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!