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!