tant, dark Science's goal--
But we're still a bit given to panic.
Monopolies moodily roll--
Monopolies restlessly roll--
That's why there's a movement volcanic
That stirs us from pole unto pole--
A moaning that's vainly volcanic,
In the realms of the (Telegraph) pole.

III.

Deputations are serious and sober,
Officials look palsied and sere--
They indulge in rhetoric small-beer
(Instead of sound sparkling October)
They're frightened about _you_, my dear--
(You, at present in two senses, dear!)
They would scan the far future, and probe her,
But can't--and it makes them feel queer;
As you sit by the fire, looking sober,
You make _them_ sit up and feel queer.

IV.

Your sisters, whose airs are unpleasant,
Regard you with arrogant scorn--
With arrogant, uneasy scorn--
True, they have the pull, for the present,
But fear you, the fair youngest born.
They know that your glory is crescent,
And, though each uplifteth her horn,
Each feels that _her_ glory's senescent,
In spite of their duplicate scorn.

V.

_Miss Telegraph_, lifting her finger,
Says--"Sadly this minx I mistrust--
Her manners I strangely mistrust--
She'll distance us, dear, if we linger!
Ah, haste!--let us haste!--for we must!
She'll eclipse us--that _would_ be a stinger!
She'll rise, and our business is "bust"--
My dear, we must snub her, and bring her
Presumptuous pride to the dust--
Till she sorrowfully sinks in the dust."

VI.

_Post_ replies--"Oh, it's nothing but dreaming,
Her hoping to put out _our_ light!--
Our brilliant and duplicate light!
What did FERGUSSON say, blandly beaming
Upon the tired House t'other night?
He said _he_ would make it all right.
Ah, we safely may trust to his scheming--
Be sure he will lead us aright--
He won't let the damsel there dreaming
Despoil us of what is our right--
The monopoly plainly _our_ right!"

VII.

Yet watch _Cinderella_, and list her!
She yet will emerge from her gloom--
Time will conquer her fears and her gloom.
Before her she hath a bright vista.[1]
The fairy Godmother will come!
Redtape shall not long seal her doom.
What is written is written! No "sister,"
(Though scorning her beauty, and broom)
Shall shroud her bright light in the tomb
Which yet the whole land shall illume!

VIII.