Politician, The

William Wilfred Campbell

   Carven in leathern mask or brazen face,
       Were I time's sculptor, I would set this man. 
       Retreating from the truth, his hawk-eyes scan
   The platforms of all public thought for place. 
   There wriggling with insinuating grace, 
       He takes poor hope and effort by the hand, 
       And flatters with half-truths and accents bland, 
   Till even zeal and earnest love grow base.

   Knowing no right, save power's grim right-of-way; 
       No nobleness, save life's ignoble praise; 
   No future, save this sordid day to day; 
       He is the curse of these material days: 
   Juggling with mighty wrongs and mightier lies, 
   This worshipper of Dagon and his flies!

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