1 Carven in leathern mask or brazen face, <br />2 Were I time's sculptor, I would set this man. <br />3 Retreating from the truth, his hawk-eyes scan <br />4 The platforms of all public thought for place. <br />5 There wriggling with insinuating grace, <br />6 He takes poor hope and effort by the hand, <br />7 And flatters with half-truths and accents bland, <br />8 Till even zeal and earnest love grow base. <br /> <br />9 Knowing no right, save power's grim right-of-way; <br />10 No nobleness, save life's ignoble praise; <br />11 No future, save this sordid day to day; <br />12 He is the curse of these material days: <br />13 Juggling with mighty wrongs and mightier lies, <br />14 This worshipper of Dagon and his flies!<br /><br />William Wilfred Campbell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-politician/
