THE POLITICIAN - Stephen C. Foster Poems


Poems » stephen c. foster » 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!