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