With dauntless hundreds struggling main and might
To cross,—the one policeman out of sight,—
And reach this haven where the strongest quail.
O, smallest among steeples! Precious throne
Of Freedom! Why, I merely swell the swarm
That surge and seethe in curses and in tears!
Great Gog and Magog! Never since thine own
Odd dodges drew the cloud and brake the storm,
Have you produced a mightier crop of jeers!
Punch, December 11, 1880.