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!