If the grim Fates, to stave ennui, Play whips for fun, or snares for game, The liar full of ease goes free, And Socrates must bear the shame.
With the blunt sage he stands despised, The Pharisees salute him not; Laughter awaits the truth he prized, And Judas profits by his plot.
A million angels kneel and pray, And sue for grace that he may win — Eternal Jove prepares the day, And sternly sets the fateful gin.
Satan, who hates the light, is fain, To back his virtuous enterprise; The omnipotent powers alone refrain, Only the Lord of hosts denies.
Whatever of woven argument, Lacks warp to hold the woof in place, Smothers his honest discontent, But leaves to view his woeful face.
Fling forth the flag, devour the land, Grasp destiny and use the law; But dodge the epigram's keen brand, And fall not by the ass's jaw.
The idiot snicker strikes more down, Than fell at Troy or Waterloo; Still, still he meets it with a frown, And argues loudly for “the True.”
Injustice lengthens out her chain, Greed, yet ahungered, calls for more; But while the eons wax and wane, He storms the barricaded door.
Wisdom and peace and fair intent, Are tedious as a tale twice told; One thing increases being spent — Perennial youth belongs to gold.
At Weehawken the soul set free, Rules the high realm of Bunker Hill, Drink life from that philosophy, And flourish by the age's will.
If he shall toil to clear the field, Fate's children seize the prosperous year; Boldly he fashions some new shield, And naked feels the victor's spear.
He rolls the world up into day, He finds the grain, and gets the hull. He sees his own mind in the sway, And Progress tiptoes on his skull.
Angels and fiends behold the wrong, And execrate his losing fight; While Jove amidst the choral song Smiles, and the heavens glow with light!
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