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!