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-CÆSAR, 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 CÆSARS, 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! * * * * * "DINNER FORGET."--Lord RANDOLPH is coming home by a Union Company's Steamer. The distinguished Unionist is to have a special cook to attend to him. Does this mean that he returns as a Special COOK's Tourist? * * * * * AN ELECTION ECHO.