Beat without balance true the clouded sky.
The lord of those etherial domains,
Once wing-maimed, pitiless fate to the dull earth enchains.

That Serpent is a sinister birth of time,
The likeness of the light 'twould fain take on,
But 'tis engendered from the poisonous slime
Of hate, and greed, and darkness. Though it don
Apollo's guise, 'tis but Apollyon.
To shackle, poison, palsy is its aim.
Venom and violence never yet have won
A victory truly worthy of the name.
To call this thing Toil's friend is friendship to defame.

"An Eagle and a Serpent wreathed in fight!"
There is the symbol he who runs may read.
The Bird is Trade, with pinions balanced right;
Labour and Capital in love agreed,
All's well; the Serpent shall not then succeed
In shackling that, or in destroying this.
The snake, a venomous worm of poisonous breed,
In vain shall coil and knot, shall strike and hiss.
Mark, Wealth! mark, Toil! The moral's one you scarce can miss!

* * * * *

[Illustration: "IN THE AIR!"

"AN EAGLE AND A SERPENT WREATHED IN FIGHT!"
THERE IS THE SYMBOL HE WHO RUNS MAY READ.