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!