POETRY.
POLITICS ARE DEAD.
" POLITICS are dead ! " every question settled, So I hear it said,—and it makes me nettled. Questions still are plenty in our little isle ;
I could tell you twenty, if you'll only wait awhile,— Only wait a little, wait a little, wait a little while.
First, there are the poor, mark of every slaughter, Cesspools at their door, sewage in their water : In each crowded dwelling poison'd air and vile ; So you'll hear men telling, if you'll only wait a while.
Next, there is the drink, licensed source of ruin ; For Magistrates must wink at what their friends are brewing ; Madness, murder, riot,—on it all they smile : But tho' men keep quiet, yet it's only for a while.
Then, too, there's the land ; poor folk cannot get it ; Landlords understand too well how to let it : Farmers, once contented, now begin to rile ; Swear they're overrented, and they'll show it in a while.
And is there no cure for wealth's distribution ? Here great riches, lure ! there great destitution ! Can these camps divided nothing reconcile ? So it seems decided, but it's only for a while.
Once I saw a ship on a calm sea swaying, The least finger-tip at its helm obeying: In the distance heaving rose a cloudy pile,
But men unbelieving mocked it for awhile,—.
But 'twas only for a little, for a very little while.
So a mighty nation, rousing from its sleep, Feeling indignation through each fibre creep, Sick of special-pleaders, who with words beguile,
To its ancient leaders yet will rally in a while,—
Only wait a little, wait a little, wait a little while.
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