July, August, suspense. Wall Street lost to sense. August, September, October, More suspense, And the whole East down like a wind-smashed fence. Then Hanna to the rescue, Hanna of Ohio, Rallying the roller-tops, Rallying the bucket-shops, Threatening drouth and death, Promising manna, Rallying the trusts against the bawling flannelmouth; Invading misers’ cellars, Tin-cans, socks, Melting down the rocks, Pouring out the long green to a million workers, Spondulix by the mountain-load, to stop each new tornado, And beat the cheapskate, blatherskite, Populistic, anarchistic, Deacon--desperado. V Election night at midnight: Boy Bryan’s defeat. Defeat of western silver. Defeat of the wheat. Victory of letterfiles And plutocrats in miles With dollar signs upon their coats, Diamond watchchains on their vests And spats on their feet. Victory of custodians, Plymouth Rock, And all that inbred landlord stock. Victory of the neat. Defeat of the aspen groves of Colorado valleys, The blue bells of the Rockies, And blue bonnets of old Texas, By the Pittsburg alleys. Defeat of alfalfa and the Mariposa lily. Defeat of the Pacific and the long Mississippi. Defeat of the young by the old and silly. Defeat of tornadoes by the poison vats supreme. Defeat of my boyhood, defeat of my dream. VI Where is McKinley, that respectable McKinley, The man without an angle or a tangle, Who soothed down the city man and soothed down the farmer, The German, the Irish, the Southerner, the Northerner, Who climbed every greasy pole, and slipped through every crack; Who soothed down the gambling hall, the bar-room, the church, The devil vote, the angel vote, the neutral vote, The desperately wicked, and their victims on the rack, The gold vote, the silver vote, the brass vote, the lead vote, Every vote.... Where is McKinley, Mark Hanna’s McKinley, His slave, his echo, his suit of clothes? Gone to join the shadows, with the pomps of that time, And the flame of that summer’s prairie rose. Where is Cleveland whom the Democratic platform Read from the party in a glorious hour? Gone to join the shadows with pitchfork Tillman, And sledge-hammer Altgeld who wrecked his power. Where is Hanna, bull dog Hanna, Low browed Hanna, who said: “Stand pat”? Gone to his place with old Pierpont Morgan. Gone somewhere ... with lean rat Platt. Where is Roosevelt, the young dude cowboy, Who hated Bryan, then aped his way? Gone to join the shadows with mighty Cromwell And tall King Saul, till the Judgment day. Where is Altgeld, brave as the truth, Whose name the few still say with tears? Gone to join the ironies with Old John Brown, Whose fame rings loud for a thousand years.