You forged the blade he flourishes with pride, That new Excalibur, "Unity"; you gave That mighty weapon to Germania's side, You and the iron comrades, silent, brave, Who fought beneath the flag he loves to wave. The man of scanty speech, Who smote and shouted not, in war's dread breach, The valiant Emperor, and his noble son,-- By these the work was done. And he, the inheritor of fulfilled renown, Set the survivor of the Splendid Four Coldly aside; wearing the iron crown, Won for his wearing 'midst red battle's roar, Jauntily, and the blade you sharpened bore With cool complacent pride As though his own hands bound it to his side. And now he comes like Mars amidst his ranks, And brings--belated thanks! What thinks the ancient Sword-smith in his soul? Like the old scholar, sick with long neglect, And help delayed till he had reached the goal, Fame-crowned but solitary, self-respect Might tempt him, old and weary,[B‡] to reject, The tardy tribute. Raise "Hochs," Emperor-fugled! Shout hurrahs of praise! Render such honour as it may afford; That glittering Symbol-sword! All well-deserved, all worthily received! But think they cold ingratitude's slug-trail Dims not that blade? All generous spirits grieved That grudging party malice so should fail Of patriot magnanimity, and rail At the great chief who gave The sword they turned against him. Let the brave Join in one voice in shouting loud, "Well done!" To one who made _them_ One! [Footnote A: See Cartoon, "Dropping the Pilot," pp. 50-51, Vol. 98, March 29, 1890.] [Footnote B‡: "I am a weary old man."--_Prince Bismarck's speech in reply to his birthday congratulations._] * * * * * Mrs. R.'S ABSTINENCE.--The good lady says, "My dear, I always like to strictly observe our Church's audiences, and so every Friday morning during Lent I invariably have a broiled skipper for breakfast." * * * * * CONCENTRATION.--Mightn't the verdicts of separation or divorce be reported in the papers under the ordinary business heading of "Partnerships Dissolved"? * * * * * DOING A CATHEDRAL. (_A Sketch from the Provinces._) SCENE--_The interior of Dulchester Cathedral._ TIME--_About 12.30._ _The March sunshine slants in pale shafts through the clerestory windows, leaving the aisles in shadow. From without, the cawing of rooks and shouts of children at play are faintly audible. By the West Door, a party of Intending Sightseers have collected, and the several groups, feeling that it would be a waste of time to observe anything in the building until officially instructed to do so, are engaged in eyeing one another with all the genial antipathy and suspicion of true-born Britons._