can shatter
    Their strength; at its pleasure controlling or staying it.

  In vain “Blood and Iron,” with foes that environ
    Your sceptre, smart Press-man, or Socialist spouter,
  May struggle together; you hold them in tether,
    Or so you proclaim, you, whom foes call “the Shouter.” 
  The pose is imposing, if ere the scene’s closing,
    The “Little Germania Magnate” gets beaten;
  Well, put at the worst, Sir, you are not the first, Sir,
    Who playing the Thraso has humble-pie eaten!