The Politician

            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!
--William Wilfred Campbell