His Gondola is crumbling on the shore,
The Penny Steamer's whistle racks his ear.
'Arry exults—but Beauty is not here;
Trade swells, Arts grow—but Nature seems to die.
Hucksters may boast that Venice is less "dear,"
"Progresso!" is the Press, the Public cry;
But, by great Ruskin's self, the thing is all my eye.
For unto us she had a spell beyond
Cheap dinners and Advertisement's array
Of polychrome, of which Trade seems so fond.