ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF WIRELESS VICTORY.

What to thee are marching legions, Cannon smoke and sabre thrust, Goddess of the cloud-rimmed regions In whose might the Germans trust? Though, however high and regal, Kingly pomp may break and bend Soiled with murder (labelled legal), Thou, more active than the eagle, Thou endurest to the end. Thou wast not behind their banners When they scoured the Belgian plain, When they taught their Teuton manners By the wreck of farm and fane; Clear of battle's mire and fury On those sightless feet and hid, Thou wast wafted with the story Saying this was German glory To Chicago and Madrid. Long e'er Paris heard the thunder, Herald of the Uhlan's lance, Thou wast making Stockholm wonder At the dying flame of France: Not on wires, with no word written, Thou hadst trod thine airy track, Faster than the mailed mitten, And behold our fleet was smitten Somewhere near the Skager Rack. So. And when their lines are broken, When their shrapnel falls less fast, Shalt thou fail to send a token Undefeated to the last? Surely not. Red devastation Still shall urge by land and sea Every proud advancing nation While Marconi's installation Rules the skies of Germany. Still when pagan peoples sever Railway line and telegraph Thou shalt keep thy staunch endeavour, Thou shalt scatter us like chaff. Still, O goddess of the Prussians, Thou shalt sound thy trump of tin Undeterred by rude concussions While the Frenchmen hail the Russians On the flagstones of Berlin.