_In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world_":
So the youthful Poet Laureate pictured it in limpid verse;
Now the Federations fight each other! Better is't, or worse?
See, the battle-flags are flying freely as on War's red field.
And the rival hosts are lugging, straining--neither means to yield.
For the war-drums, are they silent? Nay--they're not of parchment now,
But, with printers' ink and paper, you can raise a loud tow-row;
Be it at a Labour Congress, Masters' Meeting, Club, or Pub,
Public _tympana_ are deafened with their ceaseless rub-a-dub!

Tug of War! It _is_ a Tug, and not, alas! mere friendly war,
As when rival muscles tussle, Highland lad or British tar,
'Tis a furious fight _à outrance_, knitted, knotted each to each,
Heels firm-planted, hands tense-clenching, till the knobby knuckles bleach.
Federated Masters straggle, Federated Toilers strain,
Each intent on selfish interest, each on individual gain,
And a chasm yawns between them, and a gulf is close behind!
What is the most likely issue of such conflict fierce and blind?
Unionism 'gainst Free Labour, Capital against mere Toil!
Is it better than two tigers fighting for some desert spoil?
"Federate" the Libyan lions as against the elephant herds,
Will the battle be less savage? Let us not be fooled by words!

Say the tense-strained rope-strands sunder, say that either band prevail!
Shall not "conquer" in the issue prove a Synonym for "fail"?
"Banded Unions persecute," and Federated Money Bags
Will not prove a jot or tittle juster. Fools! Haul down those flags!
Competition is not conflict. So the Grand Old Casuist says,
Speaking with the sager caution of his earlier calmer days.
True! Athletic rivals straining at the tense tough-stranded rope,