He will soak in a crystalline bath of pepsine,

(No Robert will then have survived, to wait,)

And he'll hop on his hands as his food he steps in—

A quasi-cherubic gait!

No longer the land or the sea he'll furrow;

The world will be withered, ice-cold, dead

As the chill of Eternity grows, he'll burrow

Far down underground instead.

If the Pall Mall Gazette has thus been giving

A forecast correct of this change immense,